Why is he inviting me to lunch? What’s this guy’s deal?

I can’t believe I’m still attracted to him after he nearly ran over everyone on the sidewalk. In principle I hate people who do that, but somehow Eric completely shattering every rule of the road was charming or endearing. It was almost like he knew he was being an asshole, and just didn’t care.

Which should be even worse, but—

“Come on,” he says, holding the door for me.

I smile and step inside. I can tell straightaway that the place is out of my price range. There’s an aquarium with brightly colored fish floating around, an indoor waterfall, and fancily dressed wait staff. Luckily, Eric didn’t let me agree to pay for myself, though I still feel weird knowing he’s going to pay. It’s not like he owes me for the bike safety class, and if he doesn’t feel like he owes me, then what is this exactly? It sure as hell can’t be a date, right?

“Two please,” Eric says to the hostess.

She smiles pleasantly and says, “We’re only taking reservations right now, do you have a—”

Eric rests his elbows onto the little hostess stand, leaning in close. She crosses her arms at first, clearly annoyed, but within a few moments she’s laughing at his flirtation. And why wouldn’t he flirt with her? She’s gorgeous. Shiny blonde hair, perfectly coiffed and sophisticated, nothing like my own. She looks like she could stand beside Eric in one of his suits and compliment him perfectly, whereas I’m standing beside a casually dressed Eric and stick out like a sore thumb.

He’s speaking in a low voice, so I can’t really tell what he’s saying. At some point I see him slip something to her, and she gestures toward a waitress, calling her forward.

“Right this way,” the waitress says, and I see the hostess smile over at Eric as the waitress walks us to our table.

“What did you do?” I whisper to him.

“Don’t worry about it,” he says.

I can’t help but worry about it… If he was flirting with her right in front of me, it means this isn’t anything more than him taking me to lunch to thank me for the lesson. My heart sinks a bit and I feel foolish for even thinking for a second that this could be more. I wish I would’ve insisted that we go back to the shop and never seen each other again.

“What’s wrong?” he asks after the waitress leaves to fill our drink orders.

“Nothing,” I say, shaking my head and faking a smile.

“Hmm,” he mutters, grabbing his menu. Then he says without looking up at me, “I’m pretty sure something is wrong.” He shrugs, changing the subject. “I usually get some kind of green curry at Thai places.”

I grab the menu and look down at it, if only to avoid looking at or talking to him.

This is why I never date anyone. I feel like it comes so easy to people like Maya. When you’re beautiful like she is, it’s a given that a man is asking you out. I see it happen at the shop with her; a hot guy just gives her that look, grinning like a fool, and straight out asks, “Wanna go out sometime?”

From there, she knows it’s a date, and that the guy is interested in her.

The few times that I have been asked out, the guy hadn’t been flirting with me. It always leaves me wondering if the guy is actually interested in me or being weirdly polite. Like with Eric, did he take my hand because he is interested, or is he just a touchy feely kind of person?

I’ve been in the situation before… we’ll go out a few times and I’ll become more confident that the guy really is interested, only to get the “good friend” speech when I get brave enough to show my own interest. I refuse to let that happen with Eric.

My eyes glaze over the menu, and I sigh.

“Can’t decide either?” Eric asks.

No. I have decided. I’m not going to let another guy string me along like this.

I put the menu down, turning my gaze to him. “What is your deal? Why are you taking me out to lunch?”

“Can’t two people just go out to lunch together?” He asks.

“No, they really can’t.”

He laughs, “It seems to me like we are two people at lunch together, thus meaning it’s possible.”

“You know what I mean,” I say. “Do you feel obligated to buy me lunch since I helped you pick out a bike and showed you how to not get killed on the road?”

“I don’t do obligation,” he quickly replies. “I only do what I want to do.”

I grind my teeth together. For someone who tries to sound all matter-of-fact and to the point, he sure takes his time beating around the bush.

“And what do you want to do with me?” I ask.

I feel embarrassed asking it, and normally I never would. Maybe it’s the borrowed confidence from wearing Tracy’s clothes or having the attention of a man who’d never normally give me the time of day, but I’m feeling very non-Ruth like, so I ask.

He shrugs, “Who says you’re even interested?”

His response is so offhanded that it takes a second for his words to sink in. Why wouldn’t I be interested? Has he ever looked in a mirror?

“I think I am going to have green curry, but not chicken,” he says as if the topic is closed.

I grab the menu out of his hand and lay it flat on the table.

“Maybe I am,” I say honestly. “At least I think I am, but if you’re not, just tell me now.”

“You’re going to have the green curry too?” he asks, flashing me the most insufferable grin I’ve ever seen.

I consider just getting up and walking out now, before I waste more time on this.

Actually, I will walk out right now.

I slide my chair back and stand up.

But Eric grabs my hand, holding me in place.

“Let go,” I mutter.

“I’m interested,” he says. “Now sit back down.”

