“So, when’s the next date?”
“With Clark?” I ask, mildly alarmed. His answer pleases me.
“Hell no.” He gestures with his empty fork. “I mean the next date from your app.”
The his girl comment was clearly a throwaway if he’s so eager to share me with someone else. I try not to let the idea irk me. “Oh I don’t know, maybe in another two years or so.” I offer a demure smile before eating another bite of my delicious dinner.
“You can’t let this stop you. Also, did you say his name was Clark? No wonder he was a dud.”
“Clark Kent wasn’t a dud. He was secretly Superman.”
“Wrong. Superman was secretly Clark Kent.”
“I don’t know how you can pick on anyone’s name, Benji. You are named after a dog.”
He lets out a big, appreciative laugh. The lightness I’m feeling makes tonight’s debacle worth the trouble.
“What I’m saying,” he goes on, “is you can’t give up because some moron says dating is tedious. Plus, you have me. I can give you a few more pointers for your next one—”
“Don’t you dare. I don’t need any more of your input beforehand. It made me a nervous wreck.”
“After, then. We’ll do a postmortem on your next few Friday nights. You can come here after your date and give me the play-by-play.”
“And then what?”
“I’ll tell you if or when you can improve, though most likely I’ll point out why the guys you’re choosing aren’t worth your time. Other than me picking your dates for you, that’s the best way for me to help.”
“You are not picking my dates for me,” I tell him sternly.
Hands up, he declares his innocence. “Understood.”
* * *
Benji
Well. That was quite the suggestion.
And not one I planned on making. I hate the idea of her believing she’s not worthy of choosing where to eat, or worthy of having dinner with someone decent—a complete dinner. Including dessert. Instead she had to settle for half of my carryout.
A dating app, though? Could there be a worse way to meet someone? I bet I could find five better candidates with my eyes closed. Not that I would dare set her up. I would be too picky. Nobody is good enough for Cris.
“You’re serious?” she asks, sounding both curious and interested. “About the postmortem thing?”
“Absolutely,” I answer, as far from absolute as can be. “I’m your best friend. That’s my job.” Technically, it’s true. My job as her best friend is to be there for her. She didn’t ask me to be her wingman, but I refuse to let her fly solo. She hasn’t dated in years. I date like it’s a sport and I’m preparing for the championship. Reason being, I’m not the marrying type. Companionship must be found in spurts.
I understand why it’s been a long time since she’s gone on a date. Between work and home, she doesn’t have a lot of free time. Hell, I take up a lot of it by asking her to attend various functions with me after-hours. Awards dinners, company hobnobbing, etcetera. For years, her excess free time was spent taking care of her brothers. Whether they lived with her or not, when one of them needed her, she answered the call. Always. Cris is reliable to a fault.
“As your life assistant coach, that’s technically my job.” She flutters her lashes. She looks cute when she does that. I mean, she looks cute when she does anything, but especially cute when she’s trying to look cute.
“Fine. You can charge me.” Before she can argue, which she is poised to do, I add, “If you make it through dinner with your date we’ll have a nightcap. If you don’t, I’ll have carryout at the ready.”
She blows out a sigh that sounds more like capitulation than refusal. “Why?”
“Why?”
“Yeah. Why not let me do this myself?”
Because she’s tender and vulnerable. Because the idea of one of the guys she dates insulting her or manhandling her makes me want to howl. Because I want her to have a safe refuge in case she’s angry or sad, or if she’s happy. All of that sounds too mushy so I answer, “Because I’m a pro.”
“You know what? I don’t have the strength to argue with you.” She lifts her glass. “I have just enough strength to finish this delicious dinner and wine. And then we’ll talk strategy.”
She lifts her glass and I clink mine against hers, but my “cheers” doesn’t feel celebratory. I tell myself I’m doing what any good friend would do, but I’m not sure a “good friend” would root against her.
Like I said, no one is good enough for Cris.