Bad at Love by Karina Halle
“Hey, you’re supposed to be supportive.”
“I am supportive,” she says, picking up her mug and having a sip. Today, her nails are holographic pink. Marina doesn’t wear a lot of makeup but she always has her nails done. “But you’re thirty years old. And you have to ask yourself, at what point am I going to settle down? Actually put in the legwork and follow through with a relationship? Even Taylor Swift has to grow up someday.”
“Why on earth are you comparing me to Taylor Swift?”
A small smile creeps across her lips. “Because you’re both a fan of using relationships and break-ups for creative material.”
Ouch.
“That’s not fair,” I tell her. “I don’t break up with people just so I have something to write about.”
She just stares at me.
“I don’t,” I protest. “If anything, it’s the other way around. They go after me because they think I’m going to write about them. That same thing just happened with Simone.”
“They go out with you because you’re hot,” she says, then quickly looks away. An adorable flush begins to spread on her cheeks.
“Did you just call me hot?” I goad her, wanting her face to get even redder.
She gives a half-shrug. “Maybe. And, well, you are. And you know it. And everyone knows it.”
“When the girls contact me, it’s in a DM and they don’t know what I look like.”
“You’re lucky. When I get a DM it’s dick pics,” she mumbles. Then she sighs. “And looks aren’t always important with women. They fall for you because of your words, because of the person you are inside. Or the person they think you are.”
“You just said it’s because I’m hot.”
“It’s everything. You’re the full package. Believe me. There aren’t many guys out there that are funny, smart, hot, talented, and deep. Every girl dreams about a guy writing beautiful prose about her. Why do you think historical romances are so popular? They want that Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff whispering sweet nothings or penning out long and emotional love letters. They think that’s what you offer them.”
“I don’t really.”
“I know that,” she says. “I know you’re completely insufferable. But they don’t. They’re in love with the idea of you.”
“Well, I don’t know how to fix that. And I don’t know if I should. After all, I broke up with Simone. It wasn’t the other way around.”
“You could fix it…” she says and then trails off, her bright blue eyes caught in some kind of tangent.
Part of me wants to press the issue, if not just to hear her opinion. But the other part wants me to push on. There’s nothing in my life that needs fixing.
“Anyway,” I tell her, “I’m not Taylor Swift, thank you very much. And what happened with Simone was a shame, but what can I do? Would you rather me stick it out with someone just for the sake of sticking it out? If you don’t love the person, what’s the point? You’re just leading them on.”
She nods, rubbing her lips together. “You’re right. I’m sorry it didn’t work out. Better luck next time.” She pauses. “Please don’t tell me you already have someone else lined up.”
Well…last week at Magic 8 Ball’s show in Burbank, there was a cute girl who caught my eye. Gave me her number.
Marina squints. “Don’t tell me it’s that girl from the show last week.”
I raise my palms in defense. “I’m telling you nothing. But yes, maybe it’s her. Maybe this fashion blogger or whatever you call them on Instagram. Fashion grammer.”
“You’re unbelievable,” she says. “Okay, how about for once you just stay single for a week? Just a week. Don’t contact either of those girls, don’t contact anyone. Just…be you. Alone.”
“No problem.”
“Yeah right,” she says under her breath. She turns her attention to her phone and presses the button so the time flashes on the screen. Her forehead creases and she looks to me with worried eyes.
“Hey, you don’t have any Ativan do you?” she asks, putting her palm out on the table like I’m a traveling pharmacist.
“Not on me, why?”
“I have a date tonight.”
I don’t know why I hate hearing the word date come from her lips, especially when she dates so often, but I do.
“What’s his name again?”
“David. David the doctor.”
“And what date is this?”
She purses her lips together comically and flutters them. “The third.”
I can’t help but smile. Poor Marina goes through this song and dance every single time. When she likes a guy, she never seems to get past the third date. When she doesn’t like them, it barely goes past one.
I don’t understand any of it. Marina is both gorgeous and cute, which is a brilliant combination. She’s also smart, has a good figure (excellent tits and arse if I do say so myself), has her own business (albeit an unusual one), and is a lot of fun. My friend Frank says he’d be all over her if she wasn’t so damn awkward, but the funny thing is, I think her awkwardness only makes her more endearing. And honestly, I wouldn’t let someone like Frank touch her anyway.
It probably helps that Marina and I get on like Donkey Kong. I’ve known her for four years now after meeting through my stepsister Jane, who now lives in Boston, and not only did we bond over a love of music, cult cinema, Police Squad, and Jeff Goldblum, but we get each other when many people don’t. It’s strange that in a city so big and full of so many different people, finding the right friends is hard.
“It will be fine,” I tell her, though honestly, I do feel this twinge of victory every time one of her dates doesn’t work out. I know. I’m a terrible friend—maybe it’s just a matter of misery loving company. I want her happy but I also feel like it’s the two of us against the world, the two of us against everyone else in a happy relationship.
“The third date is now becoming larger than life,” she says, and then gulps down the rest of her tea, leaving a faint green almond milk mustache on her lips. “It’s do or die.”
