“Great. I’m Johnathan. John works,” he said. “Sorry I’m late. I should be used to it around here by now, but traffic was a nightmare.”
“No worries.” I settled back into my seat, extending a hand toward the empty one across from me. “I was just getting some work done.”
“Oh, that’s great.”
As he sat down, I noticed just how put together he was, unbuttoning his suit jacket.
He looked like he’d just walked out of a magazine ad for successful business people or maybe a high-end cologne commercial. I’d genuinely mentally prepared myself for a guy in a faded band tee and cargo shorts in winter because he wasn’t going to let the weather control hisstyle, like date number four … or was that five?
I was getting them mixed up now.
But this guy? He was a complete surprise.
“So, how’s your morning going?” John asked, adjusting his suit jacket and leaning in slightly.
I smiled, feeling a little more at ease than I had felt a bit ago, thinking about this eight hundredth date. “Pretty good actually. Like I said, I’m just getting some work done. It’s nice to write outside of the house or else I turn into a troll, all holed up in my apartment until my roommate, Gina, insists I get out for some fresh air.”
“You get into the zone.”
I wished I could say yes, peeking back down at my … article I was currently finishing up. “I’m a freelance writer, so my schedule is a little more flexible these days.”
He raised a groomed eyebrow. “Oh.”
“Something the matter?”
“No. That sounds interesting.”
“Why do I think that isn’t true.”
“I’m sorry. It is.” He shook his head, trying to get back on track. “What do you write, specifically?”
“Well …” I hesitated. Warning bells that something was about to go wrong started a gentle trill in the back of my mind. I’d had them built in between date three and four. Or was that a PTSD symptom? Post-traumatic stressful dates? “Mostly content for different brands. Like copywriting and articles for websites and stuff. Right now, I’m working on an article about lawn furniture.”
John chuckled, and for a brief second, I thought he might’ve just been surprised or maybe trying to keep the conversation light. It was funny in a laugh or cry kind of way.
But then his face shifted into something more … amused and not at just the topic, but …
“Lawn furniture?” he repeated, clearly trying to hold back a laugh. “Wow, that’s, uh … pretty specific.”
“It is,” I attempted to joke. “Isn’t it?”
You know, it kind of sounds like one of thosestarving artistthings. You know, where you’re doing something completely unrelated to your dream job just to make ends meet.”
I blinked, a bit stunned. I wasn’t sure if he was teasing or if he really thought my work wasn’t serious.
Though it was lawn furniture— No.
“Excuse me?” I asked, my tone a little sharper than I’d intended and my voice shaky. “I mean, I get that it’s not the most glamorous topic, but it’s still writing. And the pay isn’t bad. It keeps me afloat while I search for more stable work.”
John looked at me then—really looked at me—and his face immediately flushed with embarrassment. “Wait … you’re serious?” He paused, then quickly said, “Sorry, I didn’t mean to—I wasn’t—I mean, that’s actually really impressive. It’s just … okay, lawn furniture? I didn’t expect that.”
I felt a wave of frustration building.
I could get up and leave, but this was a good seat. I had free coffee refills for at least another hour, and I didn’t want to leave yet if not because I was hoping the date was going to go well, at least to get some work done for the day. For me.
And for right now, whether he thought it was worthwhile or not, writing was writing, and it paid the bills. Most of them, anyway. Now, here he was, a guy who seemed to have everything figured out, treating my work like it was a joke.
I could make fun of myself. God, I could even be downright critical. But I wasn’t going to let this guy do it for me.
