“You could talk anyone you want into dating you. You could probably sell ice to a polar bear.”
“If that’s true, why are you still resisting?”
I think about my deal with JR, which was pretty much a non-issue until this moment. Promising to stay away from football players wasn’t exactly a sacrifice on my part—I have nothing in common with Ace’s teammates, and their lifestyles don’t mesh with mine. I’m not a prude or anything, even though Ace has accused me of being one from time to time. Having sex in public isn’t my thing. Nor is getting so drunk I can’t remember who I slept with the night before. I’m not a party girl. And I’m not interested in party boys.
Matthew Iverson, as attractive and as tempting as he is, definitely falls into party boy category. Or at least I think he does. I mean, he plays for Western—he has to be a party dude, right?
He’s also waiting for an answer. I settle on, “You’re not my type.”
By the way his brows shoot upward, I can see I’ve surprised him. “You’re anti-football or anti-athlete?”
“I’ve never dated either, so I can’t tell you.”
“It’s not fair that you’re anti-football player. It’s discriminatory. I’m going to need to speak to the Honors Council about this,” he jokes. “Who is your type?”
I toy with the last tofu fry. “I dated Keith, my co-worker at the Brew House.”
“Keith?” Matt’s forehead furrows as he tries to remember the rather unremarkable Keith. “He looks like a Ken doll. His hair is all—” Matt rubs his hand over his own perfectly mussed black locks.
“He uses a lot of product,” I admit.
“So you like metrosexuals?”
“No.” It never occurred to me that Keith is a metrosexual, but he did have more products in the bathroom than I do. “I guess I thought he was…” I don’t have a better word, so I just say it. “Safe.”
I’m kind of embarrassed at how weak my reasoning is. It doesn’t sound good stated out loud. I feel my cheeks starting to burn. Scrambling, I try to articulate a few better excuses. “You’re funny and attractive and any other girl would be thrilled to be sitting where I am right now.” I tip my head toward the table of four girls who still can’t tear their eyes away from Matty. “But I’m busy, you look like a lot of effort, and I don’t think you’re a good risk.
He bobs his head as he considers my defense. “Those are all good reasons, but they don’t really apply to me. The busy thing I can buy—hell, I’ve used that myself. But I look like a lot of effort? And I’m not a good risk? What the hell does that mean?”
I sigh. “You’re like a really expensive designer purse. I want it but know a) I can’t afford it and b) even if I could I’d be so obsessive about checking the condition that I wouldn’t even enjoy it. Plus, everyone else would want to touch it, hold it. Someone might even want to steal it, and that’d be a certain kind of stress I wouldn’t want to deal with.”
“You’re overthinking this, Luce.”
“I don’t doubt that I am. I look at things from all angles. Every. Single. Angle. Maybe that’s weird, but that’s what I do.” What I have to do. My whole life is about risk assessment. Can I eat this new food or that new food? Can I have one drink or two tonight? Did I get enough rest? Enough walking in today? Will tonight be the night my glucose levels go haywire and my roommates have to call 911 because I’m in a coma? I don’t want to explain this to Matt, so I choose a different story. “I’m this way about all of my life decisions, even the small ones. I was breaking out last year because of my shampoo, so I needed to switch. I spent a week researching dozens of different brands. After culling the list to ten, I made up a matrix listing all the ingredients, their function, and the comedogenic rating before settling on one I could still buy at the drugstore but wasn’t going to break me out. The process took three weeks.”
Matt looks a little winded by my example, so I hit him with another one.
“Remember how hot it was last fall?” He nods. I’m sure he does. Ace cursed about it every day, saying he’d rather play for a cold climate team than a hot one. “My roommates and I went to Lake Wanachakee. There’s a little private watering hole on the north side. My roommates, Sutton and Charity, decide to strip down and go skinny-dipping despite the big white sign that says ‘No skinny-dipping, punishable by a fine of up to $500.’ They yelled for me to get in while I considered all the scenarios of getting arrested, of being dragged down the beach without any clothes on, of how many snakes were in the water. I’d read an article about a woman getting leeches up her girl parts.” Matt blanches at this as any sane person would. “And since it wasn’t chlorinated, how many people had peed in it? But I was so hot, and the water looked so good.”
“Did you do it in the end?” he asks, but he probably knows the answer.
I shake my head. “By the time I decided to take my clothes off, Sutton and Charity were cold and got out.”
He sighs. “Sounds like your risk assessments keep you from having fun as opposed to keeping you safe.”
“I don’t look at it that way. The odds are in my favor. Risky behavior is labeled risky because there’s a chance someone is going to get hurt. There’s nothing negative with wanting to avoiding being hurt or injuring someone you care about.” I find myself explaining my reasoning in elaborate detail. Is it because he looks interested? I wish I could shut up.