How to Date a Younger Man

by Kendall Ryan

  I’m drying off from a hot shower, surrounded by foggy glass, when I hear the email notification vibrate on the granite countertop. I quickly tie my towel around my waist and grab my phone.

  Griffin,

  Glad you’re interested. More details to come, but to summarize:

  Our NYC office needs a new junior designer to help with upcoming projects. We will pay for your flight, a moving truck, and three months of housing so you can get on your feet in a new city. Take the next forty-eight hours to decide. Let me know.

  Milos

  I swallow. New York City? Working for Milos Ruben would be a literal dream come true, but I didn’t expect this.

  I stand at the mirror and take in my reflection. My stomach churns with the excitement of the offer. I’ve worked hard for years to arrive at this moment, and now there’s a world of opportunity before me and nothing to lose.

  Nothing?

  My mind flashes to the woman who’s been occupying my thoughts for a while now—really, since I was twenty-three. Four years of back and forth with Layne have only made me dizzy. But now it feels like the chemistry we’ve always had is finally catalyzing into something more solid . . . something more significant.

  If only I had more time.

  What if I leave, and I miss out on this chance to be with Layne for good? What if I don’t leave, and nothing ever really happens between us? I could miss out on the job opportunity of a lifetime.

  The humid air in the bathroom is suffocating me. Phone in hand, I head to my bedroom and sit on the edge of the mattress.

  I need to talk to Kristen, but first, I type a quick response to Milos.

  Milos,

  I appreciate the clarification. Thank you again for the opportunity. I will confirm either way in two days.

  Best, Griffin

  I press SEND and immediately dial Kristen. Her phone rings eight excruciating times before I hear her lilting voice.

  “Hi, it’s Krissy! Leave a message, and I promise I’ll get back to you when I get back to you. Whenever that is. Buh-bye.”

  Fuck. She must be with Max’s family. They have a strict no phones at family gatherings policy—a policy I’ve never had any beef with until this very moment. I clear my throat, waiting for the inevitable beep.

  “Krissy, it’s Griff. I got a job opportunity, and before you stop listening and call me to sing my praises, it’s . . . complicated. I’m stuck at a crossroads, and I don’t know what to do. Call me back and help me walk through my options. Thanks, sis.”

  I hang up, contemplating my next move. I need to talk to an actual person, not a voice mail. I dial another familiar number in my contacts list.

  “Griffin?” Wren’s voice fills my ear, familiar and comforting.

  “Hey, Birdie. Can we talk?”

  “Of course, baby. I’ll be right there.”

  “No, you don’t have to come over. We can just talk o—”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Wren hangs up on me, and I groan. That was a mistake.

  I leave the bathroom to slide on a pair of dark-wash jeans and a black V-neck T-shirt. Wren doesn’t live far from me, so she’s probably already yelling at some unsuspecting Uber driver to drive faster. Was there ever a time when she wasn’t the single most intense person I’ve ever known? Probably not.

  Within twenty minutes, nineteen of which I spent staring helplessly at the wall, Wren is knocking sharply on my door. When I open it, she barrels inside, attacking me with a monstrous bear hug and nuzzling her face into my chest.

  “Hi,” she says, her voice muffled in the fabric of my shirt.

  “Hi.” I cough, the wind nearly knocked right out of me.

  She takes a step back, looking me over as if to assess the situation. Me being the situation.

  “Sit down,” she says, gesturing me to my own couch.

  Okay.

  She hurries away to the kitchen, and I hear the burners clicking and the tea kettle rattling from a distance. I chuckle. Wren would hate to be called a busybody, but she’s honestly the worst kind. The kind that thinks tea solves every problem. Lord.

  In two minutes, she’s sitting next to me, handing me a steaming cup that smells earthy and dark, like ginger and cardamom. Not my tea. I wonder if she brought her own tea bags. It wouldn’t be outside the realm of possibility.

