Me You Us (7 page)

I'm driving out to the beach at this late hour to meet Adam Foster. After I noticed that something was off between him and Olivia at the college fair, I texted him a few times to check in, but he never wrote back.

Most of my successful clients, like Hedgehog, are super grateful, and keep in touch throughout the course of their relationships. But occasionally a guy finds that I remind him too much of his loveless past, or he gets caught up in his new girlfriend, and stops talking to me altogether. I assumed that was the case with Adam and didn't take it personally.

However, after not responding to my texts for a week, Adam finally replied and asked if we could meet at the beach
as soon as possible. Unfortunately, my first instinct at the college fair was correct: Adam and Olivia were indeed going through a rocky patch, and they subsequently broke up.

The beach is a thirty-minute straight shot from my house. I park my silver Jeep and find Adam about halfway down to the edge of the ocean. It's really cold this close to the water, especially at night, and I'm bundled up in a too-thin Windbreaker. Except for the moon bouncing off the Pacific Ocean and the glow of Adam's phone, there's almost no light.

“Hey, buddy, how you holding up?” I say, as I sit down next to him.

There's no towel. He's just sitting directly on the sand. And he's crying.

“Terrible,” he sobs. “It's over.”

“What happened?”

“Olivia cheated on me. That's what happened.”

“Oh man. I'm sorry.”

“She was all distant,” he says. “And it was like that for weeks and I didn't know why. And then finally I confronted her about it. She said she met some other guy. A friend of her brother's. I don't even know. She ended it.” He has trouble continuing.

“Just take a deep breath,” I say.

“
She
ended it, Shane.
She
said it was over. When you get cheated on, aren't
you
the one who's supposed to break up with the cheater? What does the Galgorithm say about
that
?”

Despite the cheap shot, I feel terrible. I pat him on the shoulder. “It's her loss. Screw her. She doesn't deserve you anyway. I'll help you meet someone who appreciates you.”

“But she was the best thing that ever happened to me. How am
I
supposed to meet anyone else?”

Adam was an interesting case. He's not that bad-looking. He's over six feet tall, which is always a huge plus with the ladies. His hair is black and the consistency of a Brillo pad, but it's manageable as long as he keeps it short. His nose is big and obscures the rest of his features like an eclipse with nostrils, but I convinced him to ditch his contact lenses and pick out some cool black glasses from Warby Parker to frame his face. It totally changed his whole aura. We joke that I Clark Kented him.

Right now those glasses are coated with water droplets—a combination of tears and mist from the ocean.

“I just don't know what to do,” he says.

In my line of work, there are no money-back guarantees, because there's no money involved. These are people, not vacuum cleaners. But when a client suffers a breakup, I do my best to get him back on his feet.

“Adam, I will do whatever I can. But I think if you really want to get over Olivia, you should move on as quickly as possible.”

“Fine. But I don't want anyone too thin. Girls are too thin these days.
It's weird.”

“Not too thin. Got it.”

“And no one who says ‘hella.' I hate that. What does that even mean?”

“No ‘hella.' Done.”

This was one of Adam's major issues when I first helped him: He's the most finicky guy I've ever met. He nitpicked everyone and everything. Girls were “too nice.” The air was “too breathable.” He once said that a sandwich was “too bready,” which I think pretty much defies the laws of sandwichness. Adam was hopeless when he came to me: Olivia is a total free spirit, and so, by conventional standards, she and Adam were polar opposites. But much like I did with his nose and those glasses, I helped Adam frame his weakness as a positive. He's reliable, organized, and steady—voilà: just the grounding presence Olivia never even knew she needed but soon couldn't live without.

The problem with free spirits both male and female, however, is that they can never truly be tamed . . . and then one day they stray.

“I can't believe she cheated on me,” he says. “I did everything right.”

“I know, man. It sucks. But unfortunately, it happens. So why don't we get back to basics. You know the drill.
Be different. Notice her. Tell her.
Let's talk about how we're gonna get you out of this rut.”

