Page 27 of Banter & Blushes #1

THE “WORST” ADVICE THAT ALMOST KILLED ME

LUCA

I had never been so confused in my life.

And I’d been confused a lot—like, really confused—throughout my twenty-eight years.

I was the guy who mixed up his keys with his phone, who thought “unagi” was the key to inner peace (I’ve since learned it’s a sushi), and who once tried to microwave a pizza with the box still on it (don’t ask, it was a long time ago).

But this? This felt like a level of confusion I had never quite reached before.

I was absolutely certain of one thing—Rebecca was the kind of woman I could see myself with.

I mean, I could literally picture it in my head—her sitting across from me at a cozy dinner table, laughing at some dumb joke I made, me making her lasagna tacos every Tuesday because why not?

It was simple. It was perfect. And it worked .

Her smile and joy would be the fuel I would need to do what I had to do every day.

Except... she was pulling away.

And it wasn’t just me being paranoid. I noticed the way she’d stiffen when I got too close.

The way her eyes would dart away when I said anything even remotely serious.

It was like she was trying to stop herself from falling into whatever we had between us, and no matter how much I tried to convince her I wasn’t just some dumb guy with a crush, she wasn’t buying it.

So naturally, when things started to spiral, I called Joe. I don’t know why I always call Joe, but I do. Maybe it’s because he’s the only guy I know who can give advice that’s somehow worse than my own thoughts, which is both depressing and somehow comforting.

I was sitting at the hotel bar, nursing a half-empty glass of whiskey, staring at the ice cubes like they were the only thing in the world that made sense. My phone buzzed on the bar top, and I picked it up, seeing Joe’s name flashing on the screen.

I didn’t have the energy for small talk, but I answered anyway. After all, I called him first.

“Joe,” I grumbled into the phone.

“You sound miserable,” he said, without even a hint of concern. I could practically hear his smirk through the phone. “What happened? Did you try to get her to eat a lasagna taco again?”

“I’m serious, Joe,” I muttered, staring into my glass. “She’s pulling away. I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. I thought I was clear with her, but... she’s not buying it.”

Joe was silent for a moment, probably trying to find a way to give me advice that was somehow dumber than the last time. “Okay, okay. I got it.” I could hear him shift in his seat. “You know what you need to do, right?”

I sighed, already regretting that I called him. “Please, Joe, don’t start with your stupid ideas again. But at this point, you might as well tell me. I’m desperate.”

“No, no, trust me,” Joe said confidently. “What you need to do is this: show her you’re serious. Like, really serious. Go to her, look her in the eyes, and say, ‘I’m not going anywhere.’ And then you drop a single rose on her lap?—”

“Joe, I’m not about to start a romance novel with a rose,” I interrupted, holding my forehead in my hand.

“Wait, wait, let me finish. Then you tell her you’ve been thinking about her nonstop, like all the time , and you write her a poem. You have to show her you’re a true romantic . Women love that, right?”

I groaned, tipping the glass to my lips and draining the rest of the whiskey. “Joe, I don’t write poems . I’m not about to turn into some tragic poet for her. And I’m not giving her a rose like we’re on some date from a rom-com.”

“Look, man,” Joe said, his tone going into “I’m giving you life-changing wisdom” mode. “Women want to know they’re wanted . That’s the key. You need to be the guy who’s willing to, like, fight for her. Show her you’re not just some dude who can’t get it together.”

“Yeah, I get that,” I muttered. “But this is Rebecca. She’s not going to respond to some cheesy ‘fight for her’ routine. She’s... she's different. There’s a wall there.”

Joe snorted. “Different, huh? Look, here’s what you do: next time you’re with her, casually mention you’re making her lasagna tacos— but —wait for it—you make a ‘serious face,’ like you’re just laying down a foundation for a future together .

Then tell her, like, ‘I want us to make this a weekly thing. You and me. Lasagna tacos every week, no exceptions.’ ”

I stared at the phone for a second, trying to process what he just said. “Are you seriously telling me that I should tell her we’re having a future together by talking about weekly lasagna tacos?”

How did he even know what I was thinking? Did he pick up some new hobby as a psychic that I missed?

“Exactly!” Joe said, completely unphased. “It’s subtle. But it’s powerful. You’re showing her you want something long-term, man. She’ll be swooning by the end of that conversation.”

I felt the heavy weight of despair in my stomach.

This was the guy I was turning to for advice?

Granted his first advice turned out alright—a pleasant memory Rebecca and I could laugh about.

But this? Poetry? Roses? Making her swoon over weird food combinations while everything feels on the brink of collapse?

“Joe, are you even hearing yourself right now? No woman is going to swoon over a weekly lasagna taco commitment. That’s not how this works. ”

“Well, it works for me,” Joe replied, sounding totally offended. “I got Tiff to agree to a ‘meatball Tuesdays’ thing, and that’s been working fine for us.”

That relationship lasted a month.

I resisted the urge to throw my phone into the nearest ocean. “Joe... please, just... stop. I need something real. Something that’ll actually make her see that I’m serious about this. I don’t think she’s even going to take me seriously if I start talking about tacos.”

He was silent for a beat, and I swear I could hear him thinking— and it wasn’t a good sign .

“Alright, fine,” he finally said. “You want to go big or go home, huh? Okay, try this. Next time you see her, take her to dinner and order the most expensive thing on the menu. Like, the $60 steak or whatever. But then, when the bill comes, just act like it’s no big deal.

Like you’re loaded . Women love that. They love it. ”

I just blinked at the phone, wondering if I’d somehow ended up in a parallel universe where all men gave terrible advice or if the whiskey was finally making me inebriated. “You want me to act rich ?” I asked incredulously. “Like I’m some kind of... Wall Street guy with a yacht and a jet?”

“Exactly!” Joe said, far from done. “But you gotta be subtle about it. Don’t overdo it. Just drop it into the conversation casually. ‘Oh, yeah, I just bought a condo, but it’s no big deal,’ or ‘My vacation home in the Hamptons is nice, but I don’t spend that much time there.’”

I buried my face in my hands, feeling the full weight of my impending doom. “Joe, you’re giving me the worst advice on the planet.”

“Well, you asked for it, buddy,” Joe replied, totally unbothered. “I’m just telling you how it worked for me. You’ll thank me later. Trust me.”

The line went dead, and I stared at the phone in disbelief, shaking my head. I didn’t know what was worse—the fact that Joe actually thought his advice was good or the fact that I was considering using some of it just to see if it worked .

As for it working for him? Please. The man is still painfully, impossibly single— like a tragic hero in a romance novel who can’t seem to get it right, no matter how many times he tries.

With a sigh, I stood up and paid for my drink, feeling more depressed than ever. My brain was a jumble of tacos, condos, and ridiculous, well-meaning advice from the least qualified person on the planet.

And through it all, Rebecca was still... out there.

I had no idea how to fix this. But one thing was for sure—whatever I tried next, it definitely wasn’t going to involve tacos, roses, or pretending to be some rich guy with a vacation home.