We review the plan. When I’m done, Sully counts off on his fingers. “Surf and turf bachelor dinner? Check. Woman? Check. Tux? Check. But the big question is, can I wear my new Nikes?”

  Troy jumps in. “Nikes as in sneakers?”

  “I don’t mean Nike as in a boutonniere. Unless Nike got into the boutonniere business.” He grabs his phone. “Side note: look into viability of lapel decor as possible new business venture.”

  I don’t have the heart to tell him that florists have already cornered the market on boutonnieres. Instead, I focus on the practical, even though I already know the answer to my question. “Is Nike making tuxedo-wear shoes now?”

  “That would be awesome, but no.” He slides his thumb across the phone screen, showing us a gorgeous set of gleaming white shelves filled with . . . sneakers. All sorts of sneakers. “My latest score is the new Air VaporMax FK. Check ’em out. They’re dope.”

  “You actually collected all those pairs? For what? To look at?” Troy asks.

  Sully scoffs. “Dude, they’re like stocks. I’m going to turn around and sell these babies. Well, not the VaporMax, because they’re too sick for words. But the others. If you buy quick and sell fast, you can make a nice profit. Always hustling, always looking for an angle.”

  “I completely understand where you’re coming from with the hustle,” I cut in. “That said, I don’t think you should wear sneakers to the wedding.”

  “For what it’s worth, I never wear sneakers when I’m working,” Troy offers. “Not a wedding and not at my other job either.”

  Sully finishes off his latte, considers a moment, then stares at Troy. “Hey. What’s your other job? Writing plays?”

  Troy glances away, his voice lowering. “That doesn’t pay the bills yet.”

  “What does, then?”

  “I do a bunch of stuff at night,” he says, his cheeks reddening a bit.

  “Like what?” Sully presses. “You know what I do. Manage a Foot Locker.”

  Troy takes a breath like this is hard for him. “I do a little construction, a little fire service, some delivery.”

  Sully claps his shoulder. “Don’t be embarrassed, man. Nothing wrong with an honest day’s work, or an honest night’s labor.”

  Wait. Is Troy’s night job what I think it might be?

  “Speaking of honest work, Jason, who’s the lady you’re bringing with you this weekend?” Troy asks.

  “She’s just a good friend. That’s all.”

  Troy snickers. “Methinks the gentleman doth protest too much.”

  Sully slaps his palm on the table, shouting, “Hamlet!”

  “But can you do that line in Klingon?” I ask, successfully sending the conversation down a new rabbit hole and away from Truly.

  When she texts me later to tell me the location for Tuesday’s pub visit, it feels vaguely like a date. Like we’re a couple.

  But that’s ridiculous.

  This is simply a project, and that’s all it’ll ever be.

  And that’s all I want.

  13

  Truly: Why am I looking at my clothes early in the morning, already considering options for tonight? There aren’t that many choices. My wardrobe is simple—black with a side of jeans.

  Charlotte: You look foxy in black. And in jeans.

  Truly: I’m not trying to look foxy! And really, what I wear this evening when I go to a pub with Jason doesn’t matter much, right? I’ll just dress like me.

  Charlotte: The you look is a good look.

  Truly: All right. Favorite skinny jeans it is. I’m ready for tonight and I’m planning on being a model citizen.

  Charlotte: BAHAHAHAHAHAHA

  Truly: You doubt me?

  Charlotte: Of course not. I’m watching a Roomba cat video, not laughing at your efforts at model citizenship.

  Truly: And for that, I can’t wait to come back to you tomorrow and tell you I was an angel. For now, I’m off to meet Presley for a cuppa.

  Charlotte: I can’t wait for your report tomorrow either, you devil.

  Truly: On my way to our coffee date! But question for you – have you ever gone through a million wardrobe options because you’re planning to spend time with someone you’re not even dating? I did that just now. I’m seeing Jason tonight, and . . . well, you know. I need to stay strong.

