Did Marina just ask me to teach her the art of seduction?

Because that’s exactly what it sounded like.

“Of course,” I tell her, hoping I sound casual, like this is something she asks me to do every day.

But it’s not. And considering what I know about Marina now, that she’s a virgin, this brings our relationship – our friendship – to a whole new playing field. I did mention the other day that being physical was completely on the table. That is until it came off the table and entirely into her court.

Now she wants me to teach her how to seduce men and I’m not sure how I feel about that.

“When you say art of seduction,” I tell her as we pull onto the traffic of Sunset Blvd., “what do you mean exactly?”

She shrugs, chewing on her bottom lip for a moment, her eyes focused on the passing lights outside. I feel like when we left her house, went over the hill, and came down here to the city, she’s gone through a gamut of emotions, from vulnerable to defensive to pissed off and now…I don’t know what she is.

But I don’t want to take advantage of her right now when she’s like this. Over the years I’ve learned to recognize certain mental states of hers and sometimes they require extra consideration.

“I want to find the right guy, Laz. I want to stop screwing up. I know now what to stop talking about. What I don’t know is what to do instead.” She glances at me with big, heartbreaking eyes. “I want the guys to like me. To want me. I need help.”

Fuck me. I feel absolutely rotten now. She doesn’t have to change a thing. She shouldn’t have to. And yet that’s exactly what I’ve told her to do.

“I’m almost thirty,” she goes on. “I’m a virgin. I don’t want to be one anymore. I want to find a guy. I want to fall in love. I want a future with someone, maybe marriage and babies, maybe right now all I need is to have someone’s arms around me as I fall asleep. I want love. I feel it’s absence in my life, every day.”

You’re breaking my heart, sweet girl.

Her words are gutting me right now. Here in my car, Marina is opening up her soul to me in ways she hasn’t before and I’m…floored by it.

I want her to have all that. I want her to know that…fuck. I love her. I care for her. As a friend, though, and I know that’s not what she’s talking about.

I clear my throat. “Darling, you deserve all of that and more. And you will have that. I promise you, you will find love. You will find that man who will wrap his arms around you as you drift off to sleep. You will find everything you need.” I pause. “You’ll find your flower.”

She lets out a soft laugh, though sadness still lingers in her eyes. “God, it does sound stupid when you say it out loud.”

“I’ll try and think of something more poetic,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t be much of a poet if I couldn’t.”

“How has that been coming along?” she asks and I can tell she wants to change the subject. “I mean, I know better by now than to ask you how the writing is going but…”

I give her a wry smile. “Damn right you know better.”

“That bad, huh?”

I exhale through my nose, my grip on the wheel tightening slightly. “A writer’s block like nothing else. I’m just not inspired. I have zero urge to write. I’ve got nothing.”

“Well you can’t rush a thing like that. Nor can you force it. Especially poetry. If you’re not feeling it…how can it work?”

“It doesn’t. But that doesn’t mean I can just give up. Some days you just have to go out there and hunt down your muse. If she doesn’t show up, then you have to make her. It’s as simple as that.”

“So have you been hunting her down? I thought breaking up with Simone would have been great fodder for that.”

“Again,” I say pointedly, giving her a steady look, “I didn’t break up with Simone in order to get material out of it. You can stop with your Taylor Swift comparisons.”

“Yeah I know, you broke up with her because you weren’t in love with her. Same old song and dance. Blah, blah, blah.”

“Wait a minute, aren’t we supposed to be on a date here? Our first date?”

She makes a grumbling noise before blowing a loose strand of hair out of her face. “The date has been modified.”

“To the art of seduction, right?” She doesn’t say anything. “Well then before I start giving you lessons on how to seduce a man, which, by the way, I don’t think are needed, I think discussions about exes are off the table. Nothing kills a date more than someone talking about their ex.”

“Lucky for you, I don’t have an ex.”

“That’s not true. You said there was that Cody guy in college.”

“You remember?” She looks surprised.

I laugh. “Yeah I remember. Cody is the guy you tried to have sex with and kind of did but it hurt too much so you didn’t. You don’t forget a thing like that.”

She puts her face in her hands and shakes her head. She looks like a Californian version of Cousin It. “I can’t believe I told you that.”

“Friends tell each other things,” I say, wishing she wasn’t covering up her face so I could see her reaction. “Don’t they?”

