“No, I just love that word and I love the south.” Her mojito arrives and she takes a sip of it before bowing her head. Unsnaps her purse and pulls out a $20. “Here, this is for the drinks. I appreciate it.”

A few things are wrong with this scenario.

$20 isn’t enough to cover her two drinks, but far be it from me to say so. I don’t want to embarrass her further. $30 is more like it—even $40 with the tip.

I’ve never had a woman pull money out of her purse to pay me before.

She’s expecting me to take it and I anticipate an argument—one I am not ready to have.

I hold my hand out and up in protest, pushing against the money in her hand.

“Keep it.”

“No really.” She flaps it in the air. “I insist.”

As I figured she would, a girl like Miranda is full of principles and ethics. Clearly she is not at this bar to find herself a sugar daddy.

“My treat,” I counter. “Unless you want me to leave it on the bar as a tip.” I have a tab open and all the bartenders know we’ll tip very generously so this is an empty threat, but Miranda doesn’t know that.

“What! Hell no—she didn’t give me the time of day!” The bill gets snatched back, shoved into her little black and gold purse. “I’m sorry, but no.”

I laugh, deep within my chest, and Miranda halts what she’s doing to watch, eyes going wide. Staring like I’ve sprouted a second head, and now I feel like I have, self-conscious and uncomfortable.

Immediately, I stop. “What?”

“Nothing.” She shakes her head in the way girls do when ‘Nothing’ means something. Bites down on her lower lip, smiling as she takes another dainty sip from her mojito, the alcohol probably muddling her brain.

She must be drunk; it feels like she’s flirting.

She cannot be drunk—she’s only had one!

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Really, I want to know. Girls don’t give me these looks, not even when they’re at my house, or in my bed, or spending my money.

“What look? I’m just looking—it’s not a crime.” She tilts her head just then, studying me. “How are you all so tall?”

“Who?”

“You and your friends. It’s like a giant convention.” Another shake of the head. “It’s so weird.”

I want to laugh. Want to tell her she’s adorable, and cute and funny, but instead, I drink from my cocktail to occupy myself. It goes down strong, the bartender having added too much vodka and not enough soda, and despite my size, it hits me in the head.

I lean against the bar, mimicking Miranda’s stance, settling in for a conversation, content to have the rest of the group—and the servers—ignoring us for now. I’m going to enjoy the anonymity, my drink, and this pretty girl for as long as it lasts.

“Weren’t you going to go back to your friends?” She toys with a mint leaf sticking out of her glass, swirling it around.

“I never said I wanted to go over there—you did.”

She looks bashful, and I can’t see it, but I know she’s shuffling her feet. “I just assumed.”

“Why?”

Miranda is beautiful and sassy, so riddle me this: why the fuck would I go back to my dipshit buddies when I could stand here in the dark and hide away with her?

“Because?” As if that explains everything.

I wait for more of a reply, casually keeping my lips shut, knowing she’ll elaborate if I don’t prod her.

I’m right.

“Because look at me! And look at them! I’m in jeans!”

A snort escapes my nose, then a laugh. “So? I’m wearing jeans.”

“Okay, well, look around you: all the women in here are wearing dresses—tight, sexy dresses—and I’m in this thing.” She pulls at the fabric of her blouse, and I catch a glimpse of cleavage that’s been hidden until now. Is she even wearing a bra? She must be, otherwise they wouldn’t be sitting so far up on her chest, right? Shit, what do I know about tits? I’ve only seen a few pair, most of them too round and fake.

Eighties implants I call them.

“Are you staring at my boobs?”

Staring? “No.”

Checking them out? Yes. 100%.

“But you did look.”

Shit, she really must be getting drunk, her filter slowly slipping.

“Looking is not staring.” I feel the need to clarify this point. Feel like I’m in middle school again, wanking it in my bedroom and almost getting caught by my mother because she always refused to knock.

You do not walk into a boy’s bedroom when they’re a teenager—you’re only in for a rude awakening if you do. Mom did not get the memo and I lived in fear every time I jerked it, sometimes in the closet.

When all my buddies were getting laid by girls from our grade, I was masturbating in the walk-in closet at home. Or in the shower. Or in the dark, in bed.