  Presley: I’m here and I’m going to order you a coffee, black. You always order something ridiculous like a watermelon latte with a side of nutmeg when you’re unsure of something, when in fact you need a coffee, black. Also, that’s what you should have tonight before you see him.

  Truly: Watermelon latte sounds disgusting.

  Presley: And yet I’m sure somewhere in this city, some café sells it.

  Truly: Let us vow to never go to that coffee shop.

  Presley: I accept this suggestion wholeheartedly.

  Truly: Also, black coffee sounds perfect. That’ll keep me strong.

  Presley: Good luck staying strong with the guy you want to bang.

  Truly: I do not want to bang him.

  Presley: Oh, sorry. I meant to say the guy you sooooo want to bang.

  Truly: Between you and Charlotte, I’ve decided friends are the devil. See you in two minutes.

  Presley: I’ll have my best devilish smile for you.

  14

  Ryder meets my eye from across the booth in the studio. “And we’re back for the final segment of The Consummate Wingman. Today, we have a special guest in the studio. You know him as the Modern Gentleman in New York, and he’s dedicated to the cause of helping our listeners be the best they can be. Jason, talk to us. I need your number one new tip.”

  It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m in the booth at the studio where Lockhart records his wildly popular radio show.

  The man is a rock star in the advice business, and with good reason. He tells it like it is, and he has something to say. That’s what I’ve learned matters most. You can have a good voice, be comfortable in front of crowds, and possess a charming grin that warms people to you. But if you want to be an “expert,” you must have a point of view.

  I move closer to the mic. “I’ve been thinking about how we can help our fellow men out there, and I have just the tidbit to share with your listeners. Ryder, tell me something. Do you think there’s ever a need to manspread?”

  He chuckles. “No. Never.”

  “Exactly. I propose an end to manspreading. In the ongoing quest to make manners the next cool trend, can we please keep our knees inside our own personal space?”

  Ryder hoots. “I’m down with that.”

  “Am I right? But if you don’t believe me, gentlemen of the city, put yourself in the place of someone who must share space with you. Let’s say you’re sitting on the train, heading into work, and you spread your legs. Do you really need a foot of space or more between your knees? Is that essential to your comfort and well-being? Your mating posture?”

  Ryder smiles broadly. He’s clearly amused with today’s advice. “Nor is it necessary for your junk.”

  “Exactly. And when you do manspread, do you know what the other person across from you is thinking? They’re thinking, ‘I can’t believe that’s somebody’s son, husband, brother, or what have you.’ Because spread legs are tacky and virtually always uncalled for.”

  Ryder raises a fist. “Down with manspreading. Let’s bring an end to it.”

  “Precisely. One of the reasons I say don’t do this in public is if you keep doing it in public, you’re going to do it in business. You’re going to do it when you sit down for a job interview. You’re going to do it when you sit across from somebody you want to hire you. And I tell you this: it’s highly unlikely anyone is interested in hiring a manspreader.”

  “I think it’s safe to say that employers of the world are thanking you right now.”

  “And I’m thanking your listeners who I know are going to change their habits today.”

  “Well, you heard it here,” Ryder says, shifting to a wrap-it-up tone, “from the Modern Gentlemen in New York. Today’s tip? Just cut that nasty habit, dudes, and we’ll be heading toward a classier society.”

  When the segment finishes, Ryder walks out of the studio with me. “The listeners dig you. It doesn’t hurt that they think you’re speaking from a position of authority simply because of that accent.”

  “It’s true. The accent proves I’m always correct,” I joke.

  “Let’s get you back in the studio in another week. Next Monday good for you?”

  A smile threatens to take over my face, but I do my best to appear grateful and professional and not out of my mind with glee. Don’t want to scare him away. “Sounds great to me.”

