Page 6 of The Snuggle Is Real

"Okay," she says, turning in her seat to face me. "If we're doing this, we're doing it right. I don't walk into an event without a plan, and your family is basically an event. How long have we been together?"

"We don't need a backstory."

"Malcolm. Your mother is going to ask how you asked me out. Every mother asks how he asked you out. If you say 'uh' and look at me, we’re cooked."

She's right. I hate that she's right. I also hate that she said cooked, and that I find it charming.

"Six months," I say.

"Too long. Your mom would've heard about it by month two. You text her every day and see her at least once a week."

"How do you know that?"

“Because you're a good boy who calls his mother." She taps her cup against her knee, thinking. "Just after MacKay and Faith set a date. We've been friends forever, and you called me in August to invite me to the wedding and we acted on what we felt at a previous wedding.”

Something in my chest does a strange, slow roll.

"Whose wedding?" I ask, and my voice sounds normal. I'm proud of that.

"Jess and Aaron's back in March. You looked very handsome in that navy suit, and I was vulnerable because the DJ played 'Wonderwall.'"

I snort. "No one is vulnerable to 'Wonderwall.'"

"Everyone who was twenty in a dorm room is vulnerable to 'Wonderwall.'"

“You’re not twenty. You haven’t been twenty in a very long time.”

Neither of us has.

She gasps. “Rude!”

But of course I remember that wedding, which was not that long ago. I remember that exact song. I remember Emily in a green dress, her shoes in her hand, singing every word so off-key the bride's grandmother gave us a look. I remember driving her back to her hotel and sitting and talking in the parking lot for an extra ten minutes because neither of us made a move to get out of the car.

Nothing happened.

Nothing ever happens. That's the pact. That's the point.

It had left me feeling old and alone in a way that I did not like one damn bit.

Especially after the bride’s father made an unfortunate speech about his daughter being a “late bloomer” when it came to love. She’s five years younger than me and Emily.

"Fine," I say. "Jess and Aaron's. 'Wonderwall.' Two months, by way of six months."

"And who made the first move?"

"You did."

“Ha! Absolutely not. You did."

"Nobody would believe I made the first move."

She considers that, lips pursed, and then sighs. "Unfortunately, that's the most convincing thing you've said today."

I said it first, but hearing her agree with me doesn’t sit well.

I’ve never had to pursue women. That is true and part of the problem. Women hit on me, though not as much these days given I’m holed up in my office twenty-four/seven.

But even if women didn’t come to me I wouldn’t pursue them because Nicole back in college was partially right—I’m not an emotional cumquat, whatever the hell that is, but I’m not overtly emotional. It tends to be a problem in relationships.