He’s tagged on social media in plenty of pictures too—tons with team members. Chummy at parties. Trips. Standing on the sideline of stadiums; crouching next to the wrestling mats, hands bracketed around his mouth, undoubtedly shouting at the guy rolling around on the mat.
Then I’d found a bunch of pictures of him with a little girl. A bitty blonde who looks nothing like him, but he’d been tagged with her. Him and someone named Annabelle Donnelly. Rex and Annabelle and someone named Elliot. The four of them together with the cutie blondie. The blonde as a baby.
I pick up the remote control and point it at the television, flipping through the new releases, trying like hell to find a show I haven’t binged. It takes a while, but I eventually manage, clicking through the menu to find the first episode of a new series.
I can’t concentrate.
Get up, walk to the kitchen and add ice to my water glass. Cut up a lemon, tossing that in, too.
Go back to the couch and plop down. Tap my fingers on the armrest. Huff. Sigh. Get up, walk to the kitchen and yank open the fridge, peering inside.
We have nothing to eat. Well, that’s not true, because we just went grocery shopping, but as I stare inside, I find nothing I want to put in my face.
I go back to the living room.
Guilty.
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
I’m sitting on my ass when I should be getting ready.
Shit, I already told him I was busy studying.
Why do I lie? I should have been honest and told him I was nervous.
Biting my lower lip—a habit that’s been a telltale sign that I’m nervous since I was young—I grab my phone off the table and open to the messenger. Find Rex’s messages.
It’s been over an hour and the last thing he’d sent was that thumbs up. In the texting universe, that’s the equivalent to a fuck you and everyone knows it. Once, I’d gotten into an argument with my mother about it—she’d sent a thumbs up in a group chat once, and I’d told her what it meant, and she didn’t believe me. The whole thing created a family argument between my siblings and my parents, who felt we were being disrespectful by teasing our mother by bringing it up.
I sigh.
Me: Are you mad?
God, I wish I could take that back. Why would I have sent a text asking him if he was mad? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And immature. I’m not a teenager, why can’t I handle this situation like an adult?
Rex is right. I really do need help learning how to communicate with men.
Rex: Nope.
Me: What are you doing right now?
Rex: Cleaning my apartment.
He’s cleaning? What guy cleans his place?
Me: Really?
Rex: Yes. Why? Don’t you believe me?
Me: Sure. It’s just…I’ve never had a guy say that to me before.
Rex: Ah.
Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?
Me: How often do you clean your sheets?
Rex: I don’t know, once every week or two? Why?
Me: Seriously? Dang—I always forget.
Rex: That’s disgusting. Do you forget to shower, too?
Me: Sometimes. Haha.
Hey, no point in lying. Besides, it’s not like I’m dating the guy.
Rex: So. Were you actually texting to find out if I was mad or are you texting for another reason?
Me: I was texting to find out if you were mad.
Rex: So—not because you had a change of heart and still want to meet up?
Dammit. I hate when people hit the nail on the head when I’m trying to beat around the bush. It’s unsettling.
Me: I mean…
Rex: …
He’s going to make me come out and say it, but I’m not sure if I can admit I was hasty when I said I had a class to study for. Which, we both know was a lie. So why can’t I say it?
Me: I mean…
Rex: Lol, wow. You’re really not going to say it, are you?
Me: Trying not to.
Rex: First lesson in dealing with a guy: they don’t see anything in gray—it’s usually either black or white, so best get to the point. Guys don’t think like you do, so make it simple.
Me: You seem to do okay translating what I mean—what makes you different?
Rex: My best friend is a girl and I’ve learned a lot from her about women in the past few years.
The puzzle pieces click in to place; his best friend must be the brown-haired girl in the photographs posted online and on Instagram.
Me: I’ll make a note of that factoid then.
Rex: So—why don’t you practice with me and tell me the reason you texted me just now because it’s not to waste time shooting the shit.
Me: Fine. I texted you because I felt bad.
Rex: Felt bad about what?
Me: Felt bad I bailed on you.
Rex: It’s not a big deal, but you didn’t have to lie.
Me: I know. Sorry.
Rex: Apology accepted.
Okay, now I’m just weirded out. That was way too easy; telling him the truth and not having him act like a dickhead isn’t something I’m familiar with. The guys I’ve gone out with in the past, or that my friends have dated—act like assholes when things don’t go their way. Spoiled brats.
Jerks.
Before Skylar was talking to her boyfriend Abe, she thought she was chatting with his roommate, JB. See, Abe was actually pretending to be his friend, knowing JB wasn’t good with the ladies. Not as articulate and horrible with communication. Basically: a huge jerk.
A few times, I’d even gone on a few double dates with Abe; got to watch JB in action—let me tell you, that guy…when she told him she wasn’t interested in dating him, he became the biggest prick. Showed up late for their first date, so conceited he thought. Didn’t pay for her tab at the restaurant—she had to throw down cash before walking out. Little did she know, JB wasn’t the guy she was in love with.
I’ve had a few gems in my past, too. Guys who reply with one worded texts. Barely able to make the art of conversation on a date, so it’s like pulling teeth finding out about them—never mind them trying to find out things about me. What makes me tick, what my likes are. What I want out of a relationship.
It’s not too much to ask for someone to actively be interested in me.
Let’s just say over the years I’ve become a little…jaded with the entire college life dating scene.
Or lack thereof.