Page 40 of Experiments in Offline Dating

I could try to be nice, I suppose. Thank him for his help the other night. Try to smooth things over. Try to ratchet down the animosity. That seemed like a good idea. Let’s try it.

I looked him in the eyes and felt my pulse rush all over again. I panicked. “Not that it’s any of your damn business, but I’m staying here with Jackie Kelly.”

Okay, so that didn’t work. But at least being annoyed didn’t give me time to get awkward and stuttery in the face of his overwhelming sexpotitude. My voice, I was happy to hear, had come out relaxed and even. That wasn’t unusual—my voice usually came out relaxed and even (when I wasn’t on a date, at least), but this man did something weird to my insides.

I wish he’d do something weird to my insides!

No! You shut up, vagina!

“Well, not that it’s any of your damn business, but I’m here to pick someone up. And that someone is definitely not you. So you can go ahead and step away from my vehicle and go back to tormenting the locals.”

So much for trying to be civil. If he was going to be a massive asshole, I could asshole right back! I had a protocol for assholes:

Objective: screw this jerk!

1. If rectum in question will not desist, match their level of assholery. When they go low, you go lower.

2. Always get in the last word, and do it with a smug smile.

3. Have fun and be creative!

“Not that you bothered to ask, because you’re clearly too busy howling at the moon and scratching fleas, but I’m waiting here for Jackie. We’re going on a trip. I’m sure you’ll be happy to hear this, as you won’t have to worry about whether or not someone sees me saying hi to you in public.”

“What sort of trip?”

I stopped. Did I have to tell him that we were traveling across the length and breadth of Ireland to try to find me a date? Because I really, really did not want to have to tell him that. I frowned. “Just a trip. I don’t know. Jackie has it all planned out. He’s organizing some interviews for me, and some sightseeing, and some—”

“Some dates? And some dates?” His voice was getting louder. Angrier. Like his stupid face.

What does he care?

“Well, yeah. Okay. Some dates. So what, asshat?”

“Oh, this is fucking unbelievable.” He drew out that last word into a full sentence, to squeeze every little bit of juice out of it. Then he grabbed a fistful of his hair and started pacing. “Un-fucking-believable. You have got to be kidding me!”

“How is this any of your business?”

He whirled around and stalked toward me. “You? You’re the American spinster?”

I laughed. “Yep. That’s me! The American spinster.” I laid on the sass and gave my hair a little one-handed fluff like a 1950s housewife, just to see what would happen. I stoutly refused to question the uncomfortable foreshadowing roiling in my tummy.

“What? Feck off. I mean . . . you can’t be more than what? Forty? Forty-five? Why would he call you a spinster?”

“Um! Thirty-eight, thank you very much!”

“I figured it was some old rich lady looking for someone to do the crossword with. Who even uses that word anymore? Why would he tell me that?”

“I use that word. In fact, I think it has a bad reputation historically. I think if we examine—”

“No. I’m not doing this.”

My face scrunched itself up. “Doing what? Frankly, it’s none of your damn business where I travel to, how many dates I go on, or which antiquated words I use to describe my marital status.”

“I’m not going. The trip is canceled. So you can just grab your bag, turn your little red wellies around, and march your arse right back to the house.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m not going anywhere with you, all right? There’s no chance.