I hesitate for a moment, but the flutter in my stomach feels too good, and I sit back down. I’m sure I’ll regret it, but I can’t help myself.

“Even if you’re no fun,” he says. “Don’t you like boxing?”

What in the world does boxing have to do with anything? I’m considering leaving, but curiosity gets the best of me so I decide to see where he’s going with this.

“No, I don’t like boxing,” I say, staring at the tablecloth rather than him.

“Okay,” he says, “But you’ve at least seen the video of Mike Tyson biting off Evander Holyfield’s ear, right?”

That has me questioning again what this has to do with anything?

I shrug. “Yeah, I saw it, I think.”

Eric leans back like he’s about to tell a story. I find myself listening even though I’m annoyed with him. With his whiskey smooth voice, it’s easy to give in to humoring him.

“I’d just turned 13,” he says. “My dad was old school New York working class, and he loved his boxing. As a younger kid, I used to pretend to be a boxer while my dad and uncle watched the matches. To me, it mostly just looked like two guys punching each other—”

“It is just two guys punching each other,” I interrupt.

He holds up a finger indicating he’s about to prove me wrong. “To the untrained eye. Anyway, that whole spring my dad had me take boxing lessons. I didn’t like it at first, but after a few months it all clicked for me. Suddenly I was into it, I understood that it was way more than just two guys punching each other.”

“Were you good?” I ask.

“I thought I was,” he says, grinning. “Of course I wasn’t, not yet at least. That wasn’t the point though. The point was that I understood what the commentators were talking about now, and I could talk to my dad and uncle about it, bond with them, all that kind of shit. The first big match I really got excited about was Tyson and Holyfield’s rematch. Holyfield was an underdog, at least until he’d knocked out Tyson several months before. This was their big rematch, and everyone—especially me—was excited as hell.

“My uncle ordered it on Pay-per-view, and a bunch of guys went over there to watch it. My dad brought me. Finally, I felt like one of the guys rather than just a kid tagging along. I remember we grilled steaks before the fight, and everyone was predicting how the fight might go down. We all wanted a big drawn-out thing, seven rounds or more.”

He smiles, losing himself a bit in his story, like he’s back there as a 13-year-old boy. It’s kind of endearing, though I still have no clue where he’s going with this story.

He pauses as if to add suspense to the end of the story. “So you can imagine our disappointment when—”

Then it hits me, and I blurt out the first thing I’m thinking. “Wait a minute, I just bit off your ear!”

He looks at me with wide eyes, he seems disappointed I ruined the end of his story, but then he laughs.

“I’m Mike Tyson,” I say. “You wanted a boxing match with me, but when I just straight up asked you if you liked me on our first date—uh—I mean whatever this is... that was me going for the throat—or ear…”

“Look,” he says, holding up both hands. “Maybe that was the point I was trying to make, but it’s like you said, you don’t like boxing.”

I grin sheepishly. “I don’t. Every time I box for seven rounds, my opponent tells me ‘Hey Ruth, thanks for training with me, now get out of the ring because my real opponent is here.’”

Eric frowns, and I realize that probably sounded super pathetic.

“I’m exaggerating, of course,” I add quickly.

“Of course,” he says, grinning, clearly not believing me.

“You can finish the story,” I say, blushing, “I was enjoying it.”

Eric laughs. “My cousin threw the remote at the TV when they called the fight short. It was one of those old big screen TVs with the kind of soft projection screen. The remote put a weird misshapen dent into the thing. My uncle was furious.”

“So your family is all working class?” I ask. “You too?”

He gives me a somewhat evasive look, then just says, “Yeah, my family’s all working class. Yours?”

“We’re from Queens,” I say. “My mom wanted me to be the first one in our family to go to college.”

“Did you?” He asks.

“Yes, and she was proud. She didn’t even question me getting a philosophy degree. You know how it was for our parents... go to college and you were set.”

“So I take it she’s not a fan of the Fixed Gear?” Eric asks. “Want me to tell her how good a job you do there?”

I roll my eyes at him, then say in my mom’s nagging voice, “Ruth, I didn’t save up my whole life so you could work in a bike shop. You’re a college graduate for God’s sake!”

“Must get annoying to hear,” he says.

“Fortunately I moved out,” I say. “And I’m studying for the LSAT…”

He laughs.

“What?” I say, annoyed that he’s laughing at the one thing I actually have going for me in my life.

“I know that voice. You’re studying for it, but not getting anywhere. I’ve been there.”

I frown, “So you’re a lawyer?”

“Oh,” he says, “God no. I just mean I’ve told myself I’m going to do something, then flaked out on it—”

“I’m not flaking out on it, Eric,” I say. “I just... I’m worn down every day, and I need to find some reserve of motivation to carry me through. I’ll get it soon.”

“It’s cool,” he says, “I gave up on it. I was going to take the USMLE—be a doctor. I never even took the thing, studied for two years.”

He looks at me seriously, “I can tell you’ll find the motivation, and that you’ll do it. You won’t give up like I did.”