“Here's the thing.” He pouts. “I'm busy. I have chess
club Monday. Model UN Tuesday. Mathletes Thursday. I missed anime club today because of this whole mess.”

God knows what happens if you miss anime club.

“I'm busy,” he repeats. “I need someone who understands how busy I am.” He starts to cry once more.

Having been the victim of epic heartbreak myself, I know that he is more than entitled to whine and sob all he wants. “It's okay, Adam. We'll find you someone who gets you and makes time for you.”

I let him blubber a bit more until he finally composes himself. I pull out some tissues from the pocket of my ­Windbreaker and he blows his nose. I know Adam will come around to my thinking. He'll listen. He always does.

“Here's what I want you to do,” I say. “Start to consider if there's anyone at school you might be interested in. If there's a bright side to this, it's that girls feel bad for a guy with a broken heart. You just got out of a relationship that ended through no fault of your own. I mean, you're a hot commodity!”

“I am?”

“Oh yeah. Sympathy is a major aphrodisiac. I know you don't trust the Galgorithm right now, but the week or two after a breakup is a great window.”

“I just don't know if I'm ready.”

“Adam, there's no better way to get over an ex than to meet someone new. That's just science.”

“Huh. Well . . . there is
one
girl I've kinda had a crush on.”

I sense an opportunity to really build up his confidence and seize it. “That's great. And guess what? You don't even need me.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Adam, you were one of my best clients. You're outgoing. You're persistent. You don't need me to hold your hand anymore.”

This probably isn't true, but if it gets him out of his funk any quicker, there's no harm done.

“So . . .”

“So I want you to find that girl you have a crush on, go right up to her, and do your thing.”

“Any girl?”

“Any girl. The world is your oyster,” I say.

“I'm allergic to oysters.”

I sigh. “How about carpe diem? Does carpe diem work for you?”

“It does. Thanks, Shane.”

“No problem.”

We both stand up and start heading back to the parking lot. I'm shivering.

“By the way,” I add, “since when are you so emo?”

“What do you mean?”

“Why didn't we just meet at your house? You live like five blocks away from me.”

Adam shrugs. “Good point.”

“FIRST OF ALL, YOU WOULD
not believe the amount of gunk that came out of my skin. I mean it was disgusting . . .
ly awesome
.”

“Come on, Reed. Gross.”

It's gorgeous outside; the calendar may say February, but spring has already sprung in Kingsview. School ended a few hours ago, and I spent the afternoon running around like mad putting out a couple of client fires before meeting Reed here in the bleachers of the baseball field behind school to catch up.

A few players are stretching on the field, but it's an off day, so it's otherwise quiet. Reed and I are sitting on the third-base side. Behind us are the tennis courts, where Reed first attempted to hit a forehand volley into Marisol's
heart. After several reschedulings and some uncertain moments, Reed finally had his first date with Marisol last night. I've been waiting all day for the download. I've folded an empty straw wrapper in my hands twenty times out of nervous anticipation.

“It wasn't gross,” Reed continues. “It was strangely magical.”

“You're sick.”

Before I send my clients out on their first date, I make sure they take care of a few basic grooming needs. The predictable stuff is Q-tips in the ears and tweezing eyebrows, but I also had Reed buy Bioré pore strips. You put a strip on your wet nose, wait fifteen minutes for it to dry, and then rip it off. Out come all your blackheads. Sounds weird, but my clients soon swear by them. The only thing is, the very first time you use them and sixteen years of gunk comes out, it's not pretty.

“Reed, will you just get to the date?”

“You said you wanted details!”

“Not this much.”

“Fine. So I picked her up. We went to the pizza place. We ordered some slices and sodas and stuff.
I
paid.”

“Nice. Nice.”

“She looked amazing. We talked about school for a little bit. And then . . .”

“And then
what
?”

“And then Rebecca joined us.”

“What? What do you mean, Rebecca joined you?”

