Page 37 of Clinically Awkward

He sat and dove straight into conversation—or, more accurately, a running monologue.

“So I had the craziest day,” he started, barely pausing for breath. “I was at the gym this morning. Did I tell you I switched gyms? The old one was basically torture—nothing worked right—and then, out of nowhere, I ran into this guy I used to work with. Total tool. He’s gained like thirty pounds since I last saw him. Thirty pounds. I was like, dude, what happened?”

I opened the menu, letting it serve as a shield. My eyes glazed over at the foreign names and dollar signs. I half-listened as he recounted his gym drama, my mind drifting, wondering if I should pretend to care or just let the conversation wash over me. I could already predict the next topic: work, then probably his macros, maybe a humblebrag about his latest PR.

“And then,” Colton continued, oblivious, “I had this meeting with my boss about the new project I’m leading. I told you about that, right? The one where I’m basically running the entire division now?”

“Mm-hmm.” My mouth moved automatically, a reflex I’d perfected after months of these dinners.

I hadn’t heard about it—or maybe I had, and my brain, in an act of self-preservation, had simply tuned it out. Hard to say. Colton’s words circled the room, bouncing softly off the linens and glass but never quite reaching me.

I watched his mouth move and wondered what it would be like if, just once, he asked about my day.

“So my boss is like, ‘Colton, you’re doing amazing work,’ and I’m like, ‘I know.’ Because I am. I’ve been putting in seventy-hour weeks. Seventy hours. Most people can’t handle that kind of workload, but I thrive under pressure.” He grinned, waiting for applause that never came.

The waiter appeared, and the air shifted with relief. At least, for a moment, I could pretend we were just another happy couple, sharing a meal, and not two people orbiting completely separate planets.

Thank God.

“Can I start you off with drinks?” he asked.

“I’ll have a vodka soda,” I said immediately and then thought better. “Make it a double.”

The waiter nodded and looked at Colton.

“Just water for me,” Colton said. “I’m cutting back on alcohol. Messes with my macros.”

Of course it does.

The waiter left, and Colton kept talking.

“So after the meeting, I went back to the gym, second session of the day, you know how it is, and I hit a new PR on deadlifts. 405 pounds. Can you believe that?”

“Wow,” I said flatly.

“I know, right? I posted it on Instagram. Got like three hundred likes in an hour.”

I looked at him. Really looked at him.

He was handsome. Objectively handsome. Tall, athletic, good jawline, perfect teeth, and he was boring me to tears.

“Anyway,” he continued, “after the gym, I had to take my car in for detailing. You know how I am about my car.”

I did know. He talked about his car the way some people talked about their children.

“The guy at the shop said it’s the cleanest Audi he’s ever seen. I was like, ‘Yeah, I take care of my things.’ Not everyone does that, you know? Some people just let their cars turn into trash heaps.”

My drink arrived, and I took a long sip.

Then another.

And Colton was still talking.

“Oh, and I’m thinking about getting a new watch. I’ve been looking at Rolexes. Not because I need one—I have three watches already—but because I think it’s a good investment. What do you think?”

“I think,” I said slowly, “that I have no opinion on watches.”

He laughed as if I had made a joke.