I smile at the sight of her and lean across the table, reaching out and wiping my thumb along her upper lip. She stills with widened blue eyes as I remove the excess foam and then lick it off my thumb.
“Did you seriously just do that?” she squeaks.
I shrug. She’s blushing again. I guess that was kind of weird but if I can’t be odd around her, who can I be?
I push past it. “Do you actually like this guy?”
“Yes,” she says emphatically. “He’s cute. He’s smart. I think we really have a good thing going.”
I want to ask if she’s slept with him, but I never have the nerve to find out and she never divulges that information. We may be good friends, but there are still some boundaries between us. Apparently, those boundaries don’t involve licking foam from her face.
“I need an espresso,” she says, getting to her feet.
“Bumble, you said you needed an Ativan, not coffee.”
She dismisses me with a wave of her hand. “You stay out of it.” Then she gives me a playful glare when she realizes I called her Bumble.
I don’t always use her nickname, but it’s a good one. Marina loves bees but she’s more of a bumble bee than a honey bee. She doesn’t sting, though she’ll tell you it’s because she’s big and fluffy and acts like a bumbling fool. Girls always have a knack for twisting every nickname around.
She orders her espresso, slams it back at the counter, and then gets an Americano to go, coming back to the table to gather up her stuff.
“Marina,” I say patiently as I eye her drink. “You know how you get when you have too much caffeine.”
She dismisses me with a smile and a shake of her head, her blonde hair catching the light spilling in from the window. “I need it.”
“You need something all right. Anyway, good luck with your date. Lucky number three this time.”
“Thanks,” she says brightly. A little too
She slings her messenger bag over her shoulder and leaves. My eyes can’t help but rest on her arse as she goes, hips swinging from side to side. She’s wearing her “butt exploiting” jeans as she calls them, and they show off every firm curve. For a second, I feel a tiny bit jealous of David the doctor.
Then it passes, as it always does.
I get a coffee, take out my phone, and start looking through my Instagram DMs.
Chapter Two
Marina
“A Pain That I’m Used To”
“What, uh, what happened to your arms?” David asks me.
I look down at my arms, my eyes drifting over the welts. Sometimes I barely even see them, and now I’m realizing how odd it must look, me sitting across from this dashing doctor in a slinky sleeveless top in a nice restaurant, my arms covered with puffy red marks. I should have worn a cardigan.
“The girls were a bit cranky this morning,” I tell him.
“The girls?”
“My bees,” I remind him.
“Ah yes,” he says with a nod. “Now are these your bees or someone else’s? Didn’t you say you do live hive removals?”
I nod. “I also have host hives, where people host the hives in their yard in exchange for some of the honey. I do all of the work though.” I clear my throat, knowing I already talked about this all on the first date. “But today was just my own hive acting up. I wanted to take some pictures and the guard bees weren’t having any of it.”
“Don’t you wear a suit?”
“It depends. Normally just for collecting the honey or taking out the frames and inspecting the comb. But you can still get stung through a suit if you’re not careful. They aren’t magic force fields.”
“It doesn’t hurt?”
I shrug. “It hurts less and less over time.”
“Because your body is building up a resistance to the venom,” he says.
“Exactly,” I tell him with a smile, loving when he goes into doctor mode. “I just hate that they die after they sting me. I don’t like to lose any of them.”
He adjusts the glasses on the bridge of his nose and gives me a curious look. I’ve seen that look before. It’s the “I’m not sure what to do with this person” look. Honestly, I’m a little surprised he’s still giving it to me after two dates already. He should know who he’s dealing with.
Maybe calm down and stop talking so fast, I remind myself. All that excess caffeine has not done me any favors. I’ve been bouncing in my chair and tapping my sandals on the floor for the majority of the steak tartare appetizer.
“More wine?” the waiter says, appearing with the bottle.
“Yes, more,” I cry out, immediately holding out my glass. I know that the doctor is giving me yet another one of those looks but I ignore it. Wine will counteract the racing heart.
The waiter fills it up, and I try and pace myself as I have a few gulps.
Except I finish the whole glass.
It’s red wine, too. Not exactly chuggable.
David is watching me with mild horror.
“I’ve had a rough day,” I explain to him, even though it’s a lie. I’m not about to tell him that this whole date is making me inexplicably nervous.
“Looks like it,” he says, staring at my welts.
Right, well I guess I’ll just blame it all on the bees.
“This restaurant has very high ratings on Yelp,” David goes on, clearing his throat.
I just smile and catch the eye of the waiter, subtly beckoning him over. And by subtle, I mean I’m jerking my head violently.
“Something wrong?” David asks.
“Do you want to split a bottle?” I ask him. “I think all these glasses of wine are going to add up.”
He opens his mouth to say something. Then closes it and nods. “Sure.”
Done.
I get a bottle of red and then proceed to drink most of it, David only having a glass and tiny sips.
Shit. He doesn’t like me. He thinks I’m annoying. He thinks I’m a prude. He thinks I’m a drunk. He doesn’t think I’m pretty.
All these thoughts start bombarding my head.
“Hey,” I say to him. “Tell me about the worst break-up you’ve ever had.”
