Page 107 of Experiments in Offline Dating

“He’s obviously full of shite, Maya.”

Was he? I mean, I knew Jackie wasn’t above a little bit of good-natured trickery now and again. But I found it hard to believe that he would be trying to set me up with Tadhg after I’d flat-out told him that I couldn’t fall in love, not to mention live, in another country, and there was the fact that Tadhg didn’t want to be in a relationship and, for all Jackie knew, at least, still hated me. It was impossible to believe he would want that for his son. Jackie was a smart man, and the match would be totally irrational. I’d think more about it later.

Right now Tadhg was so upset, I wanted to help. I wasn’t sure how, but deescalation seemed like the first step. “Shite or no shite, we’re both completely exhausted. I really don’t want to get back in that car and drive around for hours and possibly come up empty-handed. There’s a bed here, and it’s only a few feet away. Is it ideal? No. But it’s going to be fine. And let’s be honest, it would be a bit rich if we were too modest to just sleep in the same bed after what happened the other day.”

“But that’s exactly why we shouldn’t be sharing a bed now, don’t you see that? We talked about this. We agreed. This is . . . It’s going to be . . .”

“We have our rules napkin. All we have to do is follow them.” I gave him a little half grin. “I promise to keep my hair to myself.”

He inhaled a long steady breath until his big chest was even bigger, his shirt straining at the buttons. “If we start breaking the rules two days after we’ve made them, then we’re opening ourselves up to all the things that we’re trying to avoid.”

“Yeah, but . . .” I wrestled my face back into seriousness. “Look, we need sleep. And we’re here already. We’re both so tired that we’re going to sleep straight through the night. No funny business. No jokes. No innuendos. I promise. It’ll be fine. It’ll be over before we know it. It’s no big deal.”

But it wasn’t “no big deal.” I realized, as he appeared to be softening to my logic, that I wasn’t just expecting him to fight me on this, I was hoping he would. I was hoping he would get even angrier and refuse. I’d been a freshman in college the last time I’d slept next to a man. The men I had sex with didn’t want to play sleepover afterward, and neither did I. I didn’t like it. I needed my space. It was too much. Too close. Too intimate. Sex was mechanical—you pressed each other’s buttons, it felt good, you went home. Staying was far more personal.

Now here I was, holding my breath, waiting for the verdict. Willing him to refuse. Suddenly hating myself for trying to keep the peace without thinking it through first.

He let out a breath. I guessed he’d been holding his too. Then he closed his eyes, threw his head back, and cursed—at me, at his dad, at whoever had made up the term “glamping,” I couldn’t say.

Then he ground out the word I didn’t want to hear.

“Fine.”

Chapter 31 An Experiment in Poking the Bear or An Experiment in NOT Getting Poked

“Okay, I’m not one hundred percent sure of the dynamics of a composting toilet, but I think I’m going to change my clothes in here.”

There wasn’t much room, but there was a bit of space on either side of the bed. I definitely didn’t want to change into my fluffy Princess Donut pajamas in front of Tadhg, but I also didn’t like the idea of changing in what I imagined was an ice-cold glorified portapotty. How would I keep everything from touching the toilet? No. I refused to find out.

Just as I was eyeballing the ceiling and carefully considering the logistics of hanging a curtain down the middle of the tent, there was an explosion! My heart followed suit and exploded in tandem. “What the fucks?”

Tadhg was standing there, closer than I realized, looking very serious, or as serious as one can look when they’re hunched over because they don’t fit under a yurt roof and are trying very hard to avoid hitting their face on a Moroccan lantern. He was holding the bottle of champagne at his waist, cork in the other hand, and its foamy contents were gushing out onto the rug. It was the most over-the-top unintentionally erotic thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Worse even than sports announcers talking about tight ends, gobblers, and big holes.

“Oh!” was all I could say. Because what I wanted to say was something about making him foam his pants. But then I remembered the protocol.

“This is the one and only good thing to have come from all of this mess my stupid father made, and the two of us are going to fucking drink it.” He stretched an arm over the bed and shoved the bottle at me.

“Are there no glasses?”

“They were outside by the bottle, but I found a slug in one and bird shit in the other.”

I nodded and lifted the heavy thing up to swig. Bubbles that might have been dainty, if poured into a glass, exploded into my mouth, and I scrunched my face up. “Mmm.” I swallowed. “Nice, actually. Perfectly chilled.”

“That’s because this place is a goddamn refrigerator.”

I passed the bottle back, and he took a long swig as I watched all too closely his throat bob in the fake candlelight. “You’re right. It’s freezing in here. Okay, can you please turn around so I can put my pajamas on?” I shrugged. “They’re fuzzy and synthetic, so they’re warm as hell. Probably also a massive fire hazard, so thank God for the fake candles.”

“Sure.” He handed the bottle back.

“Then I’ll turn around so you can get changed.”

“I don’t have pajamas.”

I spat a little champagne down my front.

I checked over my shoulder, but his back was turned, so he hadn’t seen me dribble on myself. Thank you, universe. I owe you one!

“Ah. Of course you don’t. That’s . . . just fine.” Does he sleep naked? “You can wear . . .” Is he going to sleep NAKED? My face burned as I wriggled quickly into my decidedly unsexy pajamas. “I mean, don’t worry. I’m cool. Whatever.” Flustered! FLUSTERED! You’re losing it! “It’s not like I’m gonna reach over and . . .” You idiot! Do not finish that sentence! “Hey, maybe you should be a little nicer to your dad.” Whew! Safe topic. Okay. Calm down. Make it normal. “Like, at first I thought you were just a complete and total asshole to everyone.” I laughed, realizing that he hadn’t responded, feeling the pinch of awkwardness start to return in the silence. “But now that I’m getting to know you a little better, I think you’re probably only about sixty-six percent asshole.” It was true—I had run the figures.