“Bang her,” I deadpan. “How eloquent.”
“Sorry, I meant screw.”
He is too much. “Would you rather date someone with a high-pitched voice or someone with a masculine voice?”
Buzz looks irritated. “Where are you getting these godawful questions?”
I scoff. “Please, these are standard-issue would-you-rathers.”
“I can’t imagine which one would be less heinous. Which would I want whispering in my ear…?” He shudders. “Jesus, I don’t know. Masculine? No. High-pitched.”
“Final answer?”
A jerky nod. “Final answer. And why do I feel like this is going to somehow happen to me now?” He smiles over at me. “I like your voice though—it’s cute.”
My voice is cute?
I must be scowling because he adds, “And sexy.”
I relax into the passenger seat and wait patiently for him to ask me a question.
I don’t have to wait long.
“Never have I ever dated someone who wasn’t my type on paper.”
This makes me look over at him and stare, studying his profile. He is intently watching the road, but…that’s such an odd thing to say, and I’m not sure what he means.
“Huh?”
“I’ve never dated someone who wasn’t my type on paper—meaning, just because they look a certain way, doesn’t mean they don’t still have the qualities I’m looking for in a partner.”
I’m still confused. “So you’re saying those model-looking types you’ve gone out with or have slept with are secretly rocket scientists, too?”
Buzz laughs. “I’m not saying that. I’m talking about dating someone—being in a relationship. Going out for drinks or sleeping with a person doesn’t equal dating them, being in a relationship with them. Like there are women you sleep with and women you bring home to your mo—”
Oh god. He’s talking about me.
I’m the kind you bring home to your mother, apparently, even if it’s for show.
“Then I guess I usually do date my type, yes, if that’s what you’re getting at with that convoluted never-have-I-ever.”
He seems satisfied with that answer. “So what is your type then? On paper, if you could invent the perfect man.”
This gives me pause, though it’s something I’ve thought a lot about since the Marlon incident. ‘The Big Mistake of Last Year,’ I’ll call it. “He has to be employed. I’m not into anyone who is already retired. They have to have a purpose.”
“Uh, do you know lots of dudes our age who are retired?”
I roll my eyes. “Hi, my parents’ circle of friends is full of trust fund and Wall Street babies who have too much money and way too much free time. Need I mention the retired pro-athletes who get washed up by the time they’re in their late thirties and can’t play anymore? Not all of them become sportscasters. Some of them wind up doing endless yard work at their McMansions and driving their wives insane.” I would know because I’ve been around it my entire life.
“Fair enough.”
I realize how harsh that might have sounded. “I just mean I’d love to be with someone who has goals.” God, now I sound fickle. “Any goals.”
Shit. Stop talking, Hollis—you’re making it worse.
“Yeah, me too. I don’t want to be with someone who wants to stay home and look pretty all day.”
I scrunch up my face. Is he being serious? I know he’s said he wants someone to want him for him, but, “Never have I ever not wanted to be married with a family.”
I immediately want to slap a hand over my mouth; did those words really come out of me? We’re ten minutes into the ride back, for crying out loud! What are you saying, Hollis?? This is supposed to be lighthearted and fun, not serious!
Unfortunately, he’s puzzled.
“Wait—are you asking if I’ve ever wanted to be married with a family, or are you asking if I’ve never wanted to be married with a family? I’m confused.”
I want to die. “Forget it. It made no sense.”
He repeats the phrase a few times then takes a breath. “No, I think I get what you’re saying. And yeah, I’ve always wanted a family and kids.”
“Kids, or a wife and kids?”
“Is there a difference?”
“I think so. Some guys want to be dads but not husbands.”
He rears back a bit. “Uh, okay…like who?”
“I don’t know—guys?”
Buzz laughs. “Not this guy. I want to be a dad and a husband, just like my dad.”
“But when would you have the time?” I’m stereotyping him again; I know it, and he knows it, but I can’t seem to make myself stop, and I suddenly loathe Marlon Daymon for doing this to me.
Don’t blame an ex for something you allowed to happen, and don’t hold it against every man after him. It’s not anyone else’s fault Marlon is a bag of shit.
“When will I have the time? When does anyone have the time? You make time.” He looks over at me. “Are you asking this because your dad was too busy to spend time with you growing up? Or because you dated a piece-of-crap ballplayer who didn’t know your worth?”