Page 34 of How to Get Lucky
Teddy: Sam is lined up to walk the dogs, so I’m good for the night. No need to rush.
London: Dogs? I thought you just had Bowie.
Teddy: I do, but I walk my neighbor’s dog when I can. Sherri is older and not as mobile as she used to be, so I try to give her pooch some outdoor time.
London: Aww . . . that’s sweet of you.
Teddy: Sherri is awesome, and Bowie loves her beagle rescue Vin Scully, so it all works out.
London: I’m guessing you’re being modest here. You sound like you might be a—gasp—good guy.
Teddy: And what leads you to that conclusion?
London: Rescue pittie? Check. Helping little old lady neighbors? Check. Likes his parents? Check. Adds up to a good guy.
I repeat the text out loud, then look at David Bowie. “Does she think being a good guy is bad, buddy? Did I miss a memo?”
Bowie offers his belly but no advice. Typical. I give him a scratch, since he asked nicely—like a good guy.
I take a bite of the noodles, hoping she’s not one of those women who likes jerks. But that doesn’t track with her. Time to throw down the simple truth.
Teddy: Sure. I’ll own it. Good guy and proud of it.
London: I thought you might be. We were having a debate about good guys versus bad boys at our board game night.
Teddy: I’ll bite. What was the debate? Also, who’s we?
London: Emery, Olive, Eli, Nate, and myself. You met the guys already. And I told you about my gals. Olive’s the married one who loves audiobooks. I’m pretty sure she uses them as foreplay for the sex she and her motorcycle-riding tattoo artist of a hubby have every night. His name’s Hawke, so he couldn’t be anything but a bad boy. Emery has a penchant for smooth-talking suits who turn out to be secretly married. I’m trying to cure her of that. And so are Nate and Eli. They’re all for good guys. Because, they—wait for it—are good guys. Also, I’m pretty sure they have sex twice a day.
I show the text to Bowie. “We’re talking sex now. That’s promising, right?”
He thumps his tail.
Wait. Shit. No. I shouldn’t talk sex with a woman I want to have sex with but can’t have sex with.
But that’s like taunting a dog with a tennis ball and not throwing it for him.
Like a dog, I chase it.
Teddy: Good for them. Seems like the key to happiness.
London: Yes. Seems to be. You met them. They’re the happiest people I know.
Teddy: Scientific studies have shown happiness is a by-product of sex on the reg. Twice daily, in fact.
London: I do believe I’ve seen those studies too. ? But here’s the thing . . .
Uh-oh. Like its cousin but, nothing good ever comes after here’s the thing. I jump on the grenade.
Teddy: Here’s the thing, what? Good sex is better than ice cream?
London: That depends on the ice cream.
Teddy: Depends on the sex.
London: That may be true. But what I was saying is this: Emery and Olive—already world-wise before they even hit thirty—claimed that only bad boys are good in bed.
Teddy: And good guys are . . . what? Awesome? Incredible? Fucking amazing? Way better than bad boys? I hope you defended the honor of good guys in bed!
She’s silent. Well, text silent. But the dots are moving. Then they stop. C’mon, London.
I look at Bowie. “What do you think, buddy? On the one paw, she mentioned sex. On the other paw, she thinks I might be bad at it.” He says nothing, but I know what he’s thinking. We can’t let this happen. Fuck it. I can’t wait for her response. I keep going.
Teddy: I can’t believe you’d allow your friends to talk trash about good guys!
London: I didn’t say I agreed with them! I don’t want to agree with them. But I have no empirical data, Teddy.
Teddy: You’ve never been with a good guy? Please don’t tell me you like jerks or assholes.
London: My last boyfriend was sort of . . . nice enough. And honestly, before that, I mostly dated . . . well . . . not nice guys. Let’s leave it at that.
Teddy: So you don’t actually have any data to draw from?
London: I don’t! Isn’t that terrible?
Teddy: Awful. I bet you wanted to contribute your insight to the debate.
London: I so did. Especially because Olive said it’s a scientific fact that nice guys are bad in bed.
Teddy: Olive is wrong.
London: She said it’s Newton’s fourth law of thermo-dude-namics. A man can be two of these, but never all three: hot, nice, good in bed. And you’re obviously hot, and now I’m finding out you’re nice, so . . .
Damn, it feels good to hear her call me hot. But she’s leaving those ellipses dangling on the end of that text like a gauntlet thrown at my feet. I’m so caught up in this moment, so caught up in her, that I pick that glove right up.
