Page 34 of The End of Summer

“Mm hmm,” I nodded. “I go to BU. You?”

“Wait. BU as in Boston University?” she asked.

“Yeah.”

“For real? Me too,” she smiled.

“Really? Small world. What are you studying?”

“Political science. I’m thinking about becoming a lawyer.”

“I’m an econ major,” I replied.

The conversation continued for the rest of the afternoon, interrupted by my running off to park and retrieve cars, to grab her a turkey avocado wrap and several glasses of water, and by her drunk friends coming out “to check on her” about 20 minutes into our conversation. Miranda assured them she was fine but probably shouldn’t go barefoot into the sand, and they were more than happy to ditch her in pursuit of a group of jacked up guys carrying avolleyball.

At the time, I thought we had chemistry. I mean, the whole damsel-in-distress meet-cute was kind of sweet, and she laughed at my jokes and gave me her number when her friends decided it was time to go. We saw each other several more times that summer and by the fall we were officially a couple. In retrospect, our time together was predictable. The beginning was fun; we went on dates where I spent more than I could afford in an attempt to impress her. The middle was less exciting and more mundane. Miranda complained that I studied too much, that I forgot our six-month anniversary (I didn't realize that was even a milestone), and that I wasn't paying as much attention to her as I had during our summer on the Cape. By the spring of that academic year, as the calendar was barreling toward Graduation Day, we'd begun having those "what will become of our relationship after college ends?" talks. To be honest, I wasn’t expecting us to last, given her dreams of going to law school in New York and my plans to find work in Boston.

But that wasn’t why we broke up.

In an effort to make me jealous, Miranda took up the habit of flirting with other guys. For example, we'd be at a frat party and she'd go off and dance with someone else. When I questioned the behavior, she'd claim he was "a friend from back home" or "some guy she used to hook up with." Not exactly the kind of warm-and-fuzzy behavior that made me think she'd be good in a long-distance situation.

So I began to create a little space between us. Then, about a week before graduation, she didn't return my calls or texts for over 24 hours. I figured this was anotherattempt to make me jealous or upset. Until I stumbled upon theBoston Globeon a routine coffee run to Dunkin'.

That was how I discovered the torrid side-relationship Miranda was having with a partner at the law firm where she was interning. It was right there on the front page:Attorney's Affair with Student Ends in Arson, it read. Miranda was accused of trying to “Lewinsky” her way to the top, and when a series of lewd photographs was discovered by the furious fourth wife of Stacks “tha hustla” Phillips – as in Phillips and Burns, injury attorneys, 1-800-GWAP-SHOP, Miranda’s sorority house was mysteriously set on fire, and she disappeared virtually overnight. Rumor had it she left in the custody of Massachusetts’ witness protection program, but I eventually heard through the grapevine that her wealthy parents decided to give her the “Fresh Prince of Bel Aire” treatment; namely, they sent her across the country to live with her (equally rich) family out in California. Her phone number was cut off, and I didn’t care to pursue it any further after that.

So, yeah. My relationship record is about as stable as my current employment situation.

With Gretchen, though, I feel like there’s a world of possibility out there. She seems adorably innocent for someone working at a pole studio, which makes her even sexier, and if I could just find a way to see her again, I decided while tossing and turning in the wee hours of the morning,I’d– hm. I’m not really sure what I’d do. I’d like to think that I would grow a pair and ask her out, but I’ve been remarkably single for several years, and I don't feel like my swag game is particularly on point at the moment. In fact, I'd be willing to bet thatany street cred I might have had at the Diamond Excelsior went out the window once she saw me run into a parking lot wearing nothing but a Zorro thong.

Which is why, when I get the call from Steve the Skeeve, I decide it’s fate.

“Hello?” I answer.

“Yeah. Brady. It’s Steve. Just checking in. How’d you make out last night?”

“Um. Pretty good, I think. I wasn’t sure how to end the night, so I might have messed that part up a little bit, but overall I think it went well.”

“Mike said you did good for a rookie.”

“Great. Well, thanks again for the opportunity. I appreciate it.”

“You busy tonight?” he asks.

“Uh –” I pause to consider the question. “Not really. What’s up?”

“I got a bigger gig. Bride wants ten guys.”

“Ten? That’s a lot.”

“You ever dance in a group before?”

Recollections of my kindergarten Saturday Academy Modern Dance recital – and the revenge dance career that ensued in high school – flood my brain. “When I was younger, yeah.”

“You think you could learn some basic moves kind of quick? I had ten guys, but one got picked up by the cops last night for public indecency and his folks haven’t posted bail yet. Apparently, they’re pretty pissed.”

Can’t imagine why.“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I can. It’s like riding a bicycle – but using only your hips.” I laugh at my own joke. “Wait. I have a question.”

“Shoot.”

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