  “Tell me everything,” Wren demands, leaning back into the couch with crossed arms.

  I sigh. Here we go.

  I tell her about the interview a few weeks ago, about how I thought I nailed it but didn’t hear from them until this morning. I tell her about the job offer, and all the strings attached. I tell her about my reluctance to move to New York, so far away from this city I’ve come to love. All the while, Wren sits there, patiently waiting for me to finish.

  “That’s it,” I mumble, my hands clasped loosely around the now lukewarm tea. I look up at Wren, expecting her to have a lot of opinions. Instead, she has an odd look on her face.

  “What?” I ask.

  Her look melts away into a beaming smile. “Congratulations on the job!” she cries, wrapping her arms around my neck. “I know it’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  “Yeah . . .” I awkwardly pat her back with one hand. Did she miss the part where I’m not sure if I’m going to take it?

  “Don’t worry about the details. It’s all going to fall into place. I’ll help you pack up your stuff, and we can take the weekend to get everything in order. I’ll be there every step of the way, I promise.”

  I rub my suddenly stiff neck with one hand. “I don’t know if I even want to go, though.”

  “That’s ridiculous. You’re going. And if you’re worried about being lonely, then I’ll come with you. I’ve always wanted to live in New York City, anyway.”

  Fuck me. No. “Wren, you’re not dropping everything to move to New York with me.”

  “Why not?” she asks, her face suddenly a few inches too close for comfort.

  Goddammit. I thought we’d been through this.

  “Because that’s crazy. You have a life here.”

  “You’re more important,” she murmurs, her gaze soft.

  I stand up in an effort to break the awkward tension she’s determined to build between us.

  “What?” she blurts out. “We used to talk about living together all the time.”

  “In high school, sure. When we didn’t have any idea what our lives would be like.”

  “Sure, back then. But we’re still friends, best friends, so we must have done something right. I want to start over with you in a new place.”

  “Wren . . .” I groan, scrunching my eyes shut in frustration. “When did this become about you? This was about me, not thirty seconds ago.”

  “And I want to come with you.”

  “I don’t even know if I want to go!”

  “Why?” she asks, throwing her hands up dramatically. “New York City is amazing. Why wouldn’t you want to move to a new, exciting place and take advantage of this incredible job opportunity?”

  I glare at her. “You know why.”

  “No, Griffin, I don’t.”

  We stew in silence for a moment, me standing against the wall and her sitting uncomfortably on the couch.

  “I think something might actually be happening between Layne and me,” I mumble.

  As soon as the words leave my lips, I realize how young and stupid I sound. This is embarrassing as hell. It doesn’t feel great when Wren outright laughs at me, either.

  “You’re going to turn down a job because of Layne? That’s ridiculous,” Wren says, stretching her long legs across the couch. “I won’t let you do something that stupid.”

  “I don’t need your permission to live my life the way I want to,” I snap, and Wren’s eyes go wide. “I just mean that I was hoping for your insight.”

  “And you have it. I think you should take the job in New York. Fuck Layne.”

  “Don’t say that.”

  “Wh
at? Fuck Layne?”

  “Wren . . .”

  “Fuck—”

  “Okay, you can leave.”

  I stalk over to the door and open it wide for her. Wren narrows her eyes at me. I don’t budge, even though my stomach is in knots.

  Eventually, she stands, walking past me and out of my apartment. “I just don’t want you to sacrifice everything for a woman who doesn’t care about you.”

  I don’t know what to say to that. The words sting in that way that the truth often can.

  “I’ll let you know what I decide,” I say firmly. “Thanks for stopping by.”

  And just like that, I close the door.

  Am I closing the door on this friendship, one that’s gotten me through some of the hardest years of my life? I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore. I feel like I’m floating through space, untethered and limbs flailing. Which way is up, and which way is down?

  With a clammy hand, I pull my phone out of my back pocket. Time to face the inevitable. I dial Layne.

  “Hello, you’re on speaker.”

