Almost Married

“What the—Griff!” Steph exclaimed from behind him. She opened the window. “What are you doing?”

Dave peered out the window. Someone in a hoodie was holding the ladder for the jerk. Griffin wasn’t as dumb as he’d hoped.

Griffin went whole hog for the fairy-tale effect. “Oh, fair Steph. Roses are red—”

“Get in here! Are you crazy?” Steph grabbed his arm and tugged.

Griffin climbed in the window, looking mighty pleased with himself, and stood next to Dave. A flash of fury ran through Dave. Griffin had managed to give Steph a poem before he did on his ladder. It was the stupid “roses are red” poem, but still. That had been his plan.

Griffin went on. “Roses are red, Steph is fine—”

“You could've been killed!” Steph shouted. She gestured to Dave. “At least he was smart enough not to risk his life on a ladder.”

Dave’s ears burned.

Griffin hitched a thumb in his direction. “It was his idea.”

Steph turned to him, eyes wide.

Dave shook his head to deny it. Then rallied to his own cause. “I planned to give you roses on a ladder like Rapunzel, and he convinced me not to.” He jabbed a finger at Griffin. “You stole my idea! I had a poem all ready to go, and it was much better than his.” He yanked it out of his pocket and handed it to Steph.

Griffin smirked at him. Dave’s hands turned into fists. He’d lose in a physical altercation, he knew it, but damn, he’d love to just sock that smug look off his face.

Steph read the poem to herself and stared at it. Griffin snatched it from her fingers and read it out loud:

“Smart

Beautiful

You have

The total package

Many talents in one person.”

Griffin scoffed and leered at Steph. “I’ll show you a package.”

“Don’t talk to her like that,” Dave snapped. He snatched the poem back and gave it to Steph again. “It’s a Fibonacci poem. You remember the Fibonacci sequence? One, one, two, three, five…” He trailed off at her confused expression. “It’s quite beautiful. Like you.”

Griffin snorted.

Steph rubbed her temples. “I’m getting a headache.”

“Yeah, Dave,” Griffin said. “Get lost. She has a headache.”

Steph narrowed her eyes at Griffin. “You go.” She turned to Dave. “I’ll call you later, okay?”

“Can’t I stay?” Dave asked. “I planned—”

“Not now, Dave,” Steph said between her teeth.

He took the hint and headed out. He should’ve known once Griffin showed up, Dave didn’t stand a chance. He had to get to Steph first before Griffin could ruin the moment. He was halfway down the stairs when he heard Steph shout, “Go!” and then Griffin was out the door too. Dave picked up the pace. The last thing he wanted was to spend one extra minute with that guy.

By the time he got his ladder and dragged it around to his car, the skies opened up. He dove into the car. He’d wait out the storm. Griffin’s limo was still sitting there too. Dave quickly decided he wasn’t leaving until that limo did. Half an hour later, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and Dave tied the ladder back on the car. The limo finally pulled away, and Dave left too, thinking about how far he was out of his league.

Sure, he’d been all macho bravado in front of Griffin, but what did he have to offer Steph that Griffin couldn’t top? Griffin could buy her anything, take her on fancy vacations, drive her around in limos, take her to celebrity parties. He was probably great in the sack after sleeping with all those models. (Not that Dave liked to think about that.) Dave had only slept with seven women. None of them had complained about him in bed, but they hadn’t sung his praises either.

In retrospect, he should’ve had his past sexual partners fill out a survey afterwards, rating different aspects of his lovemaking on a scale of 1 to 5. Those kind of data points would’ve helped him improve exponentially, making his present situation much easier to deal with confidently. How could he possibly compare to a player like Griffin?

Why in the world had Steph ever given Dave a second look? He wasn’t ugly, he knew that. And he kept in shape. Still, he’d been told, on more than one occasion, he resembled the mild-mannered Clark Kent. It was the glasses and dark brown hair, he was sure. Now, he was in some bizarro world going up against what his women friends would call a mimbo—a male bimbo. A very famous one. Not exactly an even playing field there.