by Sara Ney
Hannah: Awww, I bet she’s adorable.
Me: Yeah, she is. She looks just like me.
Hannah: Does she really?
Me: No. We’re not actually related.
Hannah: Oh, I get it—you’re friends with her dad, then?
Me: No, her dad actually kind of hates me. I’m best friends with her mom.
I’m not about to tell her a lot of people hate me; not when I’m trying to date her—or, at least, try to help her flirt with guys who aren’t me.
I can use as many friends as I can get, I don’t need to turn any more people off.
Me: Listen, I have to keep an eye on my niece while she eats, but I’ll shoot you a text later. We can figure out a time to meet up.
Hannah: You actually want to meet up?
Me: Uh, yeah. Don’t you?
Hannah: I thought you were going to teach me how to talk to guys.
Me: Right. I’m a guy and you’re going to talk to me.
Hannah: I thought we determined you’re not really my type.
Me: We did? When?
Hannah: Okay, so maybe we didn’t…haha. I just assumed we could do all this “teaching” over the phone…
Me: That would totally defeat the purpose. And it wouldn’t kill you to socialize—you’re scary as fuck, I bet you could use some refreshers.
Hannah: SCARY? I’ve been sweet as pie this entire conversation!
Me: I know, but you weren’t so sweet after I swiped on you. But whatever, I’m not going to bed.
Me: Beg. I meant BEG. If you don’t want to have coffee or whatever, it’s not a big deal.
Hannah: Ummm I swiped on you FIRST Mister! Fine. Let’s meet.
Me: Wow. Don’t sound so enthusiastic.
Hannah: I SAID I WANTED TO MEET.
Me: Whoa. Bring it down a notch, no need to shout.
Hannah: OMG, I’m going to kill you.
Me: Yeah, on second thought, maybe we shouldn’t have coffee…
Hannah: WE ARE HAVING COFFEE GODDAMMIT.
Me: See, this is why you need my help. My dick shriveled up and climbed inside its turtle shell.
Hannah: Huh?
Me: You shrunk my balls with your cackling. This is why you need me.
Hannah: “NEED” is such a strong word.
Me: This is why you could use someone such as myself.
Hannah: Oh yeah? Care to enlighten me?
Me: I would, but like I said—I have my niece with me and I gotta keep an eye on her. She’s made a huge mess in the two minutes we’ve been talking and I didn’t bring her diaper bag into the mall, so now I have to figure out how to clean her up without wipes…
Hannah: Why do I find that so adorable?
Me: Cause I’m adorable.
Hannah: A-DORK-able is more like it.
Me: Wow. Your just a firecracker aren’t you.
Hannah: **you’re
Me: BYE
I lock my screen and shove the phone in my back pocket, Lilly’s little mess really isn’t all that terrible; a few chocolatey fingers and some schmutz already on her chubby cheeks, though she’s only been eating them a few short minutes.
We’re interrupted by a high pitched and enthusiastic voice—one that comes out of nowhere, off to my right, with an, “Oh. My. Gawd, she is so adorable. How old is she?”
I glance up to see a hot chick wearing a short skirt and crop top bending to get a closer look at Lilly, her perky boobs directly in my line of vision.
“Two-ish,” I avert my eyes and take a berry out of the paper, handing it to Lilly. “I’m her Funcle.”
“Funcle?”
“You know—fun uncle?”
“Oh! Haha. Oh my god, that’s hilarious.” She eyes me, dismisses me, then refocuses on my niece. “So cute. What’s her name?”
So, I get that this girl is hot and all, but some things aren’t for public consumption—even though I’d probably bang this chick if she wanted to hook up, she’s still a complete stranger, and Lilly’s details are private. I doubt her dad, Elliot, would want me blabbing her details to random girls.
Actually, I know for a fact he’d hate it, because he lectures me on a regular basis about using Lilly to score dates.
Which I haven’t actually done in a few months…since I haven’t been in or lived in town.
But now I’m back for the semester to help out at the University, back on the dating app, and back in action—so to speak.
Still. This isn’t just any little girl; this is my goddaughter, my niece, and my job is to protect her. The days of me using her as chick bait are over. I learned my lesson the one time a girl took a selfie with Lilly, posted it on Instagram, and tagged Annabelle—Lilly’s mother—in the photo.
Wow. I got my ass chewed out for that…
“I call her Monster.” I lie. I call her many things: Lilly Pad, Squirt, Munchkin—take your pick, all cute nicknames are fair game, but I’ve never, not once, called her Monster.
“Monster? This little cutie?” The girl studies us. “Noooo, not her!” She coos down at Lilly.
Lilly scowls, the cockblocker, popping a strawberry in her mouth and chewing sullenly. “Go away.”
