I screw up the corner of my lips. “I don’t think you said son of a bitch in your column.”
Like I can catch this woman on a technicality. But hey, I have to try.
“I write online. You bet I used ‘son of a bitch,’ and if I have to use ‘motherfucker,’ too, I will.”
I raise my hands in surrender. “Wouldn’t want to run into you in a dark alley.”
“Damn straight. I know Krav Maga. On to number three. They often have new bad habits, and the new ones can be even more disgusting than the old ones.”
I scrunch my brow. “Seriously? That’s a reason?”
She nods. “What if he hogs the bed now? What if he cuts his toenails in front of you? What if he expects you to pick up his dirty socks?” She cringes to emphasize the horror of this parade of possible gross behaviors. “Burps? Picks his teeth? Doesn’t text back in a timely manner? Leaves cabinet doors open? Sucks annoyingly on a water bottle?”
I give her a look like she’s insane. Because, seriously? “Leaves cabinet doors open? That’s a thing?”
Her eyes blaze with anger. “Has that ever happened to you? Because it is a living hell. Shoulder bruises. Smacked eyes. Scratched temples. It’s like evil elves booby-trapped your home.”
I lean my hip against the store window, where a rainbow-colored head stares at me. I point at Nicole. “I’m feeling like that might be something someone did to you.”
“And it drove me insane,” she says, gripping her head.
“Nicole, anyone can do those things. Why is that uniquely annoying with an ex?”
“My point exactly. Everything, literally everything”—she slashes an emphatic hand through the air—“is more annoying with an ex. It’s all amplified, especially bad habits. That’s the nature of a second chance. You already gave him a first chance. Everything is in stereo the second time around.”
“Tyler never did those things before, though. No cupboard doors swinging madly and no slurping of bottles. So I’m not biting on the habit issue.”
She huffs. “Number four. The sex might be different.”
I laugh and shake my head. “That one is not an issue. Whatsoever.”
She stalks me, backs me up to the window, and sets a hand against the display, breathing fire. “You did not sleep with him.”
“There was no . . . penetration involved,” I say, then I clasp my hand over my mouth. “Oops. Wait. There was.” I waggle my fingers.
“You dirty girl,” she says, but her lips twitch, and it’s clear she’s reining in a smile.
I wiggle my eyebrows. “Also, the penetration was even better than before, and that’s saying something.”
She inhales through her nose again and stares through slits of eyes. “Fine, you lucky bitch. Then, how’s this? Number five. The two of you want different things.”
I have no rebuttal. I can’t protest because I don’t know the answer. He might want different things. I might, too. I don’t know yet what he wants, besides me. Tyler has shown he wants me intensely, but what does that mean? Does he want the same type of future we mapped out once upon a time, or just someone to spend the night with now and then? Does he want a girlfriend, a playmate, or a partner? More than that, what do I want from him? Sure, I agreed to go to a party in a week. But what am I opening myself up to by buying wigs and wearing them? What comes after the party, and am I even ready for that?
Bells clink lightly against glass. A pair of thirty-something women stumble out of the store. But it’s the fun kind of stumble, the one girlfriends do as they laugh and wrap arms around each other. One of the women sports a strawberry-blond bob and the other wears a lemon-yellow shoulder-length do. I vaguely wonder why they have wigs. For fun? For necessity? For a party? But the answer’s not apparent as they walk on by.
Just like the answer to Tyler and me.
I turn back to Nicole. “We might want different things, but I don’t know what he wants. And more important, I don’t yet know what I want. That’s actually why I said yes to the party. To try to figure that out,” I say, speaking plainly now. No teasing or hard times, just the truth.
Nicole reaches for my arm and circles a hand softly around it. “It’s hard, to know what you want.” She squeezes. “It’s the hardest thing, isn’t it?”
“And to know if going for it is worth the risk.”
“It’s insanity out there,” she says and sweeps her arm in an arc encompassing everything but us, I suppose. “It’s all a big complicated sea of garbage and madness and magic all at once, and sometimes you can’t separate one from the other.”
“Garbage and madness and magic?” I arch a brow and laugh. “Is that your next column on dating and mating in the online, Snapchat, Plenty of Fish, sexting, dick pic, no-one-knows-what’s-true-anymore world?”
“Maybe it should be. But then, that’s the basic premise of what I do—navigate the sea of shit and dating.” She shades her eyes with her palm like she’s checking out the rolling waves from the deck of her ship.
“Captain Nicole, aye aye.”
Her eyes shift to the end of the block, landing on the couple strolling in our direction. Penny waves. Her beau, Gabriel, is by her side. He’s tall and lean, with longish hair and tattooed arms. The two of them are a perfect pair. He’s crazy for her, and she’s mad about him.