She just grumbles again.

The Comedy Store is a legendary place in Hollywood where you can find a famous or at least completely legit performer every single night. Last night Dave Chapelle was playing, tonight we’ve got tickets to see Norm McDonald. Both of us are fans of his dry and odd humor, especially the movie Dirty Work and basically any time he shows up in an Adam Sandler movie.

“I haven’t been here in years,” she says as we make our way to our table in the main room, the place already busy, excited murmurs filling the air.

“When did you come before? It wasn’t with me.” I have to admit, it bothers me that she’s actually been here before and with someone else. I wanted her first time to be with me.

The comedy club, I mean.

“It was a date,” she says, breaking into a wide grin. “Went horribly wrong as usual.”

“Why are you smiling then?”

“Well the comedian, he wasn’t famous or anything, but he was funny as hell,” she says. “Actually I think a comedy club is a great place for a first date. You can have dinner and drinks before the show and during the show you have something to laugh at if your date has turned into a total douchebag. Which mine did. Plus, you can see the type of humor your date has. If they don’t have the same kind of humor as you, you’re pretty much fucked. And he didn’t.”

She’s got a point there. Lucky for us and our fake date or whatever the hell this has morphed into, we’re always laughing at the exact same things.

We sit down at our table, close to the stage, and are soon ordering dinner and drinks. Marina wastes no time in getting down to business.

“Okay, so tell me what to do,” she says after she has a sip of her dirty martini.

“With what?”

“You know what. If this is our first date, what should I be doing to keep you interested.”

I stare at her for a moment, drawing a complete blank. She’s assuming I wouldn’t be interested in this moment, but of course I am. How could any man not be? She’s sitting close to me, close enough that I can smell her sweet honey scent, see the faint freckles across her nose. Her lips look soft and I know they’d be heaven to kiss. Her hair shines golden under these lights, lit up like an angel. Her blue eyes are even more vivid tonight, watching me with so much hope and worry that I’m absolutely captivated by her.

“I’m already interested,” I say, my voice coming out low and hoarse. “Any man would be.”

A flicker of something comes across her eyes, something bright and joyous. Then it’s gone. “You’re just saying that because you’re Laz. What if you didn’t know me at all. Remember, the game?”

I swallow and busy myself with a sip of beer. “Right. Well, it’s hard for me to be objectionable here because right now, you’re asking how to keep a guy interested and I’m looking at you, darling, and thinking any man who isn’t captivated by what I’m looking at, isn’t worth your time.”

She stares at me openly, as if she’s struggling to accept the compliment. Normally I don’t lay it on so thick…and normally I don’t think I’m leering at her either. Shit. I hope I’m not leering.

I look away, eyes scanning the room, hoping that I wasn’t being too much right now. I normally flirt with Marina and she flirts back, but it’s always in this joking way and both of us know it comes from a friendly place, nothing more. But for some reason, tonight, everything we say to each other seems to carry more weight. Maybe it’s because we’re already evaluating what each of us are doing.

“Captivated,” she repeats softly. “Are you usually this charming with your dates?”

“I hope so,” I say, looking back at her. “Either that or you’re just easily charmed.” I clear my throat, pushing past the awkwardness that surely must be in my head. “So, back to things…”

“Back to things.” She has another sip of her martini, coughs a little. “This is some strong shit.”

“Which reminds me,” I tell her, “if you need to know how not to act on a date, rule number one would be to not get shit-faced.”

Her cheeks go tomato red.

“What?” I ask.

“That happened with Doctor David,” she admits warily. “I was chugging wine, you know, to counteract all the caffeine I had. Then I choked on linguine. David had to give me the Heimlich maneuver in front of the whole restaurant. Then after I spat it all up, I proceeded to give everyone a demonstration of the waggle dance.”

I stare at her, my mind trying to process. “The waggle…what? That’s what happened on your third date?” I ask incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Is that what always happens on your third date because if so, then we definitely know what the problem is.”

She glares at me, looking pouty. “No that doesn’t always happen. There are often variations.”

I raise my brows. “Marina…”

She shrugs, tossing her hair over her shoulder. “I told you I’m not good at this.”

“Okay, well now we have two things we know not to do, talk about bees and get wasted. Why are you drinking so much anyway?”

“I told you,” she says defensively. “I get nervous. And now you know why I get nervous.”

