* * *
Evie: Sorry! So sorry. That was just a funny picture in my head. You’re a total catch, big bro, even if you had a second horse head, which you don’t. Maybe this woman is just too stupid to see how fabulous you are, and you should move on.
* * *
Derrick: She’s not stupid. She’s smart and funny and just…sharp. You know, one of those people who has all their shit so together it makes you feel like you’re a slacker in comparison?
* * *
Evie: I do. Harlow makes me feel like that sometimes. I mean, she works every bit as hard as I do at school, but she still manages to have gorgeous hair and breeze out the door in cute vintage outfits and try out every weird, exhausting exercise trend.
And she started volunteering at the homeless shelter by the university. And she helped the accounting firm she interned for last summer take down a creep who was embezzling from the hurricane relief fund and she’s probably going to get elected mayor or something by the time she’s thirty. Meanwhile, I feel like a success if I manage to shave my legs once a month.
But Ian doesn’t mind a little fuzz on my legs. Isn’t that sexy? And sweet? I love that he adores me in my natural fuzzy state and my worked-to-be-hairless state and every state in between. I’m so lucky.
* * *
Derrick: You are. And so is he. You’re a total catch, too, sis, and I’m so happy for you.
* * *
Evie: Thank you, but shit, I did it again. I got swept away in my unicorn love sparkle and made this about me. But this isn’t about me. It’s about you and this woman who is smart and accomplished and great but…scared, maybe? Do you think that could be it? Maybe she isn’t ready for more than friendship with hot sex or whatever you two have going on.
* * *
Derrick: That could be it, I guess. But if it is…I have no idea what to do next. I’ve never dated a woman who was scared of being liked. Usually, women want you to like them.
* * *
Evie: Well, you should start by figuring out what exactly she’s afraid of. I would suggest talking to her. If you two are meant to be, you should be able to talk through hard things together, right? And if you can’t, maybe that’s all the evidence you need that she isn’t The One.
* * *
Derrick: I never said she was The One, psycho. I said I liked her. Big difference.
* * *
Evie: You think she might be The One or you wouldn’t be texting me for love advice. You never text me for love advice. You never text me for advice of any kind. But I’m enjoying this change of pace. Please feel free to continue asking me for help. I’m wise beyond my years and happy to share my wisdom with you, dear brother.
* * *
Derrick: You are wise beyond your years. And fine. I’ll talk to her.
* * *
Evie: Because I’m right and you REALLY like her? Maybe more than you’ve ever liked anyone before?
* * *
Derrick: Smug isn’t a good look on you, runt.
* * *
Evie: LOL! Oh man, you really do have it bad. Poor pumpkin. Hang in there and fight for your lady love. And remember, you are a main course with a side of extra crispy French fries. You’re going to find your One, no doubt in my mind. And when you do, you can talk about how much you love banging her in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city lights as much as you want, and I promise not to get mad about it.
* * *
Derrick: I’ll hold you to that.
* * *
Evie: Please do. Good luck, tiger. I’ll be rooting for you.
Chapter Fourteen
Derrick
I toss my cell onto the bed and strip out of my ski clothes, feeling worse than I did before I texted Evie for advice.
I never should have reached out to her about this.
If she finds out I’m talking about Harlow, she’ll have my head on a pike. She’ll display it on her apartment’s tiny balcony as a warning to all who might consider abusing her trusting nature.
And, of course, that’s the worst part, the fact that I am abusing her trusting nature. That’s the last thing I want to do, but even if I were to come clean, what would I say?
Harlow asked me to be her fake boyfriend, which I then escalated to being her fake fiancé, but now I actually want to be her real boyfriend, but she thinks I’m a weirdo for having feelings? Or for talking about my feelings? Or for some other reason I can’t sort out because I’ve spent so much of the past six years surrounded by emotionally closed-off men who play sports for a living that I’ve forgotten how women think?