Page 39 of The Boyfriend List
As for the other criteria that I wrote without Raina’s interference?
He meets almost all of them. Except he doesn’t want a family.
So he can’t be your boyfriend.
I drive to my date with Rob, who works in IT, and looks attractive enough in his photos.
Yet as I park and get out of the car, all I can think about is how London’s lips would feel against mine. Would he have tasted like the bubble tea he was drinking, or something else? How would his arms feel wrapped around me, holding me close?
I’ve never been kissed, and it’s a fact I’ve never been ashamed of. But I bet a first kiss with London would have blown my mind.
Checking my phone to distract myself, I see a text from him now.
Rob
I’m outside the axe-throwing place.
I spy him; at least he matches his pictures. Smoothing down my top, I walk towards him. My knee high boots clomp across the pavement and my heel snags on a crack in the sidewalk, causing me to lose my balance.
“Whoa there,” Rob says with a chuckle, making me feel like a spooked horse. “Are you okay?”
Embarrassment heats my cheeks. “Just dandy.”
Dandy? Who says that?
“You’re Gloria, right?” Rob’s smile is hidden by a reddish beard and he’s wearing ripped jeans with a flannel shirt. The list flashes behind my eyes:he cannot wear ripped jeans.
“That’s me.” I smile, even though Rob is definitely not six feet tall like he claimed to be. I mean, I’m just five-three, so it wouldn’t matter to me if he were shorter than six feet. But after spending an hour in London’s arms, Idefinitelyknow that he’s a lot shorter than London. He’s probably closerto five-nine and was hoping I wouldn’t know the difference. “Nice to meet you.”
He echoes the sentiment as he pulls me in for an overly familiar hug. I step back, feeling slightly icky from the touch of his palm on my back.
“Let’s go in,” he says, getting the door for me.
Inside, the place is full of men wearing flannel shirts and a handful of couples on dates. Rob pays for us to spend two hours there and we get a brief demonstration before we start axe-throwing.
“So, how was your day? You sounded kind of… out of breath on the phone,” he says.
Did I? And if I did, did he have to mention it?
“I was working out,” I say. Which is totally not a lie. Dancing can be a workout.
He takes that as a segue to tell me about his fitness regimen. When he starts talking about creatine and barbell skullcrushers, I tune out.
Picking up an axe, I hurl it at the target on the wall. It lands with aka-thunkin the middle of the bulls-eye. This is oddly satisfying.
When it’s Rob’s turn, he manages to only hit the corner of the board. We go back and forth a few times, but by the end of the round, it’s clear that I’m the victor.
Rob tries not to show it, but I can tell that he’s upset. Perhaps I could’ve lost gracefully, but I was too irritated by his rambling about pectoral flies and farmer’s carries.
“So, uh, have you done this before?” he asks me after we sidle up to the bar. He orders a beer for himself without asking what I want.Strike two.
“Done what?” I ask, before ordering a glass of sparkling water.
“Axe-throwing. You’re pretty good.”
I toss my hair over one shoulder. “Nope. Beginner’s luck, I guess.”
Paulo and I often played darts with the dartboard in his garage, but that couldn’t have guaranteed my victory at axe-throwing. Maybe I was fuelled by my fiery annoyance at Rob’s nonstop talking about his workouts.