  I smile. It’s an involuntary reaction whenever I hear her voice. “Hi, Layne.”

  At first, there’s a pause on the other end. “What, no jokes? No, oh, I’m sorry, wrong number. I thought this was the STD clinic,” she drawls, mocking my low voice.

  I chuckle. I’ll admit, that was a good one.

  “Not today.” How do I tell her this?

  “Oh, is this a booty call?” She lets out a disappointed sigh. “Because I’m drowning in client portfolios at the moment, and it’s not a good time, Griffin.” I can hear the click-clack of her nails against her keyboard.

  “It’s not a booty call. I have something to tell you.”

  “Oh,” she says in a chirpy surprised tone, then her voice lowers. “Oh no, do you actually have an STD?”

  “No.” I laugh, but it feels forced. “I’m clean. I, um . . . I’ve got a job opportunity.”

  I hear her fingers still against the keys. “A job? What job?”

  “With Milos International, the group I interviewed with a few weeks ago.”

  “Oh my God, Griff! That’s big!” The excitement in her voice would be contagious if only I didn’t know the caveat.

  “It’s a great opportunity. Benefits, a student loan supplement program, new digs . . .”

  “New digs?”

  “Yeah.” My voice gets tighter by the second. “That’s why I’m calling. The job is in New York City.”

  She’s quiet for a second. “Oh. Wow, that’s a big move.”

  “I know. I’m not sure if I should do it.”

  “You absolutely should.”

  What? I feel like a trap door beneath me opens, and I’m falling.

  “You think so?” I ask, but I don’t recognize my own voice. My heart is pounding, audible in my ears.

  “Yes, it’s a good move for you. I wouldn’t necessarily pick New York City for you, because the culture there is much less laid back, and their expectations are going to be . . .”

  As she continues, rambling on about the New York mentality and rent increases and x, y, and z, my head is spinning.

  Does Layne truly want me to go? Is this thing we have—this indescribable, kinetic thing we have—really that disposable to her? I focus back in.

  “But on the upside,” she says, “this will be a perfect way to pay back your student loans, and right out of grad school. You’ll be surrounded by young people your age too. There are too many reasons to count.”

  “Right. Lots of reasons.” My chest is tight, and I realize I’m clutching the phone so hard my knuckles are white.

  What I want is a real shot with Layne, rather than be used like some boy toy. But if I move to New York, that’ll never happen. And then there’s Wren, who’s all too happy to make the move with me. Wren, who I’m pretty sure would also like to take a ride on my cock.

  Here’s a twisted thought. Why does no one want my heart? It can mess with a man’s head.

  There’s another pause on the other end of the line. It’s so deadly quiet, I can’t even hear her typing.

  “Well, was that it? I have some work to get back to, so . . .”

  I laugh again, but this time it’s hollow and detached. I can’t manage anything else. “’Bye, Layne.”

  “’Bye, Griffin.”

  I hang up and whip the phone across the room. It smashes against the wall and then drops to the floor, its screen probably shattered, but I don’t care. I bury my face in my hands, releasing a shaky breath into my palms. Dragging my fingers down my cheeks, I stare blankly ahead into my unknown future.

  I guess I’m moving to New York.

  19

  * * *

  LAYNE

  “Do you think you could elaborate on that a little?” Dr. Benson asks.

  More like I’ll elaborate on your face if you keep asking me that stupid question.

  I’ve only been at my therapist appointment for fifteen minutes now, but I swear to God, after the first five minutes, it started to feel like an interrogation. I’ve never gotten upset or annoyed with Dr. Benson before, but I guess there’s a first time for everything.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what else to say about it.” I sigh, crossing one leg over the other on her green velvet couch and fixing my gaze on the bookshelf across from me. “What Griffin and I have is fun. It’s casual and sexy and makes me feel like a teenager again. Those things don’t exactly add up to let’s get married and raise lots of babies together.”

