Nobody Looks Good in Leather Pants (or bowties), Dear Professor Book #1

Part 2

She nudged my knee again with her foot, smiling a smug smile as she sing-songed, "Admit it. He was nice. And hot. And he could have been smart and funny, but you'll never know. You left, because you freaked out like a dork."

"Fine. Fine, I freaked out like a dork! You would've, too. I'm telling you, just looking at him, he wasn't the kind of guy girls like us date."

"Girls like us? You mean smart, funny, incredibly beautiful and talented girls?"

I gave her a reluctant smile, because we were normal girls.

Smart and funny? Yeah. Sure.

Incredibly beautiful and talented? Hard to say, mostly because I don't think women who are beautiful by societal standards usually realize they're beautiful, not really. I've never met a person who had an accurate grasp of their own physical beauty (or lack thereof).

Therefore, hard to say.

Was I beautiful? I didn't think so.

Better just not to dwell on it.

"Nice girls," I clarified. "We were nice girls. That's what I meant."

She gave me a face so I held up my saucy wooden spoon. "Don't give me that face. We are nice girls. This guy, he was nice, but he wasn't nice."

"Look at you. You're a judging-Jessica. Now who isn't being nice?"

"That's not what I mean. I'm not being judgmental. I'm just saying, I would have bored him. I'm boring-nice. I'm not riding-a-motorcycle-nice, or wearing-leather-pants-frequently nice, or going-to-the-gym-for-fun nice, or going-to-clubs-and-sexy-dancing nice."

"Unless it's eighties night. We go to clubs on eighties night."

I reduced the heat of the sauce and turned my attention to the boiling pot of spaghetti. "See? That just proves my point. We like to dance to eighties music, where it's acceptable to do the robot and other various and sundry dorky dances."

Emily frowned. "So what? That's not boring. That's awesome."

"Yes. To us and our kind, that's awesome. To leather-fine-pants, that's boring and lame. He probably goes to clubs and sexes up strangers against walls. He looked like that kind of guy, like he could, like that's what he does on Tuesdays."

Now it was Emily's turn to give me a pinched look. "And you know this how?"

I shrugged, pulling a string of spaghetti from the pot and testing its mushiness. "These are truths universally acknowledged. Men who ride motorcycles, who wear leather like a second skin, and look hot doing it don't date ladies who idolize Tolstoy. Tuesday night is trivia night for me, unless I have a new jigsaw puzzle I'm excited about or I'm in my tragic love story reading cave."

"Again, awesome. Who doesn't like trivia night and jigsaw puzzles?"

"Hot men who spend their Tuesdays having sex with hot women."

"But he could do both. Hot sex, then trivia."

I huffed, because I knew she was playing devil's advocate without being serious. Time for her to face facts.

"Be honest with yourself, Em. What would you have done if you'd been in my place?" Emily opened her mouth as though to argue, but I gave her a hard look and challenged, "Be serious."

She frowned as she considered my words, her shoulders slumping. I drained the spaghetti, a ball of irritation and restlessness forming in my stomach the longer she stayed mute. Part of me hoped she'd continue to tell me I was wrong. Tell me I was being narrow-minded, that she would have stayed and shared a drink, swapped numbers, gone on a motorcycle ride.