Oh crap.
The girl tilts her head. “What did she say?”
Around a ripe berry, my niece repeats herself, loudly and clearly. “Go away.”
The girl startles, taken aback, clearly insulted. “What?”
As Lilly opens her mouth to repeat it a third time, I clamp my hand over her tiny lips to shush her. “Sorry, its been a really long day for her, she must be tired.”
PS: it’s ten o’clock in the morning and the mall has only been open an hour.
“Right.” The girl hefts her shopping bags. “Whatever. Maybe she’s a monster.”
“Yup. Just like I said.”
Without saying good-bye, the girl saunters off in a bit of a huff, long blonde hair flying—it’s most likely fake, wafting up around her as if static electricity has gotten ahold of it—tanned, orange legs carrying her farther away.
“Well, Lilly Pad, you scared another one off.”
As she gets older, she’s becoming more difficult to manage, especially now that she can string words together to make sentences. It doesn’t help that her grandfather is the coach of the wrestling team and takes her to practice—so she’s exposed to cursing and dudes with a lack of manners on a regular basis.
Then there’s the time she’s been spending with me, now that I’m back in town to manage the team, working side-by-side with her grandpa Joe. Her mom, Annabelle is still enrolled in school, so the poor thing spends way too much time being influenced by men; her grandpa, her dad—and me.
Cutest monster ever.
“We still have to buy me something to wear, little Missy. But first we have to find a bathroom and wash your mitts.”
She licks her lips. “Dis was good.”
“Looks like it. Can I have a bite?” I open my mouth and she unceremoniously jams an entire strawberry in my mouth, damn near choking me. “Shit.”
“Shit.” She repeats. It sounds like she’s saying sit, but I know exactly what she’s trying to say.
“No, not that word. Funcle Rex meant poopy.”
“Shit.”
“Lilly.” I crouch so I can look her in her beady little blue eyes. “Lilly Pad, should we get ice cream?”
Yeah, I’m trying to bribe her, but I know this kid; she’ll get home and curse a blue streak in front of her parents and I’ll get my ass chewed out for being a bad influence.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Her little head gives a nod, punctuating the end of her naughty sentence as if settling the entire matter.
Sit, sit, sit.
What a little turd.
“Okay munchkin, let’s go get you cleaned up. You’re giving me anxiety.”
She nods as if she understands what I’m telling her and I pick up the berries, paper wrapper, and chocolate chunks that have fallen off onto the bench. I don’t have any nap
kins, either, so my fingers get dirty in the process.
I go to scoop Lilly up, but think better of it, and have her hold my hand as we head for the family bathroom so I can wash her messy fingers and face. Make short work of that, and ask if she has to use the potty before heading back into the mall.
“Do you want to try sitting on the big girl potty?”
“No toilet.” She stubbornly squishes up her face. “Monsters.”
“There are no monsters in the potty, Lilly Pad.”
Another shake of her cute head, blonde hairs swaying. Man, she is too damn adorable for her own good.
“Should Funcle Rex check your diaper?” We’ve been here over an hour and I’ve given her two juice boxes—no way has she not pissed her diaper.
She crosses her arms and hmphs.
Whoa. So sassy!
“Fine. Walk around with pee in your pants,” I finally say, relenting, one fresh diaper stashed in my back pocket, just in case. Totally not worth arguing with a two-year-old over. I’ve been down this road with her before and I’m not going to win.
Even at my age, sadly, she has me beat when it comes to wit, determination, and stealth.
Lilly eyeballs me and I know she’s about to put her arms up so I’ll lift her.
“Come on squirt. Let’s get me a shirt.”
2
Hannah
Me: I’m not sure I can actually meet you this afternoon. I have a lecture to study for, the professor gives a quiz at the beginning and half way through every class.
Rex: That’s fine.
That’s fine? What’s that supposed to mean? I’m really getting sick of this guy being so agreeable; I googled him. I know his reputation as a Class A douchebag. So I’m really confused about why he’s so easy to get along with.
Me: So yeah. I know it’s last minute and I didn’t give you much notice…
Rex: It’s not a problem. Although, I think you’re full of shit and just coming up with excuses—which is fine. But just say you’re not interested in meeting, don’t feed me a line of bullshit about a class.
Me: It’s true! My professor DOES give two quizzes every class!
And he does. But it’s not a matter of urgency for me to study. Rex is right, I’m inventing an excuse so I don’t have to meet him tonight.
Rex: Good luck studying then.
Me: Thanks.
Rex: **thumbs up emoji**
I stare at that icon, guilt slowly seeping into the pit of my stomach—which is ridiculous, because I’ve never met this guy and he is a nobody to me. The thing is, I’m not an asshole; not really. Sure, I say some pretty stupid shit at some really inappropriate times, but I’d never intentionally hurt someone’s feelings or intentionally make them feel rejected or unwanted.
