AllFreeNovel
Share Us
one
Emotional Support Brownies
My name is Charlotte Louise Grant and I know all there is to know about love. Sure, most (okay all) of my knowledge on this subject has been obtained through cinematic and literary research rather than actual real-life experience, but that’s only because my prince hasn’t come along just yet.
As a die-hard romantic, I’ve kept my eyes and heart wide open in search of my very own happy ending. I always assumed I would meet him naturally. Maybe even in an adorable love at first sight kind of way. A true love story we could share with our kids and our kids’ kids. And so on, but it hasn’t happened, yet. No matter how many times I stop at the neighboring coffee shop, no handsome gentleman accidentally brushes against me, spilling my coffee, and stealing my heart in one fell swoop. No matter how many times I take the elevator, Mr. Right is never rushing in asking me to hold the door as he stumbles on his words in the presence of my beauty. No matter how many trips Cecil and I take to the dog park, I don’t bump into my perfect man as he chases down his hat on a windy day.
It doesn’t help matters that I feel like love surrounds me at every turn. No, really. Love is what I do for a living. I run an online blog called Charley Knows Best: Love Advice from a Hopeless Romantic. I started the blog in my junior year of college as nothing more than a hobby while I finished my degree in Creative Writing, but it quickly took off. Now, eight years later, the blog is my full-time job, and I love every minute of it. But some days it’s exhausting helping other people find their happy ending when I’m still stuck in a never-ending loop of solitude.
At twenty-nine with no significant candidates in sight, I’m tired of waiting around. Patience has never really been my strong suit and clearly, my Mr. Right is going to need to be pointed in the right direction. So, with the assistance of my best friend Millie, I set up my first online dating profile. As an old soul, I had hoped to meet my soulmate by more traditional means. I abhor online dating. There is something about ordering a date as quickly and easily as I can order my lunch that just doesn’t sit right with me. But my research shows that over fifty percent of long-term relationships in modern times begin on dating sites like these.
So that’s how I ended up sitting across from Michael as the scantily clad waitress delivers a basket of chips and cheese. We had matched right away, both having similar interests listed. He’s the typical tall, dark, and handsome man, with a love of animals and strong family values. On paper, he seems perfect. Lucky me, right? Unfortunately, Michael looks nothing like his profile picture. The online Michael had a full head of hair and a trim, athletic figure. This Michael has a softened middle and receding hairline he is desperately trying to hide by combing the wispy strands of remaining hair forward. Sure, if I squint a bit, I can see some vague similarities between real-life Michael and his online persona, but his profile picture is at least a decade old. Still, I’m not ready to write him off just yet.
I dressed tastefully for the occasion, just a classic, flirty black dress, but I’m feeling very overdressed and uncomfortable now, amidst the tense silence of our booth. Especially since his eyes are following the half-dressed waitress. Biting back a sigh, I awkwardly search for something to discuss to get this date back on track. My voice is uncharacteristically high as I latch onto the first topic I can think of. “So, you’re in finance, right?”
My question startles him from his intense study of the server’s derriere as she’s walking away. “Huh?” His muddy brown eyes latch onto mine with a level of annoyance one might usually reserve for unwanted pests. I see the moment it happens. It’s like a lightbulb goes off in his brain as he finally remembers he’s here on a date with me. Smirking, he says, “Oh, yes. Yes, I’m in finance. What was it you did, again?”
I hold my smile in place with sheer stubbornness. My mouth is stretched so tightly that my smile probably looks more like a grimace, but I refrain from commenting on his inappropriate behavior. My hopes for this date plummet lower and lower with each minute in his presence. How had I sunk so low? Me? I’m supposed to be an expert on love. And yet, here I am. Sitting in a crappy sports bar that smells like a nauseating combination of sweat and onion rings, in a booth with all the comforts of concrete, and on a date with a guy who can’t even be bothered to feign interest in me. I close my eyes and search for the patience to make it through this, absentmindedly moving to cross my legs. Only, I’m not prepared for resistance as my sweaty thigh sticks to the cheap vinyl seat. I sigh, loudly, and glare down at the offending appendage. At this point, I wouldn’t be surprised if Michael tells me I have steam coming from my ears. The level of annoyance and agitation I’m feeling at the general mess this entire date had become was quickly reaching volcanic levels. With more force than is really necessary, I push one hand against the seat and jerk my leg free.
PFFFTTT!
I unglue my skin from the seat, but I’m not expecting the squeak and exhalation of air that sounds an awful lot like a fart. I feel my entire face flush red as my agitation pops like a balloon and embarrassment takes its place. Holding my hands up in front of me, I rush to reassure my date. “That wasn’t… That wasn’t me. It was uh…” I cough to clear my throat; my current level of mortification is making the simple task of speaking difficult. Sitting up straighter, I try to contort my face into the most dignified expression I can manage under the circumstances and say, “it was the seat.”
For the first time the entire night, I have my date’s full attention as he stares at me with a look of disgust and disbelief. My cheeks feel like they’ve caught fire by this point, but he merely grunts and looks away, no doubt searching for the same woman his eyes have been glued to all night.
What a disaster. Still, I must be a glutton for punishment, because I swallow the sharp retort on my tongue and decide to make one last effort to salvage this disastrous date. I realize that with all the excitement I never answered his original question. So, determined to put the seat-theatrics behind me for the evening, I put my fake smile back on my face and tried to get his attention once more. “I’m actually an advice blogger. Romance, mostly. I help people find their very own happy endings for a living.” My false smile dims a bit as he gives a slight nod of his head. He doesn’t even attempt to carry on the conversation or even pretend to be interested in me or what I do for a living. His eyes look right through me as he shoves a queso loaded chip down his gullet, not bothering to close his mouth all the way to chew it. I don’t bother trying to hide my grimace of disgust at his caveman dinner manners. What’s the point? He isn’t even looking at me. He probably isn’t even listening to a word I say as he shoves another chip in his mouth, dropping a hefty blob of queso cheese on the tabletop.
