Chapter Five
COOPER
I’m not sure I’ve been this speechless . . . ever.
I always have a retort, a comeback. I pride myself on being quick on my feet.
But Nora just stumped me. I think she read me like a book—a book I had no idea I was even writing.
She’s fucking right.
I’m playing the morose asshole, the one that people get sick of rather quickly.
The Debbie Downer.
And that’s even more depressing than the idea of my parents acting as my wingmen.
“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” Nora presses. I can see she’s trying to hold back her smile—it’s evident in the twitching of her lips and the devious glint in her eye.
How could I not remember this about Nora, her up-front personality? Her ability to tell it like it is. I don’t recall any instance where I’ve been subjected to such brutal honesty, and yet, it doesn’t bother me.
I actually find it thrilling, the way she’s calling me out. Dealia would always bottle everything up, until one day the bottle would burst and a litany of my faults would pour out of her mouth. It was a vicious cycle that only made me defensive, unable to listen to what she was trying to tell me.
But Nora . . . within the first few minutes of speaking to me, she has no problem pointing out my misbehavior.
It’s intriguing.
Do you know what else is intriguing?
The way the red of her lips almost exactly matches the red of her shirt. Or the way her thick, black lashes highlight with a beautiful intensity the dark abyss of her eyes. Or how even in the dim light of this dingy bar, I can still catch the lightest of blushes that cross her cheeks when she speaks with such honesty.
I’ve known Nora for a while, but since she was Dealia’s best friend, I never gave Nora a second look. Why would I? But now, with the proverbial marriage veil tossed aside once I ventured into the land of divorce, I’m seeing Nora differently. She is, in all honestly, quite beautiful.
Shifting on my stool, I tear my gaze from her. “You’re right,” I say quietly.
She leans forward, pressing her hand to her ear, making a show of it. “I’m sorry. I didn’t quite hear you. Could you repeat that?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re right. I was playing the Debbie Downer card.” I point at her. “But not on purpose. I was unconsciously playing it.”
“I’m not sure that’s possible. You’re always conscious of your actions.”
“Not true,” I counter. “It’s human nature to react a certain way. We’re influenced by the world around us and the narrative set by media and outside sources, which means that sometimes our reactions are totally unconscious—in our minds, it’s nothing more than how we perceive we should react.”
“Are you saying if someone else was in your situation, they would react the same way?”
“Guaranteed. The general consensus, if you polled a few people—they’d have doubled over in humiliation if their parents acted as wingmen to score them a nice girl.”
“Interesting theory. Shall we put it to the test?”
Well. Now I’m intrigued. “What’s your plan?”
She glances around the bar, her eyes evaluating, assessing. “Do we believe this theory would be geared more toward men or women?”
“I say we keep it gender neutral. I don’t know if there should be a baseline bias.”
“Fair enough, equality for all.” She throws back her beer, draining the rest of it before setting the empty bottle on the bar. “I think we walk around the bar, take a poll, see how people would react. I think it would help us decide if your Debbie Downer card was conscious or unconscious, a card you knowingly played, or influenced by outside sources and out of your hands.”
“I believe that’s fair.”
“And if we do conclude that, in fact, you had no control over your emotions, it will be my duty to change the evening for you, reminding you that it’s not society that controls the way you feel, but you who does so . . . you know, taking a page out of your own book.”
“And what if we conclude that my emotions regarding the situation are entirely of my own making? What happens then?”
She pauses, giving it some thought. “Well, if that’s the case, then you should probably retreat to the men’s room, where you should give yourself a deafening swirly by plunging your head in the toilet, because frankly, Cooper, no one has time for your petty man feelings.”
That makes me laugh out loud. I take one more sip of my whiskey and set it on the bar top. As I stand from my stool, I say, “I’ve never in my life wished to be right about one single thing.”
“Afraid of the toilet plunging?” she asks, amusement in her voice.
“Judging by the fact that my feet stick to the floor when I take a small step, I’m horrified to see what the toilet is like.”
“I assure you, it’s not up to your standards.” She pats me on the back. “Good luck. I hope your theory prevails. But if not, I’ll be sure to capture your demise on my phone so I can text a video to your entire family.”
“You’re truly a pioneer.”
She chuckles and presses her hand to my back, shuffling to the front of the bar, where a group of four men are laughing over a pitcher of what I’m assuming is a generic beer. When we step up, their eyes immediately shoot past me and straight to Nora. I glance back at her, hoping she takes the lead, and that’s when I notice the skintight jeans she’s wearing, showing the length of toned legs, and the red long-sleeve crop top that reveals a few good inches of her midriff.
I was so caught up in her eyes that I failed to realize she was showing so much skin.
“Hey, boys,” she says casually. “We have a question to ask. You see, my friend and I are taking a poll and want to gauge your reaction to a certain situation. Are you up for it?”
“What’s the situation?” one of the men says, getting right to the point.
“Are any of you single?” They all raise their hands. “Perfect. Okay, so what if your parents decided to come out with you tonight, and their main goal was to act as your wingmen—would you be humiliated or grateful?”
The men all look at each other with confusion.
“You mean, try to find me someone to hook up with?” the guy asks.
“Not just hook up with, but, you know, be a life partner.”
His nose scrunches. “No way in hell would I let that happen.”
Satisfaction fills my chest.
“Although,” another guy says, “it would be easier if someone else did the work for me.” No, man, not the answer I’m looking for. But he finishes with a shake of his head. “I can’t imagine a moment where a girl wouldn’t think I was a loser if my parents stepped in.”
Validated.
Did you see that? Validation in that very sentence.
The other two men agree with them, and after polling a few more tables, we find only one person in the entire bar who says they would love their parents to find them a match, and it’s because they’re a nurse and don’t have time for any dating bullshit.
Satisfied, I move back to our spot at the bar, pick up a new glass of whiskey that Earl delivers to me, and bring it up to my smiling lips.