  “And listen, I’m really impressed that you’ve built a reputation as an expert on your own over the years. It’s amazing to meet somebody your age who’s gone through Toastmasters and done all sorts of public speaking. We may have an opening soon. I’m going to advocate for you.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate that.”

  When I leave the building, I want to pump a fist, to jump up and down. It’s an odd job I’ve cobbled together, but it’s one I love. Talking. Sharing. Giving advice. And really, trying to save the world one man or woman at a time by keeping them from being disgusting pigs.

  Later that night, I do something else I enjoy.

  I meet up with Truly.

  15

  From the pages of Truly’s Drink Recipe Book

  Gentleman Friend:

  Coffee

  Just Coffee

  Some guys are just . . . hard to categorize. They don’t want to stay in that neat drawer you’ve selected for them.

  There’s the friend drawer, the date drawer, the colleague drawer, the lover drawer, and the boyfriend-material drawer.

  But some men don’t fit in your bureau.

  Take that guy who’s a friend, but not the average friend. You rely on him, you turn to him, and you laugh with him.

  He has interesting things to say. He has a point of view. And you like that. Damn it, you like that more than you should. You find him . . . intriguing. You think you know him, but you’re also keenly aware that you haven’t unearthed everything that makes him tick. And you want to.

  Because there’s more going on.

  You’re not talking about looks, but he has all that. You’re talking about who he is. His brains, his heart, his smarts.

  His charisma.

  Damn, his charisma.

  He has that by the gallon.

  But you made a deal. You have a plan. There is a road map. He’s your friend, he’s simply your gentleman friend.

  And sometimes when you’re heading out to see your gentleman friend, you need a shot of courage.

  No liquor this time, ladies.

  You need to be in complete control.

  If you want to make it through a night with your gentleman friend, you need something strong. We’re talking the stiffest, toughest drink possible to gird yourself.

  Garlic juice.

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  .

  Kidding! Garlic is like bacon. It’s a no-go.

  But coffee? A strong pot of coffee? Yes. Come to mama. None of that French roast crap for the Gentleman Friend drink. The Gentleman Friend is single origin Ethiopian, natural wash, handcrafted, organic with a bright, juicy taste. Never more than 202 degrees. Keeps the brain on high alert. Keeps your attention on anything other than the way your gentleman friend looks when he walks down the street in those dark jeans and that pullover shirt that hugs his pecs, wearing that five-o’clock shadow you want to run your hands over. Coffee will hold your focus when he gets that twinkle in his amber eyes—damn that twinkle. Damn it to hell and back for the way it makes your stomach flip.

  Coffee. God bless coffee.

  Coffee keeps you strong.

  16

  She waits for me outside the pub in Tribeca she picked.

  Dressed in dark jeans that hug her legs and a clingy top that slopes off one shoulder, she’s the woman in black. She hardly ever wears anything colorful, except her lipstick. It’s a wine red and shiny, like there’s a layer of gloss over it.

  Somehow it’s fitting that she’s the color of night, because there’s a toughness to Truly. An edge. She’s no-nonsense, all business, and naturally, I want to take all those black clothes off her.

  But I remind myself I need to maintain balance and exist peacefully in this state of wanting but not having. This is a normal feeling for me to have around her, and I’ve learned to live with it.

  She waves, smiles, then when I reach her, she throws her arms around me. I’m taken aback, nearly knocked over by the unexpectedness of her embrace. But I’m not nimble for nothing. I seize the opportunity and sniff her hair. Fresh, clean, so very her—and do I detect the faintest scent of coffee beans? I do, and hell, now coffee reminds me of sex. “I’ll take this, and gladly. But I’m not sure what the returning hero greeting is for.”

  She grasps me tighter, her arms looping around me, and yes, that’s quite nice too. “Thank you for spreading the gospel of no more manspreading.” She breaks the embrace and clasps my shoulder. “Manspreading is the bane of my existence, and you’re a superhero for doing your part to eliminate the virus that it is.”

