Fifteen minutes late.
So far, I was really starting my twelve blind dates before Christmas—when I was set to go home with Gina to where we had grown up—with a bang.
And this one wasn’t even an actual date.
It was a practice date with Gina. Though it wasn’t out of character for her to be running fashionably late, I was feeling more than a little frustrated with her at this point. I could be home right now, being productive.
Or at least, I could be home with a late-night tea, attempting to be productive before turning on another episode of a reality dating television.
There was one show right now about finding a last-minute date before the holidays. It felt a little too pertinent to my own love life, but at least I wasn’t broadcasting it.
It was nicer to make fun of others attempting to find love rather than recognize that you had basically been set up onyour own version of embarrassing relationship challenges by somewhat friends, who stood you up.
I sighed, wondering how bad it would be if I checked my email another time. I had a good feeling about that last job that I’d applied for yesterday. It was a staff writing position at a small art magazine that usually posted online and through a quarterly publication about local hot spots. They just had to reach back out to me. Other than the fact that I was new to the area and still hadn’t explored farther than my own neighborhood block, I was perfect for it.
Or I hoped it was.
I opened my phone and texted Gina.
Where are you???
No response.
There wasn’t even a tinyReadcheck mark that told me she’d glanced at it.
Unlike me, Gina had come alive since we’d moved to the city. I wasn’t naive enough to think things would go back to the way they had been in high school—when we spent entire summers in each other’s bedroom, daydreaming about living in New York and having grown-up jobs and grown-up apartments. We’d grown separately for almost half a decade, and now … well, we were still best friends. But we were trying to figure out how these slightly newer, more independent versions of ourselves fit together again.
Some days, when it was just us in our cramped apartment, eating bodega ramen and laughing about the guy upstairs who rollerbladed at midnight, it was like no time had passed. But then there were weekends, when she slipped on her slim black gallery dress and left for openings, full of wine and collectors and people who talked in breathy tones about “negative space,”and I felt a little unmoored. Waiting to be pulled into the current again. Waiting for Gina to lead, like she used to.
Once, as she’d lined her eyes with a precision I could never match, she’d glanced over at me from the mirror and said, “You should come sometime. To one of the gallery things. Think of the story you could write. Beef up your portfolio a little. You could even meet people. I could help you design a business card even.”
“For what business?” I’d asked.
But she’d had a point.
My portfolio was … fine. Mostly padded with college newspaper clippings and the rare personal essay I had managed to get published on niche online sites that paid in “exposure” and vague compliments. A glittery gallery profile might give it the shine it needed.
Still, instead of getting dressed, I tapped open my email. Again.
Nothing. Not even a polite rejection today—just the usual promotions about going back to school to pursue a new online degree.
What liars.
Been there, done that. And all I had to show for it was an expensive piece of paper, folded neatly into my Important Documents folder, buried beneath expired leases and an emergency contact form from a job I hadn’t even gotten.
I checked the time. I would give Gina two more minutes. Maybe three. Then I was leaving.
The server—some poor guy with boy-band bangs and the awkward energy of someone who felt obligated to care—kept glancing my way like he wasn’t sure if he should offer me water or emotional support.
Eventually, he made his way over. “Hi there.”
I smiled.
“Are you still waiting for someone?”
We both looked at the empty chair across from me, the full glass of untouched water, the ring of condensation slowly bleeding into the red tablecloth.
“I don’t think I am,” I said, offering another tight smile. “But I figured I’d give them another minute.”
