Page 21 of The Boyfriend Experience

“Well.” She chuckles. “I’ve been called a lot of things and interesting has never been in the top ten.”

“What’s in the top ten then?”

“Um… well, number one is crazy. Rude comes in a close second. Flamboyant, loud, pompous, dramatic, vulgar, arrogant, tacky, and ruthless rounds out the list.”

I smile. “I haven’t seen any of that yet. Maybe a little”—I make that gesture with the tips of my thumb and forefinger about half an inch apart—“flamboyant.”

“That’s because I need you. And you don’t know me yet.”

“Nah,” I say.

“Just wait.”

“Is that a warning?”

She nods. But her body has shifted again, her back slightly towards me, her face pointed at the window like the drive into downtown Golden is the most interesting thing ever.

“There,” she says, pointing to a bar on Washington Avenue. “That’s where we’re going. The Opera House Tavern.”

“Looks like it’s closed,” I say, passing it by to find parking.

“It’s a private party for local brewmasters. Everyone who is anyone in Colorado brewing comes to this stupid party. I thought I’d have to cancel this year since Jordan was so slow at finding me what I needed. But then you showed up.”

“Like Prince fucking Charming,” I mutter under my breath.

I find parking a couple streets over and we get out. Golden is nice. Still small enough to feel like a neighborhood, but bustling with students from the School of Mines and those weird river people who think kayaking on Clear Creek is fun. It has an underground feeling of cool, like Boulder does, but without the drug culture.

Plus, the entire town smells like hops right now because the Coors Brewery is just a few blocks over. So hey, if you’re gonna throw a party for Colorado brewmasters, this would be the place, right?

We walk down the street back towards Washington in silence. I’m consumed with thoughts of my shoes. The Chucks feel good. Maybe even great. But they feel odd. Make me feel odd. It’s been a long time since I wore them. I should’ve thrown them away a decade ago but like the leather jacket Oaklee’s wearing right now—I couldn’t. They feel like a connection to my past. They feel like that’s all I have left of my youth. Of the guy I used to be. The me who disappeared years ago and never came back.

Which is dumb. I’m still in my youth. I’m only thirty. Not even thirty. Not till summer. But Oaklee kinda hit home when she asked me if I was having a mid-life crisis.

It feels like a mid-life crisis.

“OK,” Oaklee says, bringing me back to the present. “When we get in there, you’re my boyfriend.”

I try not to laugh, but I can’t help it. “Yeah. I mean that’s why you hired me.”

“I didn’t hire you,” she says. “I bought you.”

I don’t even bother to be annoyed at that. She’s in a mood and it’s got nothing to do with me. It’s this party or whatever it is. These people, probably. “So what do you want me to do? Public displays of affection and stuff like that? Brag about our fantasy sex life? Be an asshole and tell them all how much money I made last year?”

She stops walking and turns to me. “Be jealous.”

“Of what?”

“Me!” She laughs. “What else?”

“What do you mean exactly?”

“Just… you know. Be a jealous asshole. Like glare at all the men and smack me on the ass if I’m talking to one of them.” She bites her lip and looks up at the sky. Like she’s thinking hard.

“Oh. My. God. I was right. You’re here to make a guy jealous.”

“No,” she says. “No, that’s not it. Just… I don’t have time to tell the whole story and you wouldn’t believe me anyway, so just go in there and act like an asshole. Oh!” she suddenly says. Like that idea she was looking skyward for suddenly popped into her head. “I know what you can do. Mansplain everything.”

“Mansplain?”