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Well, okay. Whatever.
Then she starts to explain that each one of them made a wishlist of sorts, of attributes that their ideal mates should have.
“You had a list?” This is starting to concern me. I don’t really know why, but I don’t like it.
“I had a list. Not super specific,” she says, looking into my eyes in the early dawn light, “but things I wanted in a man.”
“Like what?” I’m really starting to feel upset. Still don’t know why.
“There were nine things. Clarissa said it was like Build-A-Bear, and then somebody else said it was like Make-a-Monster, and then somebody else said no, it was making a Manster, and we all laughed—”
“Like what?” I repeat, and sit up. I put the sheet over my lap.
She sits up too, her forehead creased. “You want my list?”
“Fuck yeah I want your list.” I cross my arms.
There’s no way I fit her list. Aging virgin underachiever who likes weird shit and can’t read cues? No way. Clueless idiot who spills coffee on people in elevators? The hell you say.
She isn’t covering herself up. “Alaric, you look upset.”
“The list,” I snarl.
“You fit,” she says. “You’ll see.” I snarl again, and she jumps. “Fine. First, I wanted a guy with a steady job. That’s you.”
I wait.
“Someone handsome, just the right height, with beautiful hands. Also you.” She peeks at me, still sitting rigid, and goes on. “Someone who respects women, definitely you, someone who loves cats and high fantasy, surprisingly you because I’ve never dated a guy before who didn’t make fun of me for one or the other of those.”
I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“And a sexy name.” Even in the dim light, I can see her cheeks go pink. “Really you. I know it’s dumb, but I like your name so much. It’s unique. It’s special like you.”
I’ve lost count. Nine things, she said, but I don’t know where we are with it. “That’s all?” I clench my jaw, waiting for her to say the awful truth, that I could not possibly be anybody’s ideal.
“And,” she says, shrugging her shoulders up, “I wanted someone who was good in bed. Specifically making me come with his tongue.”
I don’t think it counts if she had to direct me through it.
“That’s it,” she says, and looks right at me. “You in every particular. Nine for nine. I wasn’t sure about that last one, but you definitely ticked that box. Every item on the list.”
I am more than that list.
Yeah, sure, the things on that list apply to me, mostly. But I am nobody’s fucking idea of a fucking ideal man. I’m weird. Half the time I don’t know what I’m doing, and the other half I don’t know what other people are doing, and I am nobody’s ideal.
Not even my own.
I can’t stand this. I can’t stand to watch Rochelle fall out of love with me when she realizes that I have so many faults.
I get up, shove my jeans on, grab all my clothes and shit, and get the fuck out of there with my heart breaking, not listening to Rochelle ask where I’m going, why I’m so upset, what she’s done to hurt me.
I’m gone.
Fucking gone.