He frowns at me. “Is that appropriate conversation for a date?”
I shrug and have another swallow of wine. “Probably not. Who cares?”
“Are you all right?”
“I’ll tell you mine,” I tell him. “I’ve never actually been dumped! Can you believe it? No, you probably can’t.”
“You’re very lucky,” he says, his words measured.
“Lucky?” I laugh. “I’m not lucky. It just means I’ve never actually been in a proper relationship. Can you believe that? I make it to the third date and then guys just ghost. You do know we’re on our third date right now, don’t you?”
He clears his throat, looking totally uncomfortable. “I am aware.”
“Right. So after this, you’ll ghost, you’ll do what they all do. You won’t even tell me that you don’t want to see me anymore, you’ll just stop returning my calls and texts, and if we finally do speak and I bring up plans, you’ll be busy. That’s the way it goes. Look, okay, sometimes I’ve gone on more than three dates but it always ends the same way.”
He stares at me in such a way that reminds me of my aunt when she was trying to deal with my panic attacks. “I think you’ve had a bit too much to drink.”
I laugh. “I’m fine. Seriously. Too much coffee is what it is.”
I reach for my glass but he puts his hand out to stop me. “Marina, it’s okay. We’re just having dinner. There’s nothing to be nervous about.”
“Nervous?” I squeak. “Who said I was nervous?”
Okay, I’m aware I’m starting to slur a bit. I attempt to correct it. “I. Am. Totally. Fine. And. Sober,” I say, extra-enunciating my words. “This. Is. A. Great. Date.”
Then the waiter comes by, putting down our plates of pasta.
It’s like I’ve never seen food in my entire life. I start wolfing it down, going through the linguine like I might never eat again.
Until…
Until…
Ohmigod.
The pasta is not going down.
It’s stuck in my throat.
Ohmigod, am I choking?
I glance at David with wide eyes.
Keep calm, keep calm, see if you can get through this without anyone knowing.
“Marina?” David asks.
I nod, my face going red, cheeks puffing out, trying to swallow down the pasta but shit, shit, shit, it’s not moving.
I’m choking.
I point at my throat as in, a little help here?
“Oh my god!” David exclaims, loud enough for everyone in the restaurant to look at me and erupt into murmurs of “Good gracious!” and “I think that girl is choking!” At any moment I expect Mrs. Doubtfire to come running across the restaurant to tackle me.
But instead it’s David, who, rather calmly I might add, comes around the back of the chair, pulls me to my feet, and starts doing the Heimlich.
Thanks to his skills, it only takes two thrusts of his fist into my abdomen before I’m choking up the linguine all over my shirt.
On one hand, yay I’m alive and I think my date just saved my life.
On the other, everyone is staring at me expectantly. The entire restaurant is in a hush. I start picking off the linguine like it’s lint and then turn to face everyone with a big smile. Because I’m fine.
Really.
They need to stop staring.
“Hey, did you know that bees communicate to each other through the waggle dance?” I say to the patrons, hoping they find this fascinating. “It goes a little bit like this.”
And then I try and imitate the figure eight and circular movement of a bee’s waggle dance, shaking my butt all over the place.
I grumble and let him put me back down in the chair.
The wine is taken away.
I drink some water.
I don’t dare finish my food.
Soon the date is over and David is leading me out of the restaurant and to his car. “I’m going to drop you off at home. Do you have anyone there who takes care of you?”
I realize that aside from superficial talk, I don’t think I’ve really let David on to who I really am. Am I always like this? In my drunkenness I say, “I live alone, aside from my landlord, and she’s ancient. You don’t know anything about me, do you?”
He gives me a steady look. “Marina, it’s only been a few dates.” He pauses, opening up the passenger side door. “But I hear what you say about ghosting and only an immature man would do such a thing to you. So I won’t ghost. Unfortunately, I don’t think there will be a fourth date.”
“Why not?” I ask as I get in the car, even though I know the answer.
“There’s someone out there much better suited for you than me,” he says with utmost diplomacy. Then he shuts the door, gets behind the wheel, and drives me home.
Naomi can’t stop laughing.
“It’s not funny,” I tell her over the phone, even though it feels good to have her laugh for once, despite being the butt of the joke. I can’t remember the last time she sounded even remotely happy.
“Oh, but it is,” she says. “Marina, I can’t believe you. And yet I can. I mean, I’m glad you didn’t choke to death but did you really have to start dancing?”
It’s the next morning and I’m lying in my room on the phone, trying to come to grips with what happened last night. The end of me and Doctor David.
“Well, there goes date number three, just like I predicted. I’m never ever going to get a boyfriend.”
She clears her throat and says soberly, “That’s not such a bad thing.”
I sigh. Naomi is still technically a newlywed, having married Robert last year. He seemed like a nice enough guy and had all you needed on paper to be good husband material—a great job as an investment banker, fit body, a great face and smile, wasn’t too uptight nor did he act like a teenager. Naomi was swept away and under by his charm and fell for him quickly. And in a very bad way. I’d never seen the normally grumpy and cynical Naomi so crazy over a guy before.