Page 7 of How to Win the Girl

Single and ready to mingle.

News flash:It’s not going great.

But practice makes perfect, and I’m not giving up, which is why I agreed to let my teammate Stella set me up on this date. She’s convinced this guy in her geometry class would be a good fit; funny, smart, and a bit of a nerd. She says he’s exactly my type.

So here I sit, waiting, watching the time because he’s currently five minutes late.

Eight.

Thirteen.

I sigh, trying not to glance around the coffee shop and look as if I’m waiting for someone, trying not to look like I’ve been stood up.

I text Stella, so she knows her first attempt at playing matchmaker has seemingly failed.

He’s late…

At fifteen minutes I stand and cross to the counter; order myself tea in a mug and a croissant. I still have a class this afternoon and hate being hungry.

Boys suck.

three

drake

I don’t call it the Walk of Shame. I call it a Victory Lap.

That’smy brother’s date?

Yikes—no offense.

Eating a french fry from the basket I ordered while waiting for a chair at the bar to open up, I pluck another from the basket and chomp on it.

Damn, it’s hot.

Unlike Drew’s date, but whatever.

I stare.

I mean, obviously I’m staring, this is my damn brother, and I’m fascinated. Watching him in action is one part automobile accident, one part “things I would do better if this was me.”

Seems he’s either laughing too loud or not laughing at all. Both are bad and cringey to watch as the lack of action unfolds, the paint drying on the bar wall is far better entertainment than my brother’s online date.

Wait. Did he meet her online?

Or is this the outcome of one of his passive, public “want to get a drink or something, no pressure” propositions. Drew is a great dude, and any girl would be lucky to have him, but his approach is way too friendly and not enough “I’m into you.” Half the time, the chick thinks he wants to be friends from the jump and half of them wind up dating someone else, all the while still texting him to ask for dating advice.

Dude is helpless.

Which is why—as his freaking TWIN—I’ve made it my business to observe him. Later, when we get home, I’ll tell him all the things he’s done wrong. A critique, if you will—kind of like our coaching staff does after a game, playing the game tapes back so we know what we’ve done wrong.

A brother is a brother, but a twin is better, and he needs all the help he can get.

I watch.

I study his body language and study hers.

She seems aloof, fidgeting with her hair and her drink on the table, wiping the sweat off the glass with a paper napkin, then picking the napkin apart, making a mess with the small bits of white on the tabletop.

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