CHAPTER 1
Vincent
The pristine napkins stacked neatly on the table emit a fresh linen scent. Clean and pressed. I adjust the top one, and the soft cloth soothes my fingers as I ensure it’s lined up with the one below. With each gentle nudge, the pile inches closer to perfection. Staring at the edges, my brain turns. Are they exact? Could I assemble them more precisely? My head tilts down, the familiar tunnel emerging, but thankfully, I’m interrupted.
“Vincent?”
The welcome distraction comes from a white man I’m assuming is my date. Make that hoping. I’d guess him to be about six feet, with silver hair and a beard to match. Way better looking in person than his profile pic, he’s giving me Santa’s-younger-brother vibes, and maybe he’s my early Christmas present. He’s wearing a light blue button-down shirt, and half of the front flaps loose from his khaki pants. I’ve heard about this trend: the French tuck. You can paint it any way you like. It’s unkempt. There’s something on the front of his pants. They almost look … frayed. But the smile on his full face, all cheeks, and maybe a dimple hiding under that scruff instantly warms my heart. His deep brown eyes shine behind red glasses, and a small smile forms on my face. One of his shoelaces dangles undone; it might be knotted, and I suddenly realize my date is more than frazzled.
“Kent?”
“Yes, it’s me. Kent. I’m him. Me. Kent Lester, I mean. Gosh, I’m so sorry I’m late,” he says, shimmying out of his long dark coat and slinging it over the chair. He misses his target, and it thuds onto the dirty floor, the buttons clacking sharply against the wood.
I stand and put my hand out for a shake, and Kent takes it and pulls me into the biggest, warmest bear hug. The faint smell of a campfire wraps me in coziness as his arms gather my inch-shorter-than-his frame. The closeness tingles my skin, and I breathe in his toastiness, attempting to use my senses to shoo the uncomfortableness away.
“There you are,” he whispers into my ear. His breath dances onto my neck, sending a shiver up my spine. “I’m a hugger.”
I am most definitely not. Especially with strangers, but it’s fine. I’m fine. Everything’s fine. I came last week for a dry run with Marvin Block, cute kindergarten teacher, reigning Teacher of the Year (his words, not mine), and current close friend. We first met at this very table almost a year ago. It was a classic Vincent-one-and-done date setup by SWISH.
When I first read SWISH was “a groundbreaking queer dating app that promotes inclusivity by enabling users to chat and meet people who are looking for anything from casual friendships to serious relationships,” I took the bait. While Marvin may not have been “the one,” he kept his promise to stay in touch and we’ve developed a genuine friendship. In that regard, SWISH delivered on its promise. I’ve even been back to The Purple Giraffe with Marvin and his fiancé, Olan. Between the first time and now—many other unsuccessful dates, the two times I’ve come alone, and last week’s dry run—I’ve been here exactly twelve times. Which makes tonight’s date lucky … oh fuck.
“I hope that’s okay,” Kent says, pulling out of the embrace, but still clutching my elbows.
“Sure, yeah, I love a friendly hug,” I fib. My skin prickles under my shirt, where his fingers still make contact. I find his eyes and they sparkle with kindness. A simple glance and he’s somehow settling me. With a deep exhale, I offer a small smile and attempt to appear like a person this man might find acceptable to date. At least once. Dinner. Tonight.
After the last few SWISH matches crashed and burned, Marvin suggested we have a “mock date” here so he could offer some tips to tweak my game. It’s not my fault Jason (date five) never stopped talking, even with a full mouth. Crumbs shot across the table at me like a personal meteor shower. And then there was Mark (date eight), who took one look at my bald head and asked if I’d ever considered a hair transplant. When I didn’t answer, he asked if I wanted the number of his toupee guy.
Marvin offered suggestions on managing my OCD, starting conversations, and body language, and I’m ready to implement them all. Stay open. Listen to your heart. Be brave. Take a leap for love. That, plus his encouragement to talk with my doctor about changing my medication, and I’ve been doing much better. Marvin is a sweetheart. He wants me to be happy.
As I take refuge in my chair, Kent, never breaking eye contact, attempts to sit, but slips on his coat, still sprawled on the floor, and almost falls off his seat.
“Are you okay?” I quickly move to assist.
“Fine. Sorry,” he stammers, catching himself on the table, “I’m a bit disoriented, is all.”
“Take a breath. There’s nothing to be anxious about,” I offer—Marvin’s advice to me now attempts to soothe my date as I neatly fold and hang his coat on the back of his chair.
“Oh, I’m not nervous about, about, you. Us. This.” Kent motions erratically to the table and the small votive flickers in fear. “It’s Sweetums. My cat. He gets medication, and well, have you ever tried to pill a cat?”
“I have not.”
“It’s a bit like trying to cram a bowling ball into your pocket,” he says and lets out a loud guffaw that startles the people at the next table. “Anyway, that’s why I’m late. And, well, a bit of a mess.”
“You’re fine. I was only here a few minutes.”
Kent’s eyes fall on mine, and his smile returns. The whiskers in his beard prickle, but there’s nothing dodgy about him.
“Thank you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who’s in charge, me or the damn cat.”
“Is he sick?” I ask, attempting to calm Kent and get our date moving along.
“Oh no. It’s for his nerves.”
“You have a nervous cat?”
“Apparently. Technically, it’s his tummy that’s nervous, and the medicine helps.” He indicates the splotch and scratches on his pants. “Me cramming it down his throat every other day, not so much.”
“Well, you’re here now. And looking exactly like your profile pic on SWISH, I might add. I can’t say that about most guys.”
