Page 63 of The Apparent Trap

He hums, the memory floating between us. “I always do,” he says succinctly.

“Why?”

“I don’t think I really ever had a model for how to do that.”

“Do what?”

“Have, you know, a healthy, two-sided, honest relationship like that.”

I scoff. “I had a model for that, and I’m not exactly swimming in long-term relationships.”

“You have your own reasons, I’m sure,” he says with a chuckle, like we’re two sad sacks with the same problem but very different paths to getting there. “Besides, you’re young.”

I scoff again. It’s about to start sounding like I’ve got something stuck in my throat. “I’m thirty-one.” I don’t know why that makes me sound so much like a child, but blurted out into the silent night air, it’s like I’m protesting too much.

“Right, and in a decade and change, you’ll be doing better than I am, I’m sure of it.”

“I’m not so sure.”

“Do you . . . date?” he asks gingerly, like he’s not quite convinced he wants to know the answer.

“I mean, my friends try and set me up, and I’ve been on the apps. But I date sparingly since it hasn’t exactly been a roaring success.”

“Why not?”

“There’s always some glaring red flag eventually that makes it obvious I’m not going to go out with that person again, usually within one to four dates.”

“Four dates, huh?”

“That’s . . . rare,” I admit, understatement of the century.

“A glaring red flag like what? Serial killer? Has a room filled with hundreds of creepy dolls? Believes the earth is genuinely flat?”

“Come on,” I reply.

“Well I’m curious what someone could do to be categorized as a red flag and not just like, ‘no chemistry,’ or ‘nice guy but dull,’ or whatever.”

I love how this is how he sees dates going wrong. It’s so naive and clearly so not something he’s ever been accused of on any date.

“No, like . . .” I try to summon examples from the desert of my dating life. “I went out with this guy a couple times, and then for the third date we went to the movies, and he literally left his popcorn on the floor at the end, like for someone else to clean up.” This doesn’t get a reaction. “Or like . . . I went to dinner with this guy, and he ordered a burger, took the top half of the bun off, and then ate it with a fork.”

“You’re against . . . forks?”

“Burgers have to be eaten with your hands.”

“But maybe not, if you take the bun off.”

“The bun is an essential piece of it being categorized as a burger!” I exclaim. “This is the same as how I do not accept that open-faced sandwiches can be called sandwiches. A burger with half a bun is just like . . . meat toast. It’s no longer a burger.”

Lee whistles, low. “That’s quite the red flag. You should never speak to this heathen again.”

“I know you’re mocking me, but I, in fact, did not.”

That fizz is back, and it’s made its way down. I’m warm again, and it’s certainly not from being outside bundled into a thermal-grade sleeping bag. I turn to my side and see Lee watching me now.

“So, it’s good, then.”

“What?”