  “That’s what I’m here for. To make the world a little more civilized, one bloke at a time.”

  “I see it all night long at the bar. Men have no idea how much it turns off women. I swear, I see groups of women walk away from packs of manspreaders.”

  “Packs. Seems apropos for men with such wild and unruly behavior.”

  “It’s almost as bad as mansplaining. That’s a touch worse, since it’s an insult to intelligence. Down with mansplainers, I say!”

  “You’re on fire tonight.”

  “I might have had a cup of coffee a few minutes ago.”

  “So if you’re normally at a ten when it comes to energy, vim and vigor, you’re at about one hundred now?”

  “Something like that. Also, coffee keeps me strong.”

  “News flash—you’re already strong.”

  She shoots me a look, one I can’t quite read, but it seems to fall squarely on the side of I-know-what-you-look-like-naked. “I need to be strong.”

  “Okay, then.”

  She gestures to the door. “Ready for pub lesson number one?”

  “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

  We head inside and grab two stools at the bar, surveying the decor: leather chairs, round tables, high-backed booths, and the darkest of dark wood everywhere.

  I nod appreciatively. “Looks pretty solid.” My gaze drifts to the bar itself. Beer tankards hang above it. “Very authentic.”

  “Filing that tidbit away,” she says. “I picked this one because it was on my list as having promise. It has that local pub feel, right?”

  “Yes, so you can check that off the list.” I peer toward the back room, cataloging the pool table, and the table football one too, then I make a note to stroll back there later for a proper survey.

  “Good. Because I did a lot of research online. I don’t want you to think I’m simply going to expect you to do all the work.”

  “Like when I fucked you from behind?”

  Her jaw drops, and for the first time in my life, I think I might get slapped. I probably deserve it.

  I definitely deserve it.

  She doesn’t speak at first, just stares. “Did you really just say that?”

  “Did I? Seems that might have been the little devil who sometimes takes over my mouth.”

  “Gentleman, my ass.”

  I shrug a little sheepishly, hoping I haven’t gone too far. “Even the best gentlemen have devils in them.”

  “You and your devil are terrible.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you meant? I feel like incredible was the first line in the review you gave me after.”

  She shakes her head, huffing. “You’re the worst.”

  “Or am I really the best?”

  She leans in close. “Just a little reminder, since you seem to have forgotten some details. I did all the work when I rode you. I seem to remember you saying, Yeah, ride me like that, Truly. Let me watch you fuck me hard.”

  Hallelujah! It worked. “You do realize it’s still hot as fuck when you talk dirty, even if you’re imitating me talking dirty to you? And for the record, that was my favorite view.” My brain has the courtesy to slide that image front and center. “Picturing it again right now.”

  She covers my eyes. “Stop. Just stop.”

  “Nice try, but it’s here in my head with me.”

  She drops her hand. “The worst.”

  “Also, a gentleman always apologizes, so please allow me. I’m sorry for saying you didn’t do any of the work. Now that I think about it, I recall you were fantastic at rocking against me when I bent you over the bed.”

  Her eyes bug out. “You won’t ever stop, will you?”

  I gaze at the ceiling, considering. “Probably not.” I return my focus to her, lowering my voice. “Do you really want me to? To stop?”

  She locks her pretty blue eyes with mine. “Do I? I suppose that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  And she doesn’t technically answer it.

  Perhaps that’s the answer. Don’t stop.

  The bartender swings by, setting down coasters and looking far too much like Liam Hemsworth for my taste. He better not speak like him.

  “Cheers! Welcome to Fox and Frog’s Finest, serving the most authentic pints this side of the pond.”

  Great, really great. He’s Daniel Fucking Craig, with his now-I’m-from-London-and-all-the-ladies-throw-knickers-at-me accent. Why can’t he just sound like a stuffy, rich uncle from Downton Abbey?

  “We are indeed here for the authenticity,” Truly remarks.