Getting Real (Getting Some 3)

“She single?” he asks.

“Yeah, I think so.”

For clarification: I know so.

Among my many talents, I’m kick-ass at listening to conversations around me while appearing completely preoccupied by something else. It’s a gift. Also a handy skill when keeping tabs on what teenage kids are really up to.

“You ever ask her out?” Timmy asks as the four of us start walking back to my truck.

“No.”

“Would you care if I asked her out?”

My expression and tone go hard, shutting that talk right the fuck down.

“Yeah, I would.”

“Why wouldn’t you ask her out?” Ryan wonders.

I shrug. “We work together.”

“So?” Garrett says. “Callie and I work together. And there’s nothing about it that’s not awesome.”

“That’s different.”

Garrett and Callie were serious all through high school. They broke up during the college years and the decade after, then Callie came back to Jersey from California taking a temporary job teaching theater at the high school while she took care of her parents. A temporary job that became permanent when she and Garrett got back together, got married, and decided to stay in Lakeside.

“Violet’s . . . young.” I explain.

“How young?” Ryan asks.

“Thirty.”

“Thirty’s not young,” Garrett says.

“Speak for yourself, old man,” Timmy objects. “I’m thirty and I’m still as young as a babe in the woods.”

“You’re an immature dumbass who still gets Mommy to do his laundry for him,” Garrett counters. “There’s a difference.”

Timmy flips Garrett off. Just like the old days.

Ryan takes the diplomatic approach.

“Thirty’s not young. It’s just . . . younger.”

Being my only single brother, Tim was my wingman after the divorce. We’d hit the bars on the weekends, he gave me pointers on dating apps, a few times we went out with one of his hookup friends and her friends.

The problem was, everyone Tim knows is thirty, like him, or younger. The girls were great to look at . . . but boring as dirt. We weren’t on the same page or in the same book—we weren’t even in the same library.

One time, at dinner, they didn’t have the beer I liked, so I joked around “‘I am Jack’s disappointed liver’”—and the girl asked me if Jack was one of my other brothers.

I mean, who doesn’t get a Fight Club reference? Apparently, twenty-eight-year-old girls.

After that I instituted a thirty-five-and-up policy that hasn’t steered me wrong.

“I should take advice from the guy who just admitted he’d do the dirty with his mother-in-law?” I ask Ryan.

He laughs. “I said probably, douchebag. And don’t tell Angy—she’ll think I’m a freak.”

Timmy knocks Ryan’s hat off. “You are a freak, dude. The mother of your children deserves to know.”

Ryan picks up his hat and punches Timmy in the arm as they climb in my truck. But Garrett’s hanging a few steps back—watching the rear lights of Violet’s car as it pulls out of the parking lot.

“Hey, you coming?” I call.

His expression is intense for a moment. Deep in thought. It’s the same look he gets when he’s staring at the whiteboard, inventing a new play for the football team.

Then he blinks, and it’s gone.

“Yeah.” He jogs over. “I’m getting right on that.”

CHAPTER THREE

Violet

There’s something wrong with guys my age.

They’re so self-centered. So wishy-washy. Soft.

So . . . young.

It’s like they missed a rung on the developmental ladder. Or somewhere around high school, just decided to stop climbing. And voilà—thirty became the new eighteen.

Take Evan, sitting across from me in this gleaming Formica-accented, trendy-and-it-knows-it restaurant in downtown Redbank, New Jersey. We’re on our first date—a blind date. His mom is the cousin of my coworker’s brother’s best friend’s sister.

Try saying that three times fast. It’s like six degrees of setup separation.

I used to partake in the dating sites—hoping their algorithms were the magic brick road that would lead me to my perfect match. But I’ve sworn off them for a while now. Too many jerks and possible serial killers. Like the guy who was into mouse taxidermy and wanted to bring me to his attic to show off his collection.

From that point on, it’s been human-to-human setups only.

And Evan’s not bad as far as blind dates go—he’s five foot ten, with dark-blond hair, good personal hygiene, smooth hands, and a gentle smile.

It’s just . . . well . . .

“ . . . and then I said to myself, if I’m going to be studying there for three years, why not double major and make it five?”

He’s still in school. Working toward his doctorate in philosophy and ancient languages. You know, like Latin and Sanskrit—the practical stuff.

And though I value education and think it’s commendable he’s pursing this—he still lives at home with his parents. In a room above their garage. I bet he’s still on their cell-phone plan too—he has that “family share” look about him.

Evan hasn’t really started life yet. There are so many experiences he hasn’t had—like apartment hunting, buying his own vacuum cleaner, paying rent.