Page 7 of Tap Left
We don't talk about the worst day of our lives, except on the anniversary of Ryan’s death. And even then, it’s all bullshit. We get drunk and say nice things because we can’t stand to be honest and admit how raw the wound really is.
Daire’s mood has darkened now, and he's scraping a hand through his hair the way he does when he’s worked up. I watch his hands because they always give him away. Those are the hands that run an empire. They create, and they make deals, and they probably gift pleasure to unsuspecting women who don’t know how much damage they are capable of too. Those hands are the kind that crack bottles and pour. They are the delivery vessel of the poison Daire can’t stop imbibing.
He’s better at hiding it now because it’s been a long time since he’s allowed me to see him in that state. The late night drunken phone calls have stopped too.
When I was younger, I tried in vain to understand the meaning behind it. When he was drunk and sad and full of grief, it was me he chose to call. I’ll never know if it was guilt or something else that drove him to dial my number in his darkest times.
Sometimes I wonder who he’s calling now. But my chest hurts when I think about it, so I don’t like to think about it.
"LB, you don’t know what you’re getting yourself into," he says. "The guys on those apps aren't what you’re looking for."
I snort. "And who is, Daire?"
"Someone who has his shit together." He makes an unconscious gesture to himself, and what a joke that is.
“Tom had his shit together, and look how that turned out.”
Daire shrugs. “Tom was a douchebag.”
I can’t argue that one. But so is Daire. And he’s the last person that needs to be giving me dating advice.
There is no better example of opposites than the two of us. In the way we handle our business and our lives. Daire is all about the bottom line, and I'm all about the experience. He doesn't form emotional attachments, and I live for them. He wears impeccably tailored suits, and I wear whatever I grab from my closet, which usually doesn't match. He's well-spoken, and I’m well… not.
He's order, and I am chaos. We don't mix.
And yet here we sit, Daire suggesting I date a guy who has his shit together. He might be successful at what he does, but he certainly doesn’t have his shit together. He’s an addict who says mean things to push people away. And after so many years, I don’t think anyone can stop him from digging himself into an early grave.
He’s selfish and self-destructive. Precisely the type of guy that used to be my bread and butter. I’ve worked hard to overcome my issues, and I know what I need now. It isn’t a project or fixer upper. I don’t need someone to save. I need someone who is emotionally healthy and stable. Both of the pillars that Daire is missing from his foundation.
"I’m full.” I slide my unfinished pizza across the table, and Daire swipes it from my plate.
The space between us is sticky with silence now, and Daire will probably tell me that he needs to leave soon. He’s done his duty for the month. He’s checked in on me, and now he can go. But he doesn’t, even when he finishes his meal.
And I know what I should do. What I need to do. Logic tells me it’s time to thank him for the birthday wishes and leave. Only, there’s something else on my mind. An incredibly stupid thought I’ve been entertaining since we started hashing out my dating life.
I would blame the alcohol if there were any, but there’s not. The only conclusion I can draw is that I’ve gone mad. I can’t stand Daire. In fact, most of the time I downright hate him. But I also know that he’s the best at what he does.
"Daire?"
He glances at his watch, probably because he knows I’m about to ask him for something. "Yes?"
"If you insist on these meetings between us, can we at least make them productive?”
His eyes snap up to mine. "I didn’t realize that these meetings were such a drain on your time.” “That’s not what I mean,” I sigh. “I just… if we’re going to meet, then maybe you can help me out while we’re at it.
He reaches into his wallet and throws some cash on the table for a tip. “Help you how?”
I hate myself for what I’m about to say, but I say it anyway.
“I need you to teach me how to play the game.”
He feigns ignorance. “What game, Lola?”
“The dating game,” I huff. “The how to act like you don’t give a fuck game. The bullshit that guys love. I need to not care so much. Or get attached too soon. Or just generally screw it up the way I always do. I need you to make me marketable.”
His nostrils flare as he observes me with flinty eyes. “What makes you think I can help you with that?”
“I don’t know. Because you’re like that. You don’t care, and you do what you want, and you never have any trouble picking up women. I want to be that way too. But just not with guys like you. I need the ones who actually want to settle down and get married. And I need to learn how to tell the difference because it’s a battlefield out there and you know it.”
