Page 6 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Peter, you know you can talk to me, right? You don’t have to pretend like their move doesn’t bother you.”
His jaw tightens the slightest bit. “It doesn’t bother me. It’s right for them.”
“Maybe. But it can be right for them and still suck for you. Both things can be true at once.”
He takes a deep breath. “I know. And I appreciate your concern, Soph. But I promise I’m okay.”
I swallow any further protests—they won’t do me any good, at this point—and turn my attention back to the LEGO sets. “So, you got them all.”
“It was either that or the donation pile. This isn’t even all of them. I still have to go back to get the bins of loose pieces.”
“Where will you put those?”
“I was hoping the basement? I don’t keep much in my storage space down there.”
“That should work,” I say. “Or you could keep some at my place. The closet in my office is basically empty.” I leave the racecar and move toward a replica of Notre-Dame Cathedral. “Why not display some around the apartment?” I ask. “Put a few in the living room, a few more in here. Maybe some in your bedroom?”
Peter gives me a wry look. “My LEGO collection is not a flex, Soph. That won’t help my already dismal dating life.”
I roll my eyes. “Exactly how many dates have you invited over in the past year?” I push a hand into his chest, nudging him out of the way so I can move back into the kitchen. I open his pantry and pull out a box of Cheez-Its, dumping a handful of the crackers into my palm. “If you never invite anyone over, it doesn’t matter. A woman can’t be bothered by a LEGO collection she’s never seen.”
“I’ve invited women over,” he says, following behind me. He takes the box of crackers and reaches in for his own handful. “At least two in the past six months. Which I’m pretty sure is two more thanyou.”
“I have definitely been out with more than two guys,” I say, yanking the box of crackers out of his hands.
“Yeah? Name them.”
I shove at least twenty crackers into my mouth at once, and Peter smirks like he knows exactly what I’m doing.
“Bon, and Babid, and Beb,” I say, crumbs spilling out of my mouth and onto the floor.
“Bon and Babid,” Peter repeats. “I’m so sorry I didn’t get to meet them.”
“Don’t judge me,” I say. “You know I’m terrible at dating. But you aren’t. I could list half a dozen women who would love to go out with you, right here on the spot.”
I really could list off six women. Maybe twice that many. Peter doesn’t have the same sidekick curse that I do. He might not be in-your-face-hot like the typical romcom hero, but he’s mastered the sexy professor vibe. The glasses, the dry sense of humor. The enormous brain. The only reason he’s still on the market is because he just doesn’t date enough.
I, on the other hand, have had no shortage of dates. I just can’t seem to make any of them go anywhere.
In my lowest moments, I’m convinced there’s something wrong with me. That it’s a Stewart family curse, and I’m destined to live out my days like my mother, ever the date, never the wife. But I don’t want to be like my mother. And sidekick energy or not, I have a lot going for me. I’m gainfully employed, even if Idohave a billion dollars in student loan debt—thank you, Charles Crooksley—I’m funny, I’m a very loyal friend, and I have zero food intolerances or allergies.
I should be the easiest date ever.
But nothing ever sticks.
Willa thinks the problem is that I always seem to pick the wrong guy. As she once so aptly described, myickdetector is broken. The red flags most women sense on the first date don’t even register for me. Not until I’m at least four or five dates in.
If Ihavebeen dating less, it’s only because I’m tired of striking out. Of getting excited then having everything come crashing down when I discover the really cute high school gym teacher I thought might be my soulmate has a list of non-negotiables, including a Star Trek-themed wedding, costumesnotoptional.
I have a strong appreciation of nerd culture. I love Peter’s LEGO collection. And I respect the dedication of the people who dress up in cosplay for midnight movie releases of their favorite franchise films. But I draw the line at walking down the aisle in Spock ears.
“Come on,” I say, finally setting down the Cheez-Its. “You know why I don’t date. You don’t have the same excuse.”
Something flickers behind Peter’s gaze, an emotion I can’t quite read, but then he rubs a hand down his face, and whatever I saw is hidden behind a mask of indifference. “Idon’tknow why you don’t date,” he says. “I know why yousayyou don’t date, but I think that’s an excuse.”
“My broken ick detector is not an excuse.”
“Yes, it is,” he argues. He brushes the Cheez-It crumbs from his fingers and moves over to the table to grab his phone. “Do you want Chinese?”
