He’s wearing a gray t-shirt and flannel, his brown curly locks somewhat tamed by his ever-present backwards ballcap, and he looks equal parts serious and seriously fuckable. I can’t help it. I laugh.
“I don’t get it,” he says, picking up a laminated menu and scanning the first side. “What’s so funny?”
“That’s what I’ve been calling you for years,” I confess.
His brown eyes narrow. “You’ve been calling me Peter Frederick Santos for years?” he asks. “That’s a little creepy, to be honest.”
“Not exactly. More like Pete Fucking Santos. But it’s kinda the same.”
He looks at me for a beat before he starts to chuckle. “Yeah, I can believe that. So…you’re not in a pissy mood, despite the scowl on your face?”
“Oh, no. I am,” I assure him as our server tops off my coffee and pours Pete a cup.
“Well, it can’t be my fault,” he says with a mix of confidence and relief. “I just got here.”
When I don’t immediately reassure him that he’s in the clear, he cocks his head to the side and asks, “What the hell did I do this time?”
“Nothing,” I sigh in frustration. “Well, nothing on purpose at least. I’ve been here a while because I’m trying to finish up my column for next week, and I like writing at this diner because the light is good, and the coffee is decent. I can’t get my cookies-and-crème-ucino here, like I can at Drip, but there are far fewer distractions. At least, there were. I’ve been accosted by half a dozen people so far. Two girls from my Psych class freshman year strolled over to ask me if the rumors were true.” I take a sip of coffee and wrap my hands around the mug. “To which Inodded. I told them we’ve been dating for a few weeks now.”
“Okay, what’s the problem? That’s pretty much what we agreed on last night, right? I know the mere idea of being my girlfriend sends you into hysterics, but we decided that until things die down, it makes the most sense to say that we’re together.”
Tapping my freshly-painted pale-pink fingernails on the tabletop, I give him my very favorite scowl, the one reserved just for him. “For the record, I’ve never gone into hysterics in my life, not even as an infant. And that wasn’t the rumor they were referring to,” I explain. “They asked me if your dick is really as big as your forearm, and they were damn near salivating with excitement to hear my verdict.”
“Myforearm?” he says, choking around a mouthful of coffee. “Damn. That’s a lotta pressure.” He looks down at his arm and I do the same. It’s free of tattoos, covered in cuffed, worn plaid flannel, and roughly the size of someone’s thigh. Ouch. Just picturing that appendage inside me has my eyes going wide.
Pete smiles broadly, his teeth a bright white contrast to the dark hair of his beard. “What was your answer?”
My own smile is wicked. “I said I’d never tell, but then I walked to the restroom like I was carrying a watermelon between my legs, so when the whole campus is buzzing about what you’re packing, you’ll know why.”
Pete guffaws, but I’m not done. “Five minutes after they left, another girl stopped by. Her nails were like talons, and I was a little nervous that she was going to reach out and steal my salted caramel muffin with her sharp claws, but she didn’t. Instead, she asked me if I could put in a good word for her when things between the two of us fizzled.”
“Woah,” Pete says, holding up his hands. “How does she know this thing between us isn’t gonna last forever?”
“That’s exactly what I said! Ok, my actual words might have been, ‘You can back off because he’s about to put a ring on this finger.’ And then I held up my middle finger, but the meaning is just about the same.”
He laughs again, and it’s entirely possible that I like being the cause. But that doesn’t mean anything. Who doesn’t love making people laugh?
“Alright, that’s three. Who else pissed you off on my behalf?”
I sigh, remembering. “Some guy stopped by to offer sage dating wisdom. He had a BU Baseball jacket on, and the nameToadwas embroidered on the left breast. He told me not to get my hopes up because you’re way too nice of a guy to put up with my shit for very long.”
Pete’s friendly face turns lethal. “Toad said what?”
“It gets better,” I tell him. “He told me he’s not nearly as good a guy as you, and he gave me his number.”
“What a fucking asshole,” Pete mutters.
“Again, that’s the same thing I said to him. Great minds must think alike. As for the last two people who put me in a bad mood? They were friends of Toad, and they said the hockey team doesn’t have what it takes to win the national title this year. They said you guys would choke in the final.”
“What did you say to that?” Pete asks, genuinely curious.
Lifting my mug to my lips, I inhale deeply, breathing in the rich aroma. “I told them the baseball team at BU hasn’t sniffed a national title since before we were all born, so they might want to spend a little more time on the field and a little less time heckling the team that’s brought notoriety to Bainbridge. Just sayin’.”
Pete’s lips press together as he emits a low whistle. “You’re the best fake girlfriend a guy could ask for,” he says, keeping his voice low.
“You say the sweetest things,” I tease. Our server stops by our table long enough to replenish Pete’s drink and take our orders.
While I’m waiting for my veggie omelet, I flash an expectant look at my breakfast companion. “So, when should we call it quits?” I ask.
