The Intimacy Experiment (The Roommate #2) - Rosie Danan Page 0,38

here.

To a poorly lit, crowded Venice sidewalk with a frat guy bouncing side to side in a bad Rocky impression.

“Come on, pussy. You wanted to defend the honor of your slut girlfriend. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t hard to see that Ethan had made a mistake. Or rather that he’d underestimated the consequences of his actions.

This drunk frat guy with his blond hair sweat-slicked to his forehead knew it. The pedestrians on the sidewalk who gave them a wide berth knew it. The bouncer at the bar a few doors down, sitting on a wooden stool with his arms folded giving Ethan a Not my problem, buddy look, knew it too.

Frat guy clearly wanted blood. He was cracking his knuckles and rolling his beefy neck and probably imagining the vibrant red color of Ethan’s blood as it poured from his nose.

Out of pure survival instinct, Ethan tried to call up any self-defense techniques he knew.

The only advice that came to mind was a scene from Miss Congeniality.

He let out a burst of semihysterical laughter.

If he survived the next fifteen minutes, it might very well be thanks to Sandra Bullock teaching the audience her S-I-N-G self-defense mechanism. Solar plexus. Instep. Nose. Groin.

This guy was a disaster. Not fit to breathe the same air as Naomi. But still, even as anger roiled in his gut, Ethan didn’t want to fight. What he wanted to do was recommend counseling and hand the man a pamphlet on drinking responsibly.

Ethan wasn’t even sure he was morally allowed to punch this guy. Rabbis were supposed to set an example for their congregations.

On the one hand, Moses had struck down an Egyptian he found beating a Hebrew slave in Exodus. But on the other, Proverbs 16:32. Slowness to anger is better than a mighty person, and the ruler of his spirit than the conqueror of a city.

Considering the relative level of injustice at hand, Ethan should probably try to settle this altercation without violence.

“Come on, dude. Throw ’em up,” his companion said before spitting on the sidewalk, presumably in some kind of display of machismo. “Let’s do this.” He seemed reluctant to throw the first punch. Though it seemed a safe bet that Lobster Shorts was not reviewing various religious resources to settle a philosophical debate on whether he could beat the crap out of Ethan.

“What if we didn’t?” Ethan said, using the kind of soft, gentle voice he practiced when comforting children. “This whole ritual of aggression is sort of barbaric, right? Surely a man with crustaceans on his clothing can see that?”

Lobster Shorts frowned in the general direction of his fly.

It was possible the phrase ritual of aggression had gone over his head.

“Look.” Ethan decided to try again. “You’re drunk and belligerent. I can’t say whether it’s because you don’t respect women in general, or if it’s because you think sex workers opt in to harassment by virtue of their profession. In either case, let me assure you that you’re very much mistaken. It would be easiest on both of us if you could acknowledge fault and take a cab home, where you will ideally reflect on your actions and consider methods of penance, but I do realize that’s reaching.”

“Reach for this, asswipe.” The guy cupped his own crotch in vulgar suggestion.

“Seriously?” Ethan shook his head. “How old are you? Even if we assume that you don’t regret your actions, which I must stress is extremely disappointing, is laying me out really worth assault charges?”

“What?” For the first time, frat guy lowered his fists. “Are you, like, gonna call the cops or something?”

At last, a translation that had found purchase.

“I imagine I might find it difficult to personally make the call if you remain intent on rearranging my face, but I have to assume that one of those nice people”—he waved at a cluster of rubbernecking diners on the patio across the street—“might do me a favor and alert the appropriate authorities, once they’ve gotten the show they came for, of course.”

Frat guy wiped his brow and grimaced at the onlookers before lowering his voice.

“I don’t really want this going on, like, my record or whatever. I’m applying for jobs right now.”

“Ah, I see.” Ethan smacked his head in an exaggerated pantomime of enlightenment. He figured adding illustrative hand gestures couldn’t hurt. “Once those recruiters see convicted felon on your résumé, they’re hardly going to be able to recommend you. Bet that cab’s sounding better and better, huh?”

With furrowed brows, frat guy seemed to be weighing the