Cool Rider

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This morning, Roman called. At work. Something was up. “You owe me big hooker.” This means he’s done something wonderful for me. And he did. He talked to Motorcycle Guy.

Motorcycle Guy was supposed to be my distraction when Jeb decided he couldn’t date me two months ago (because of the book). I was sad. I needed a crush. So I picked Motorcycle Guy. He parks his ride on the street outside my apartment. He’s blond, cute and smoldering, but not dangerous. He’s just like cool riders are supposed to be. (Michael in Grease 2. Above. Below.) Unfortunately, I’ve only run into Motorcycle Guy once since June. I was on my stoop picking herbs, he was walking by, with his motorcycle helmet in hand. It was my chance. But all I could eek out was a pitifully bashful “hey” with my head down.

I’d all but given up since then. (And I suppose I also was preoccupied with Simon, who I haven’t talked to since he left—except for the 5-minute call. I want him to call me. I can’t make contact. I think I would just expect to much out it/him right not. And that’s not fair to anyone.)

“I talked to Motorcycle Guy. Take down his email.” Not only had Roman asked if he was single, which was all he supposed to find out if he ran into Motorcycle Guy based on our pact two months ago, Roman told him he should meet his friend (me). So Motorcycle Guy handed over his card, and told Roman to tell me to email him.

I waited four hours to make contact. Didn’t want to seem too desperate. And he waited one hour to reciprocate, though I doubt it was a premeditated delay because guys just aren’t silly like that. It was a long, cleverly crafted email. He put thought into it. Motorcycle Guy is hot and he’s smart. Just like Michael from Grease 2! But not nearly as cheesy or gay. He wanted to meet up tonight.

“You better go out with him hooker.” I told Roman I already had a date set up with another It’s Just Lunch match. “Cancel your date and go out with him. You have to. And I’m gonna want to know all the details. All of them.”

I canceled my date. A better offer is a better offer.

We’re meeting in 25 minutes on my stoop and we’re going to Tryst for tea. Hopefully he hasn’t seen me making out on my stoop before (the curse of writing a book about dating—everyone’s seen me make out on my stoop) and hopefully no one at Tryst will recognize me as “the girl who was cuddling with that guy on the couch over there two weeks ago.”

I’m so nervous. My stomach is turning…deep breathes. Motorcycle Guy!

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