Page 22 of Swiped
The bartender nodded and slipped away, leaving Nat feeling like she was watching the last lifeboat sail away from the deck of a sinking ship.
Eric rolled his eyes, and turned toward her. “I wasn’t asking for anything difficult, right?” He ran a hand through his wild hair and squinted. “Are you French? You look like you could be French.”
“I’m from Indiana,” she said. “But thanks?”
“I’m from all over.” Eric drummed his fingers on the bar top. “I mean, my ex wasob-fucking-sessedwith San Fran, but it’s not the alpha and omega to anyone who’s actually traveled, right?”
Nat smiled like she knew the answer to the teacher’s question. “I love to travel!”
Eric peered at her with narrowed eyes. “So, first date,” he said again. “Big!”
Nat gave an awkward laugh and tried to open up the conversation. This was for her app. “Actually, it’s my first BeTwo date.”
Eric scoffed. “Oh, come on. I’ve heard that before.” He switched to a squeaky, high-pitched voice. “It’s my first time, too!”
Nat shook her head, genuinely confused. “No, really. It is!”
Eric rolled his eyes then took on a tone like he was humoring her. “Uh huh. Well, if this is really your first time in the BeTwo swamp, let me give you some advice. One, buckle up. Lotta crazies out there. Two, lower your standards now. Save you a lot of time. No one’s getting any younger, right?” He picked up the food menu that had been lying inert between them. “You hungry? I saw they have truffle fries and you like those, right?” He gave her another glance. “You look well-fed, and that’s a compliment, by the way.”
Nat flinched as the words landed, scattering all of the evening’s previous insults from her mind. Before she could say anything, the bartender returned. He set a flute of sparkling wine and gin in front of Nat with a quick nod. For Eric, he produced an oversized hurricane glass filled with a bright pink boozy concoction and loaded with an orchid, a pineapple, what looked like at least three different stir sticks skewered with cherries and palm fronds, and rimmed with pink sugar. It was as big as a human head. The bartender quickly scurried away.
Eric grinned and clapped. “That’s what I’m talking about!” he shouted. “Gender norms, my ass! I’m a real man now.” He grasped the colossal candy-colored drink with both hands andlifted it in the way he might otherwise hoist a bowling ball. “Cheers!”
Nat tried to ignore all the people turning their heads her way as she gingerly tapped his glass with her flute. “Cheers . . .” she managed, as she took a deep breath and a long drink.
Chapter 8
Rami watched Lynn, his date from the coffee shop, study the Skee-Ball machine in front of her. They’d agreed to meet at a bar-arcade, and after he’d gotten them a couple of beers, Lynn had led them right to the machine as if pulled by magnets. She was definitely just as cute as he remembered — bubbly and warm with a cherubic, sweet-looking face and those big brown eyes. But he had to admit that it was hard, actually nearly impossible, to have much of a conversation between the jangling noise of the various machines. Even if it was an impractical choice, it was still a relief to have something to do besides stare at each other and exchange life details over pricey cocktails. The creeping melt of first dates into quasi-job interviews had been part of the reason for Rami’s eleven-month retreat from the romantic arena. Other reasons included every conversation that suddenly went cold, every promising date that ended up ghosting, and every crushingly awkward IRL meetup that was one more brick in the wall of his growing belief that he was, probably maybe, terminally undateable.
The Skee-Ball machine rang out with a shrill siren and flashed its lights while a stream of tickets flowed out of the slot. Rami clapped as Lynn gave him a curtsy and collected her winnings.
“Damn! Baller!” he said, giving her a high five. “Like, literally. You are a skilled thrower of balls.” He paused. “That sounded dirty, but that wasn’t what I meant—”
Lynn handed him the tangle of tickets. “Dude, relax.” She took a swig of her beer and surmised the rest of the machines like she was crafting battle plans. “I could do this in my sleep. My husband and I used to live right by this place.”
Rami gave a polite laugh. “You said ‘husband.’”
Lynn smiled at him and batted her wide, chocolatey eyes in the neon glow. “Did I?”
“You meant ex-husband,” he offered.
“Um . . .” Lynn glanced at her beer. “No, I didn’t.” She took a cautious sip and watched for his reaction.
Rami blinked in shock. He felt the prickle of his conscience in the pit of his stomach as his mind raced for how he could possibly respond. Why was the first thing on his lips an apology?
“Look, I’m poly,” she blurted. “It’s an open marriage, so he’s totally cool with this.” She gestured into the space between her and Rami. “And so is my boyfriend.”
“H . . . husbandandb . . . boyfriend?” Rami stammered. His stomach fully lurched now, and his mind went blank, the instinctive apology now abandoned out of total confusion.
Lynn set down the Skee-Ball she was holding and faced Rami with a kind of defiant kindness — arms crossed, jaw set, eyes sparkling. “Serious boyfriend, actually. And then there’s a guy I see whenever he’s in town.”
As it always did in times of great stress, Rami’s brain turned to logistics for comfort. “Wow, that’s a lot of people.”
Lynn smiled, shrugged, and took his hand. She traced a finger along the inside of his palm and gave him a warm glance through her dark lashes. “I like to think of it as a lot of experiences,” she cooed.
Rami frowned. “Wait, do all these guys also have other girlfriends?”
Lynn dropped his hand and nodded with a weary air. “Yeah, they do.”
