“Hey,” he says, turning on the bench to sit cross-legged facing me. His face is serious again. “Thanks. For getting rid of them. I mean, I coulda handled it. Probably. I just. Thanks.”
“No worries,” I say, and hold out my hand. “I’m Daniel.”
“Leo,” he says, shaking it.
“Short for Leonardo?” I ask.
“No, short for leotard,” he says, rolling his eyes.
“Smartass.”
“You love my ass,” he says, winking, and there’s that mischievous smile again.
“You must be okay if you’re trying to pick up a guy twice your age. I’ll leave you to your bench.”
“Well, whattaya say?” He inches closer to me, clumsy and enthusiastic. “Want to make out?”
I think he’s kidding, but….
“Leo,” I say, breathing out through my nose and trying not to sound 876 years old. “You’ve got to be careful. You don’t want to go around flirting with older guys. With strangers. Okay? You’ll get into trouble.” I am such an incredible hypocrite right now.
“Maybe I want a little trouble,” he says with an eyebrow waggle.
I take him by the shoulders firmly, the bones delicate under my hands.
“You don’t,” I say, as seriously as I mean it. “Not that kind of trouble.” Something changes in his eyes and he drops the smirk.
“Got it,” he mutters, looking down at his dirty Vans. I feel like I kicked a puppy. I pat him on the shoulder and grab my bag and my wine.
“I’ll see you around, okay?” I say. He brightens.
“Yeah, cool, man,” he says. “I work at the record store. You should totally come by!”
“Wait, there’s a record store in this town?”
“Um, well, they don’t only have records. But still! On Willow, near the alley behind the library. Come on, please come visit me some time. I get so bored.” He’s giving me a look that’s equally dangerous to the smile, only this one is puppy dog, through and through.
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll definitely check it out. Night.” I wave at him and turn to go. Leo jumps up, nearly tripping over his skateboard. Skinny arms snake tight around my shoulders and I catch a whiff of sweat and clove cigarettes before he lets go. God, it’s such a familiar smell.
“Thanks,” he whispers again. Then he grabs his board and runs away.
“SEE, BABYCAKES? He wasn’t blowing you off by asking for your number,” Ginger says.
I’m slightly buzzed on cheap red wine—the kind of buzz that happens after one and a half glasses of wine on an empty stomach after not enough sleep—and lying on my back, staring at my ceiling as Pink Floyd pulls me so deep into my bed that I don’t ever want to come out.
“Yeah, I know that now. But I still convinced myself of it, which made me think how dumb I would be to get involved with him.”
“Clarify, please.”
“Well, if it made me feel that shitty to think he didn’t want me when I’d only seen him, like, three times, then it’ll be that much worse when he loses interest a few weeks from now.”
“Oh, that’s logical,” she says. “So, the more you like someone, the stupider it is to actually date them because the more it might, hypothetically, hurt if the relationship ever ends.” She snorts. “Wow, you’re smart. That’s, like, Nobel Prize material. Daniel Mulligan’s theory of dating relativity.”
“Shut up,” I mutter.
“Oh, come on. What’s really going on?” she asks.
“Tomorrow,” I say. “I think I might have an actual date.”
“Aw, baby’s first date!” She pauses. “Does he know you have no idea how to go on a date?”
“I can go on a date,” I insist.
“You’ve never been on one,” she says.
“What about—”
“Getting picked up at the bar where you work and blown in an alley does not a date make, pumpkin,” she says sweetly.
“Fine,” I mutter.
“Tell!”
So, I start to tell her about what’s happened this week.
“Wait,” she interrupts me. “Is that ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’?”
“Yeah.”
“Put it on speaker so I can listen too,” she says. “I was just thinking I haven’t played this album in way too long.”
I put my crappy phone on speaker and turn up the stereo. Then I tell her about everything that’s happened with Rex as Wish You Were Here soars in the background.
“That’s awesome, babycakes,” she says. “So, are you going to finally—you know—uuuuggghhh,” she moans. “This song is so fucking good it’s making me cry right now.”
“Ha-ha,” I say. “You totally wish I were there.”
“I do!” she wails. Ginger’s very sensitive, but it makes her uncomfortable. “And thinking of you maybe, actually, possibly going on a date with a nice guy… I can’t do that and listen to Pink Floyd at the same time without getting emotional. I’m only human.” She sings this last to the tune of the Human League song and I groan.
“Music social foul: no singing a song when another song is playing. Double music social foul: don’t ever fucking sing anything while Pink Floyd is playing. What’s wrong with you?”