  “Then why can’t you look me in the eye when you say that?” Dr. Benson asks from her gray armchair, peering at me over her horn-rimmed glasses, her brows raised, her voice gentle and nudging.

  And that’s exactly the problem. I don’t want to be nudged.

  I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself before looking her in the eye. “Because the idea that Griffin and I should be in a serious relationship is ridiculous.”

  Even as the words leave my mouth, I can hear the shadow of doubt in them. But honestly? I’m telling the truth.

  Is there some small part of me that wishes he could be the kind of man I need him to be, to step up to the plate and be a supportive husband, and one day, a supportive father? You bet your ass there is. But I’ve known him for four years now, and I still haven’t found any concrete evidence that he wants that kind of future with me.

  I’m pretty sure that all along he was just looking to get in my pants. And news flash: he finally did that.

  Don’t get me wrong, I have no regrets on that front—the sex is mind-blowing, and even if it makes me a bad person, the fact that we have to keep it all a secret makes it even hotter. My point is, I’m happy with how things are, and there’s no way in hell I’m about to start messing with it now.

  “And you’re sure that your . . . certainty on the matter has absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Griffin has a promising job offer in New York?”

  Goddammit, I hate it when she sees right through me.

  A pang of anxiety hits me at the mention of his exciting new opportunity, the same one I’ve been trying to avoid thinking about from the second he told me about it. I did my best to sound happy for him. Hell, I even encouraged him to go. But on the inside, a part of me split in half. He wants to leave, and just when things between us are picking up. If that’s not a sign that he doesn’t want anything serious with me, then I don’t know what is.

  I chew the inside of my lip for a moment, holding Dr. Benson’s quizzical gaze before I finally break down. “Okay, fine. Maybe it has something to do with that.”

  “Mm-hmm. And how are you feeling about the possibility that he might be relocating?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. A lot of different things. From a career perspective, I’m over the moon for him. Grad school is hard work, so it’s great that he’s seeing positive results come out of that.”

  I pause, hoping she’ll let me off the hook with that answer. But who am I kidding? She’s my th
erapist. And kind of a hard-ass. She never lets me off the hook.

  “And what about other perspectives? Your personal, more romantic one, perhaps?”

  I shift in my seat, re-crossing my legs, and stare at that damn motivational poster on the wall, the turtle my trusty focal point for those moments in therapy when I don’t know what to say. Or in this case, when I don’t want to tell her about whatever it is she might be leading me to tell her about.

  She clears her throat so softly, she could easily deny that she even did it. But I know this move from her. She does it whenever I avoid answering. Another one of the subtle ways she likes to nudge our appointments along.

  “Personally . . . I’m not so thrilled. I guess the idea of him leaving feels like an end to something that just started between us.”

  “But he might not take the job.”

  “It’s a great opportunity. He’d be crazy to turn it down.”

  “That may be true, but why don’t we consider for a moment the possibility that he wouldn’t be crazy to turn it down. Can you think of any reasons why he might want to stay?”

  Crossing my arms, I take a moment to breathe so I don’t sigh for the third time in ten minutes. I’m trying to be mature and play along with this whole therapy thing, but the more she steers me in this direction, the less I want to play along.

  “Look, I can see where you’re going with this. I just don’t think he’s interested in turning this fling into a real relationship.”

  “Why not?”

  “Isn’t it obvious? If that’s what he was looking for, he wouldn’t be applying for jobs out of state. He’d be looking for opportunities nearby, or at the very least, opportunities that wouldn’t make us long distance for an indefinite amount of time.”

  “Maybe he did. Maybe he hasn’t heard back from those companies yet.”

  “Still, though. Why would he tell me about this one? Why would he even be seriously considering it?”

  “Right now, Layne, I’m more interested in finding out why this whole subject is bothering you so much. Especially if you really don’t think that the two of you don’t have a serious future together.” Her brows knit together as she looks at me with concern, and I can feel tears stinging at the corners of my eyes.