“I don’t know, man,” I say, tossing my towel over my shoulder. “I don’t think I’m in the mood to pick up a stranger…”
“Listen. No one is putting pressure on you, but you haven’t been social in ages. It’s us,” he goes on. “We’ll celebrate my engagement.”
I arch a brow. “Didn’t you already celebrate your engagement like five times?”
“Who’s counting?” he asks. “And tonight will make six.”
I snort.
“Fine,” I relent, already warming to the idea of being out instead of stuck in my own head. “Okay. Yeah.”
Luca claps a hand on my shoulder, firm and satisfied, like he’s just negotiated a trade. “Good. I’ll text you.”
I watch him walk off.
When I’m showering later, I do a mental inventory of my closet. Jeans. T-shirt.
No. Jeans and a polo.
Maybe the navy one.
I let the hot water pound into my shoulders and exhale slowly. Trying to talk myself out of overthinking this, but it’s basically muscle memory at this point. Overthinking is what I do best.
"It’s just a night out," I murmur to the tile wall. "It doesn’t mean anything."
Like Luca said earlier, I haven’t gone out in forever. Haven’t tried to meet someone. Haven’t had thedesireto meet someone. Call it lack-of-interest, call it laziness…
I’m not some sex-crazed animal, but I’m also not a monk, no matter what that jackass says. The man gets himself engaged and suddenly he’s the Dalai Lama of relationships?
I’ve always been reserved.
Kind of quiet.
Not shy exactly, but not the kind of guy who dominates a room. Growing up with two headstrong sisters will do that to you. You learn patience. You learn respect. You learn how tokeep your voice calm and your hands to yourself even when someone is screaming about a stolen sweater or threatening bodily harm over hair product.
It also made me good at reading people. Made me aware of the space I take up in the world. How to be thoughtful. How to be polite. How to listen.
And sometimes?
It made me completely invisible.
I never really minded. I was the steady one. The reliable one. The guy moms loved and girlfriends trusted. But sometimes I wonder if all that carefulness makes me hard tosee.
I pull on a pair of clean boxers and cross to my dresser.
Okay. Navy polo. Jeans that actually fit. Deodorant. The expensive cologne I bought myself when we were playing in Sweden…
I swipe it once across my chest and once at the base of my throat.
Awesome.
“Go have fun, you boring motherfucker.”
Grabbing my wallet, keys, and phone from the dresser, I give myself one last once-over.
The shirt fits. My hair isn’t doing anything too tragic. I look like someone who might, on a good night, be flirted with in a dimly lit bar.
Cool.
