“Are you sure?”
I don’t appreciate this Socratic method bullshit. If I wanted to be criticized, I’d have texted my dad back.
“Seth, I was talking about my behavior when I was a teenager. Are you really going to extrapolate that to who I am now, having interacted with me for about ten hours in the last fifteen years?”
Bizarrely, he doesn’t back down.
“Remember how I’m a divorce attorney? And I deal with breakups eighteen hours a day? You’re a type, Molly. You’re a bolter. You get scared of feelings and run away.”
I should hang up. This is not the light conversation I wanted to have with him.
“Do I have to pay you your hourly rate for this, counselor?” I ask.
There is a very, very long pause.
“I’m providing it pro bono because I like you,” he finally says. His voice has gone soft. Almost tender.
I feel unsteady. I don’t know what to do with this.
“Youlikeme?” I repeat.
“So much, Molly.”
“You know, I’m not terribly likable,” I joke, because I don’t trust myself to follow where this is going. “You could be forgiven for saying no.”
“See, you’re doing it,” he says. “Deflecting. When the conversation gets earnest, you make a joke or some self-deprecating comment.”
I know he’s right, but I don’t want to admit it.
“Maybe I just do that with you.”
“I highly doubt it. You did it when we were teenagers. And it correlates with a personality type in a relationship. You probably check out when things scare you. Intimacy shuts you down.”
What am I supposed to say to this? He likes me “so much,” but he’s criticizing me for how I act in relationships?
“Why are you being like this?” I ask. “I offered to keep you company. I’m not looking for a psych diagnosis. Believe me, I have enough of those.”
“I’m sorry,” he says quickly. “It’s the lawyer in me, I guess. Can’t stop arguing. I’m being a dick.”
But that isn’t quite it. None of this comes off as mean. It comes off as too honest.
“You’re not being a dick,” I say. “You’re being awfully presumptuous about me though.”
“You’re right,” he says. “I want to get to know you better.”
Yeah, it’s time to end this.
“Listen, I need to eat dinner and get some sleep,” I say.
There’s another long pause. Then he says, “Marks, you’re abandoning me in my hour of need?” His tone is lighter. He obviously senses that he’s freaked me out.
“What did you think you were getting?” I blurt without thinking. “Hours of phone sex?”
He lets out a shocked laugh. “A boy can dream.”
My cheeks are red, and my eyes are shut so tightly that they hurt. “Sorry.”
“Well, save my number in case you change your mind. It’s good to talk to you, Molls.”