Drinking is a delicate topic for the both of us. We do drink, naturally, but we’re also very aware of the way our parents are, or at least were. In my case, my father was a drunk and a gambler, which may have been one of the reasons why he left. I still don’t know the real reason and probably never will. Maybe it’s the same reason why my parents sent me off to boarding school to begin with.

As for Marina, her father has always been an alcoholic. He killed her mother in a drunk driving accident when she was young and the two have had a tense and fragmented relationship ever since. Her father is on and off the wagon often, so sometimes Marina has to take care of him. Sometimes her aunt will help out but usually it comes down to Marina which, in my opinion, is highly unfair. It’s a stress that she doesn’t need to deal with, and considering everything she’s gone through, I’m amazed at how positive and selfless she can be.

Though I have to wonder how much of that is a mask. I know she takes medication, I know she sees a therapist, I know that sometimes I see this darkness creep over her, rob her of her heart and joy. When that happens, I wish there was something I could do for her, but all I can really do is just a be a friend, whether she needs it or not.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” she says in a low voice.

“What look?”

“The worried look. The disapproving look. The look that usually precedes a lecture.”

“No lectures,” I tell her. “We both know it’s a sensitive subject and I totally get why you’re nervous. But drinking too much on a date isn’t going to help anyone. So why don’t we attack the reasons why you’re nervous.”

Her eyes roll up to the ceiling. “You know why. Do I have to spell it out again?”

“Because you’re a virgin.”

“Keep your voice down,” she says in a harsh whisper, shrinking in her seat, her eyes flitting around the room. “I don’t want it advertised.”

“It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re very much not one.”

“I don’t think I appreciate the very much part. I could tell you how many women I’ve slept with. Do you want to know?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

She opens her mouth to say something then snaps her mouth shut. Her shoulder lifts up in a half shrug. “No reason.”

“Thirty-two.”

“Thirty-two!” she exclaims. People turn to look at her.

“Oh, so I can’t talk about your virginity but you’ll go and yell this out loud?”

“Thirty-two,” she repeats, wide-eyed. “Oh my god.”

“You think that’s a lot?”

“Compared to my big fat zero, yeah. You think that’s low?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think it’s low per se…but I’m not into one-night stands and a lot of guys are. So if that were the case…”

“Stop,” she says, showing me her palm. “I don’t want to hear it.”

“Why not? We’re just friends.”

“Well you definitely would not talk about your number on a date.”

“Maybe not the first date…”

“You mean to tell me you’ve had thirty-two girlfriends?” She looks off and starts counting on her fingers. “And you’re thirty, so, what, in the last ten years at least you’ve had three point two girlfriends a year?”

“See, that’s really not much. Anyway, I have had a couple of quick shags, back when I was in Berlin, drunken mistakes, that sort of shit. Let’s call them the point twos. But yeah, I guess that’s what it equals out to be.”

She shakes her head, looks away.

“Hey,” I tell her, leaning across the table to catch her eye. “What is this? You’re mad?”

“I’m not mad,” she says.

“You aren’t looking at me.”

She gives me the death glare. “Do I always have to be looking at you?”

“Yeah, why not? I’m handsome as fuck.”

She snorts. Again, adorable. “You’re also modest.”

“Exceedingly so. Look, I told you my number and I know yours and that’s that. This is a no judgement zone.”

“Who said I was judging?”

“Oh I can tell. Your face gets all squidgy.”

“Squidgy?” she repeats, scrunching her nose.

“See, like that.”

“Why are we talking about this again?”

“Honestly, I don’t know.” Every time I try and get us back on the right track, we just fall into our friendship again.

But before this conversation—or another inappropriate one—can continue, the food comes, filet mignon for me, roast chicken for her, and we’re thankfully distracted. We eat, have another drink, then the opening comic comes out, followed by Norm McDonald.

It’s not the first time I’ve seen him live and even though he’s just as abrasive and controversial as before, I find myself spending most of the show watching Marina. Just the way her eyes light up, the sound of her laugh as it shoots across the room. She has a really distinctive laugh, infectious and full of joy, the kind of joy that seems…pure. And when you’re the one who causes those eyes to sparkle and laugh to spill out of her lips, there’s no feeling like it.

Not that Norm would care or notice. Everyone in the club is laughing their heads off, including myself. When the show is finally over and we’re walking down Sunset back to the car, my ribs are hurting from laughing so hard.