“I mean Rebecca Larabie was at the pizza place, too. She saw us, Marisol asked her to join us, and she did. I spent the rest of the night with the two of them, and they mostly talked to each other about student government. Except when Rebecca negotiated a discount on her meal with the owner because there wasn't enough pepperoni on her pizza. She really drove a hard bargain.”

“Damn,” I say. “They probably planned it.”

“Planned what?”

“If a girl isn't totally sure she likes a guy yet, she'll sometimes have her friend ‘randomly' show up on the date so that she's not stuck with him.”

“Oh.” Reed is crestfallen. “Noted.” He scribbles forlornly in his notebook. Then he perks up.
“Or,”
he says, “maybe Marisol just wanted Rebecca to meet me. You know, feel me out a little bit because she's totally into me.”

Reed looks at me expectantly.

“Or that,” I say. “It could definitely be that.” Who knows? Maybe it could. “I like where your head's at, Reed. You're staying positive. I'm proud of you.”

“Thanks.”

“But next time something like that happens, text me! Don't make me wait a whole day to find out! What happened at the end of the night?”

“Rebecca went home on her own, I dropped Marisol off, she pecked me on the cheek, and that was it.”

“Wait, she kissed you on the cheek?”

“Yeah.”

“Reed, way to bury the lead under a ton of blackheads. That's awesome!”

“Really? A cheek kiss is that big a deal? I dunno. I wasn't sure.”

“First of all, an
unsolicited
cheek kiss. And second of all, a month ago you were wearing dumpy jeans your mom bought you, so let's keep things in perspective. I'm not a miracle worker.”

Reed nods. “Fair enough.”

I admire the cloudless sky for a moment.

Then all of a sudden I'm forced to scream:
“LOOK OUT!”

Reed and I duck for our lives as a baseball flies over us, narrowly missing our heads and smashing violently into the bleachers about ten rows behind us with a
THWACK!

At first I think it's a foul ball from batting practice. But then I spot Harrison marching toward the bleachers. I'm pretty sure he
threw
that ball.

“Uh oh,” Reed murmurs.

Harrison's short fuse is well documented. His adrenaline is always pumping, and he never forgets a slight. That's ­probably what makes him a star athlete—and the last guy you'd want to have it out for you since seventh grade. He glares at us menacingly as he starts to climb the bleacher steps. His practice uniform has been hastily thrown on like he
just learned of our presence and bolted from the locker room. In retrospect, the baseball field was probably a poor choice of locations for my powwow with Reed.

“I've been looking for you two,” he says when he reaches us.

“Did you
throw
that at us?” I ask. “Are you crazy?”

“Calm down, Chambliss,” he huffs. “I would have hit you if I wanted to.”

“Congratulations,” I say. “What's the problem?”

“You,” Harrison says, pointing a finger in Reed's face. I have to admit, for a split second I'm actually kinda glad
I'm
not the problem for once.

“Me? What did I do?” Reed says.

“Were you out with Rebecca Larabie last night?”

“Uh . . . I mean, technically, but—”

“
I'm
with her.”

It's a little scary how angry he is.

“I thought that was supposed to be a secret,” I venture.

“And you!” Harrison repeats, now pointing his grubby finger at me. “Don't think I forgot about the college fair. What the hell were you doing with Rebecca? Were you hitting on her?”

“Oh, he was just running a wedge,” Reed interjects.

“Shut up!” Harrison shouts.

Reed puts his hands up in surrender.

“If I see or hear of either of you talking to Rebecca again . . .” He cracks his knuckles. His message is loud and clear.

“All right,” I say. “We're sorry.”

Reed looks at me like I did something wrong. Hey,
sometimes
it's okay to apologize.

Harrison thankfully turns to leave . . . but then suddenly turns back and glares at me again.

“What now?” I say.

“Make sure you throw that in the trash.”

“Huh?”

Then I realize he's referring to the straw wrapper in my hand.