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“It’s about damn time. Who is this lucky fella?”
I laugh. “His name is Steven. He’s my brother’s neighbor. Single father. Ruthlessly groomed.” Not exactly my type and Dev knows that. I like a man to be less groomed than I am and I’m not the very groomed type. “I’m sure I’ll be a disaster. I have horrible judgment when it comes to men.”
“How would you know that since you haven’t dated one in forever?”
“Remember the really positive guy I dated when we were still in France––the guy going to dental school.”
“Oh yeah, he was annoying.”
“Yeah, he wasn’t positive, he was a coke fiend.” Dev snorts. “And Ronan?” I continue.
“You were young and clueless,” my bestie counters, always coming to my defense.
“I’m still clueless.”
“I’ve got news for you. So is everybody else.”
Chapter Twelve
Steven is a gentleman. That’s the best thing I can say about the first date I’ve been on in half a decade. My gaze roams the restaurant, moving over white marble, dark wood, and polished nickel trim. It’s your typical upscale NY retro modern. After a 180-degree turn, my eyes catch Steven’s and we exchange polite smiles.
One of the greatest mysteries in life is chemistry. Who decides this stuff? Who determines why you would have it with one person and not another. I’d like to know because, frankly, I have more chemistry with the dish of penne pomodoro I’m considering ordering than I do with Steven.
I opened the front door to find him in a black Tom Ford suit and his hair styled within an inch of its life. Grant mysteriously appeared behind me to stare down my date in nothing but a bath towel, fresh out of the shower. Yeah, that wasn’t at all awkward.
Steven complemented my Century 21 discount DVF wrap dress, my one and only cocktail dress that I always bring with me, just in case––in case of what, I can’t say but I always bring it anyway––and I complemented his five-thousand-dollar suit.
The babysitter had come over an hour prior to fetch Sam, a sweet woman in her late sixties. She assured me that she’d keep a close eye on the boys. Sam was more than happy to sleep over at Jeremy’s. I wasn’t, at all. But how was I going to explain to Steven that his son was a baby player in training and I didn’t want him hanging around mine? Yeah, I couldn’t.
On the car ride to the restaurant, Steven and I had a riveting conversation on the weather. We both agreed it was going to be sunny with a chance of late showers tomorrow. We’re practically soul mates.
He’s doing everything right. He really is. On paper, he’s perfect boyfriend material. Single father. Amicable divorce. He’s attractive and takes care of himself. Has a thriving career but is also at the age where it’s no longer his main interest.
Like I said, he’s nearly perfect. There’s nothing I can point to as the reason for my lack of attraction to him. And yet, I now find myself daydreaming about Ben and Jake’s illicit affair and wishing I could get back to it.
When we pulled into Pierre’s parking lot, one of the ritziest restaurants in the Hamptons, I wasn’t surprised. Steven jogged to open my passenger door, beating the valet. He really is very sweet.
The restaurant is packed with Manhattan’s finest. I spotted a Hadid, a Cuomo, and a few other celebrities. Despite the staggering amount of people waiting for a table, we were seated immediately. It was clear the hostess knew Steven, and according to the seductive smile she threw his way, she’d like to know him even better.
Our polite eye contact breaks apart when the waiter comes over to take our drink order. This is always hard for me––and embarrassing. Another reason why avoiding romantic entanglements has been my default choice for so long.
I’m always upfront about my addiction. Omitting the truth at the start can only spell doom later. Except that means exposing my most vulnerable parts to a total stranger and that, frankly, kind of sucks. “Sparkling water for me,” I say with a stiff smile.
“No cocktail?”
My eyes cut to the waiter and my face gets warm. I guess I’m going to do this with an audience. “I don’t drink.” He stares blankly. “I quit.”
Steven’s smile melts. “Oh––” He hurries to cover it up with another one. “How long?”
“Three years.” I dry my sweaty palms on my dress, which will definitely need to go to the dry cleaners after this conversation.
“That’s good,” he awkwardly offers. I get the impression it’s not entirely good––that he’s not sure how to feel about it yet––I don’t hold it against him, though. I’m sure it’s a surprise.
We’ve officially hit the first pothole of the evening. He looks up at the waiter. “I’ll have sparkling water too, I guess.”