“I’ll have to remember that chickpea joke,” Marina says between giggles as we stroll beside each other. “I don’t know if I have the deadpan delivery, but I can practice.”

“Might I suggest saving that joke for the third date?”

She grins at me. “No promises.” Then she turns to the passing traffic and opens her arms at the cars. “I love you LA!” she yells at no one in particular. Someone honks.

I grab her arm and pull her along the sidewalk. “What was that for?”

“I don’t know,” she says with a laugh. “Nights like this I just love this city. Where else can you go see a show like that at the last minute? Where else has these palm trees and this warmth and this feeling that you can be anything, do anything, the sky’s the limit. It’s a city of dreamers and I get to dream alongside every one of them.”

“And I’m just another dreamer, sweet girl.”

“Sweet girl?”

Yeah.

Where the hell did that come from? “It just happened. I can go back to calling you Bumble if you want.”

“You can call me anything tonight.”

“I know you’re high on adrenaline from laughing for hours and I don’t want to ruin that but are you okay with the fact that we haven’t really done anything in the, how did you call it again, the art of seduction?”

“I think I’ve learned enough for tonight,” she says, her brows knitting together. “There’s always date number two…if you think I’ve earned a second date.”

“It was always a given.”

“I mean, I stopped at two martinis and I didn’t mention bees once.”

“You’re practically a new woman.”

We reach the car in the parking lot and I pause beside the passenger door. “Need a ride home, blondie?”

“As long as you don’t try anything foolish,” she says.

“Foolish?” I say as I open the door for her and she gets in. I climb in the driver’s seat. “What would be foolish?”

“Trying to kiss me goodnight,” she says.

“My god, woman. You are a bloody challenge, aren’t you?”

She smiles, sarcastically sweet.

“How about this?” I say, leaning over and opening the glove compartment, bringing out a Magic 8 Ball. “I’ll ask the ball and see what it says I should do.”

“Oh my god!” she exclaims, taking the ball out of my hands and turning it around and around. “You really do have one!”

“I told you.”

“I thought you were joking. Who the hell carries around a Magic 8 Ball?”

“I don’t carry it around.” I snatch it out of her hands. “I have one in the car and one in my room.”

“Laz,” she says slowly, looking me over like I’ve suddenly morphed into a circus freak. “You know this makes you really weird, right?”

“I’m aware.”

“So, like, my whole obsession with bees, which by the way, is totally justifiable when you consider my career, seems kind of normal by comparison. I mean, you don’t have a career in…fortune telling.”

“You could have said professional billiards player.”

“Do you tell your dates about this?”

I give her a dry look. “What do you think?”

She sighs. “Oh what does it matter, I bet if they did know, they’d still sleep with you.”

“Maybe. I haven’t dared to show anyone.”

“So even someone like Simone never knew about this.”

I laugh. “This. You make it sound like I keep locks of hair from all my ex-girlfriends in a shoebox under my bed or something to that nature.”

She looks horrified.

“Which I don’t,” I go on. “It’s sad that I had to clarify that right now. Anyway, it’s just for fun. It keeps the pressure off and no I don’t blindly do what it says. I’m not that daft. But it helps in a pinch.”

Her eyes study me intently for a moment. The she nods. “Yeah, it’s still weird, I don’t care how you justify it.”

“Then I guess we’re just a pair of fucking weirdos aren’t we now?” I stare down at the ball, then close my eyes and say. “Should I kiss Marina goodnight?”

I shake the ball vigorously, open my eyes and take a look.

A blue triangle that says LOL floats to the surface.

Marina bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, it has a sense of humor! Is it sentient?”

“Obviously this is the upgraded version. I have the old-fashioned kind at home,” I tell her as I stick the ball back in the glove compartment and shut it. I know I should probably feel like a bit of a wanker or something for showing her that, let alone actually asking the bloody thing if I should kiss her or not. But I have zero regrets.

So far…

“Well, sorry to tell you then but if the 8 Ball says it’s a laughable idea, it’s a laughable idea.”

“Fine. But if you’re willing to accept the answer tonight, you should be willing to accept whatever answer it gives me on our next date.”

“Since when did dating turn into gambling?”

“When you agreed to go out with me, Bumble.”

“Guess I should have seen that coming.”