Page 96 of What Boys Learn

“I’mmaking a big mistake?”

I shook Curtis’s hand off my arm, but neither man seemed to notice.

“We’re not even dating,” I said.

Curtis shout-whispered in my direction, “That’s not his business, either.”

“I know it’s not. But I want to see the embarrassment on his face when he realizes he’s making a public stink for nothing.”

Robert wasn’t cowed. “You shouldn’t be letting Benjamin spend every day with this guy.”

“So, youarewatching us. And you’re acting like a teenager whose hormones have gone haywire, which is the last thing I need.”

“You don’t know what you need,” Robert said. “Not in this case.”

Only two nights ago, I’d spent a perfectly good evening with Robert, studying criminology files, drinking beer, eating pizza—withnoneof this. No juvenile behavior. No jealousy. I had believed, once again, that we could be friends.

I stifled a groan of frustration. “Don’t do this, Robert.”

Loud enough for the whole bar to hear, he said, “Do what—tell you not to fuck this guy?”

My face flamed. Between the wine in my gut and the anger and humiliation bubbling in my veins, I felt woozy.

“That’s enough. Don’t call me again. Don’t text. Don’t stop by. We’re done, Robert. We were done before. You just don’t seem to get it.”

“Andyoudon’t seem to get that you’re being hoodwinked. This guy’s misrepresenting himself.”

“What are youtalkingabout.”

“Ask him about his ex-wife. Ask him about the restraining order.”

“We’re leaving,” Curtis said, “and we’ll keep your warning in mind . . . officer.”

Under my breath, I said, “He’s not an officer. He got fired.”

The bartender, a maternal older brunette named Sheila, came around the bar in time to put an arm around Robert’s shoulder. “Honey, let’s get you that refill. And some mozzarella sticks, on the house.”

Curtis and I made use of the distraction to slip out the door. As soon as we were down the block, he said, “He implied he’d arrest us for drunk driving. He was impersonating a cop.”

“He is a cop.”

“Was, you said.” Curtis turned, furious. “He showed off his gun. He wanted me to think he could arrest me. There’s something abnormal about that guy.”

Curtis wasn’t wrong. But I’d already taken enough machismo. I wasn’t going to defend Robert, but I wasn’t going to piss all over him, either. I put a hand on Curtis’s forearm to slow him down.

“Why did he mention your ex-wife?”

“Restraining order. On the advice of her attorney. Oldest trick in the book.”

“I’m not familiar with all the tricks. Enlighten me.”

“She was the one who violated the marriage—infidelity, plundering of our shared bank accounts—and when I told her I wanted a divorce, she called 911 and made a false report that I hit her.”

We stopped at the crosswalk, waiting for the light.

In a cooler voice, he said, “It was clever, when you think about it. I write about men’s issues, I’m a respected psychologist. What’s the best way to punish me? Make the community think I’m an abusive partner.”

“Did people believe her?”