Fine. That’s a total lie.
In the past, I’ve told a few guys to fuck off to their faces and told a few others I wasn’t interested.
But Rex already knows I’m not—the point of this little get-together is for purely educational purposes. For me. So I can learn how to talk to a guy without pissing him off…learn how to be a bit sweeter.
You catch more bees with honey than vinegar, my Granny used to say. Too bad I’ve never taken her advice until now.
I click my messages with Rex closed, setting my phone down on the coffee table in front of me, prop my feet up and lean back into the cushions.
Who cares if I broke our plans?
It’s not like we’re friends.
Plus, the information I’d found about him on the web was less than stellar; his reputation sucks. People talk and people had plenty to say on the campus blogs about the former manager for the university’s wrestling team.
He’s tagged on social media in plenty of pictures too—tons with team members. Chummy at parties. Trips. Standing on the sideline of stadiums; crouching next to the wrestling mats, hands bracketed around his mouth, undoubtedly shouting at the guy rolling around on the mat.
Then I’d found a bunch of pictures of him with a little girl. A bitty blonde who looks nothing like him, but he’d been tagged with her. Him and someone named Annabelle Donnelly. Rex and Annabelle and someone named Elliot. The four of them together with the cutie blondie. The blonde as a baby.
I pick up the remote control and point it at the television, flipping through the new releases, trying like hell to find a show I haven’t binged. It takes a while, but I eventually manage, clicking through the menu to find the first episode of a new series.
I can’t concentrate.
Get up, walk to the kitchen and add ice to my water glass. Cut up a lemon, tossing that in, too.
Go back to the couch and plop down. Tap my fingers on the armrest. Huff. Sigh. Get up, walk to the kitchen and yank open the fridge, peering inside.
We have nothing to eat. Well, that’s not true, because we just went grocery shopping, but as I stare inside, I find nothing I want to put in my face.
I go back to the living room.
Guilty.
Guilty, guilty, guilty.
I’m sitting on my ass when I should be getting ready.
Shit, I already told him I was busy studying.
Why do I lie? I should have been honest and told him I was nervous.
Biting my lower lip—a habit that’s been a telltale sign that I’m nervous since I was young—I grab my phone off the table and open to the messenger. Find Rex’s messages.
It’s been over an hour and the last thing he’d sent was that thumbs up. In the texting universe, that’s the equivalent to a fuck you and everyone knows it. Once, I’d gotten into an argument with my mother about it—she’d sent a thumbs up in a group chat once, and I’d told her what it meant, and she didn’t believe me. The whole thing created a family argument between my siblings and my parents, who felt we were being disrespectful by teasing our mother by bringing it up.
I sigh.
Me: Are you mad?
God, I wish I could take that back. Why would I have sent a text asking him if he was mad? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And immature. I’m not a teenager, why can’t I handle this situation like an adult?
Rex is right. I really do need help learning how to communicate with men.
Rex: Nope.
Me: What are you doing right now?
Rex: Cleaning my apartment.
He’s cleaning? What guy cleans his place?
Me: Really?
Rex: Yes. Why? Don’t you believe me?
Me: Sure. It’s just…I’ve never had a guy say that to me before.
Rex: Ah.
Ah? What’s that supposed to mean?
Me: How often do you clean your sheets?
Rex: I don’t know, once every week or two? Why?
Me: Seriously? Dang—I always forget.
Rex: That’s disgusting. Do you forget to shower, too?
Me: Sometimes. Haha.
Hey, no point in lying. Besides, it’s not like I’m dating the guy.
Rex: So. Were you actually texting to find out if I was mad or are you texting for another reason?
Me: I was texting to find out if you were mad.
Rex: So—not because you had a change of heart and still want to meet up?
Dammit. I hate when people hit the nail on the head when I’m trying to beat around the bush. It’s unsettling.
Me: I mean…
Rex: …
He’s going to make me come out and say it, but I’m not sure if I can admit I was hasty when I said I had a class to study for. Which, we both know was a lie. So why can’t I say it?
Me: I mean…
Rex: Lol, wow. You’re really not going to say it, are you?
Me: Trying not to.
Rex: First lesson in dealing with a guy: they don’t see anything in gray—it’s usually either black or white, so best get to the point. Guys don’t think like you do, so make it simple.
Me: You seem to do okay translating what I mean—what makes you different?
Rex: My best friend is a gir
l and I’ve learned a lot from her about women in the past few years.
The puzzle pieces click in to place; his best friend must be the brown-haired girl in the photographs posted online and on Instagram.
Me: I’ll make a note of that factoid then.