Testing my theory, I say, “and as an alternate form of income, I like to rob the occasional bank.” As expected, Michael just nods and doesn’t even glance in my direction.
My already plummeting hopes reach rock bottom. This is wrong. This isn’t how it should go at all. I know all there is to know about romance. This should be easy. Simple, even. Boy meets girl. Falls head over heels for the girl. Makes grand gestures to earn his place in the girl’s heart. Makes some nominal mistake for which she forgives him, and they get their happily ever after. It really shouldn’t be this hard.
Just before I open my mouth to thank him for his time and let him down easily, he whips his head around to meet my gaze. Swallowing the food in his mouth with an exaggerated gulp, he says, “Look, I’m sure you’re a nice girl,” his mildly disgusted gaze as he surveys my form suggests otherwise, “but I don’t think this is going to work. I’m not into heavier set women. You understand, right?”
Shock has me physically recoiling, causing my head to bump into the back of the booth. I rub the newly sore spot on my head and turn my focus back on the man in front of me. “Excuse me?” I try to keep my tone down but judging by the turning heads in the surrounding booths, I don’t succeed.
Michael at least has the grace to look a little sheepish as he holds his hands out to me in a placating gesture. He says, “Look, I’m not trying to insult you. I’m just saying. Ya know?” He holds my gaze as he swipes his wispy strands over his balding dome and then shrugs his shoulders. The cocky, confident smile on his face makes it clear that he believes himself to be a top prize. A fact which is only confirmed when he says, “you’re just not my type, babe.” He doesn’t even finish rejecting me before his eyes are back to searching out the waitress he’s been drooling over the entire evening. Clearly dismissing me as not worthy of his time.
I curl my hands up in my lap, holding onto my temper by the skin of my teeth as I try to keep myself from making a scene. It’s such a man thing to point out a woman’s perceived flaws when he is far from perfect himself.
I need to get out of here before I lose it in front of everyone. A quick glance around showed we already had most of the bar’s attention and I didn’t feel like being embarrassed any further this evening. Decision made, I grab my purse and jacket from the seat next to me and move to leave. I’m not offering to cover my portion of the meal and I don’t even feel a bit bad about it. My grumbling stomach chooses that moment to remind me that our entrees hadn’t even arrived yet. I’d just grab something on the way home. I couldn’t sit through more of this.
But then, to make matters even better, Michael pauses mid-chew to speak with bits of slobbery, half masticated chips spewing from his mouth like missiles. “Oh, and you can get the check, right? I left my wallet at home.”
“Oh, God. You weren’t there, Millie. It was awful! He was awful!” I pride myself on being relatively unflappable, but that wasn’t the case last night. One foray into modern online dating and I find myself dramatically draped across Millie’s powder-blue couch, with my face buried shamefully into the burnt-orange cushions, only emerging for air and additional complaints. “He had the nerve to call me fat. He wasn’t anywhere near the thirty-five his profile claims! But did you see me mentioning that?” I toss my head back down a little too quickly and get a mouthful of the polyester pillow. Spitting it out, I toss that cushion to the side and bury my face in the neighboring one.
Millie sits on the edge of the couch, safely out of wallowing range, and waits patiently for the storm to pass. She’s used to my dramatic behavior after all these years. Amelia Elizabeth Cross, formerly known as Amelia Elizabeth Steele, has been my best friend since our first year of college. Millie is beautiful, blonde, and the perfect size four I have strived to be my entire life. If she wasn’t the nicest person in the entire world, I would be forced to hate her on principle alone. She’s the Yin to my Yang. The calm to my crazy. And my favorite person in the entire world. Sure, maybe I’ve lucked out in the romance department, but I won the friendship lottery the moment I met Millie.
“Are you done?” Even her voice is perfect. Dainty. Whimsical. It’s maddening.
Groaning into my pillow in answer like any reasonable grown adult would, I snuggle in for a good, long sulk. I live here now. I am one with the couch.
I get no warning before I feel a soft thwack on the back of my head. I wouldn’t have known what had happened at all if I didn’t hear Millie’s soft giggle. “Stop being so overdramatic, Charley!” Clearing her throat, she adds a false stern note to her voice and says, “and stop drooling on my couch pillows!”
Clearly, Millie doesn’t understand exactly how dire my circumstances are. Sighing, I sit up, facing Millie and try to drive my point home. “I’m done. I’m done dating. I might as well adopt a horde of cats. I’m not really sure how Cecil will feel about that, but it’s time that I embraced my inevitable future.” My words are futile. Almost as futile as my love life at the moment. Millie doesn’t look moved by my speech at all. Just sits next to me, the calm to my storm, and waits me out. I toss my hands up in the air in defeat and slump back onto the couch with my eyes closed.
In the midst of throwing my pity party, I must not have been paying nearly enough attention to my surroundings because before I knew what was happening, Millie picks the pillow up again and thwacks me in the face with it once more. “Oof, what was that for? You’re supposed to be supportive and helpful in my time of need, Millie!” Instinctively, my hand rushes to cover my face and protect myself from any more incoming projectiles.
Millie is clearly not understanding the gravity of the current situation because she still wears a smile as she says, “Oh, Charley! This is not the end of the world. It was one bad date. It doesn’t mean you’re doomed to spinsterhood. You just have to get back out there!”
