Page 208 of Coach
I tried to recover some of my dignity—which was hard, given that behind me a TV was showing synchronized swimming set to “WAP.” I settled onto a stool at the far end of the bar and sipped my Daddy Issues like it might kill me quickly if I was lucky.
Todd followed me down, tossing a bar rag over his bare, broad shoulder. “What’s with this date?”
“Uh—”
“Blind date?”
“No.”
“Grindr thing?”
“Definitely not.”
He grinned. “So . . . a crush.”
I hesitated.
“Ha! Nailed it. They should give us bartenders some sort of psych license.”
I buried my face in the beer, wishing Todd would shimmy his hot tush away and let me drown my fears in peace.
And, of course, that’s when the committee in mybrain convened.
Inner Mateo #1: You invited Shane. You’re an idiot, an absolute romantic moron.
Inner Mateo #2: Shane builds furniture with his bare hands and broods like it’s a full-time job. He’s not ready for this. He doesn’t want romance or laughter or, hell, people.
Inner Mateo #3 (Drama Queen Edition): He’s going to walk in, see a shirtless man in a jockstrap doing body shots off a dartboard champion, and leave you here to die alone. Possibly of shame.
I sighed, staring into the foam.
Inner Mateo #4 (Hopeful Fool): But maybe . . . maybe he’ll stay. Maybe he’ll laugh. Maybe he’ll like your friends. Maybe he’ll see you here, weird and awkward and very obviously sweating through your shirt, and decide you’re kind of wonderful.
“Need a towel?” Todd asked, glancing at my pits.
I groaned. “Please tell me this gets easier.”
“Coming out, dating, or trivia night?”
“All of it.”
He gave me a warm, gentle smile. “Eventually. But not before it gets a whole lot messier.”
Then he turned to yell at a bachelor party whose honoree was trying to climb onto the pool table. He looked about as drunk as I wanted to be in that moment.
I sipped again and looked at the door.
Only twenty-six minutes to go.
I had just convinced myself not to text Shane a panicked “don’t come, I have diarrhea” when the front door burst open like a musical number was about to begin.
“Matty’s here, sluts!” came a singsong shout loud enough to make Todd duck behind the espresso machine and the bachelor party cheer like Beyoncé had entered the building.
And there he was—Matty. Five-foot-nine of manicured eyebrows, designer jeans, platinum hair, and enough energy to power a small city. He spotted me instantly, shrieked like I was Madonna, and bolted across the room, arms wide.
“No—Matty, don’t—” I started, but it was too late.
I was engulfed in a cloud of cologne and fabulousness. He wrapped his arms around me like I’d just returned from war, then planted kisses on both cheeks with dramatic flair.
