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“I…is there a dress-code rule book somewhere? Can I get it at a bookstore?”
Sarah rolls her eyes again as I scoop my keys off the counter and start walking toward the door. She follows me like an excited dog with a new bone.
“Stop trying to avoid the real question. Where are you going, wearing that tragically high-effort button-down?”
“It’s just a thing, I told you. No big deal.”
“A date?”
“No,” I respond way too fast. “I mean, no. Just a thing. With, you know, people. At a place.”
“You’re seriously delusional.” She puts one sassy hand on her hip, staring at me the way only a nearly teenage girl can. “You’re going on a date, aren’t you?”
“Okay, yes. It’s a date. A first date. And it’s no big deal.” Finally, I cave. It’s not like I don’t want to be honest with her anyway; it’s just…she’s way too good at sussing out the details of a situation when I don’t want them sussed.
Plus, this whole thing with Lauren is brand-new. It’s fresh. And it’s highly frowned upon by the captain of my firehouse.
So, it goes without saying that I’m looking to fly under the radar at this point.
My daughter gives nothing away with her face as she responds, “It was a big enough deal for you to put on that hideous button-down shirt.”
“Excuse me, but what would you have me wear?”
She sighs. “I’m not your fashion adviser.”
“You’re acting like you want to be.”
“No,” she denies. “I’m acting like you need one. Which you do. Desperately.”
“Man. I’m really glad I have you to amp up my confidence. Not like I haven’t dated in a couple decades or anything.”
She smirks, satisfied that she’s driven me all the way to admitting aloud that I’m going on a date. What she doesn’t do is pad my ego with backtracking and words of encouragement.
My daughter is one tough nut.
“I guess it’ll just have to do,” I say. “Hopefully it doesn’t get me arrested by the fashion police.”
“If only there were such a thing,” she says with a laugh.
“Are you ready to go?” I question. “Or would you like to harass your dear old dad a little more?”
“As I’ll ever be,” she mumbles.
I laugh, grab her gently by the shoulder, and shake her until she falls into the wall of my side. She cuddles close, and I kiss the top of her head, lost in a brief, gratifying moment of time when it actually feels like I’m parenting her instead of the other way around.
“Funny, baby doll. I’m pretty much feeling the same way.”
Nervous. Excited. Excruciatingly out of my depth.
I didn’t know when I’d be ready to date again after the divorce was finalized last February, but I’m as ready now as I’ll ever be.
Time to jump.
Lauren
The hostess looks at me expectantly as I approach, her sharp blond bob swinging at the line of her jaw. The dining room is packed behind her, so much so, when I try to scan the room to see if Garrett is here already, I go into sensory overload.
So many men at tables, waiting for women. Like, so many. I can’t help but wonder if the hostess ever messes up and takes the wrong date to the wrong table. Beyond that, I wonder if any of the people on blind dates notice.
My God, that would make a fantastic beginning for a romance novel.
“May I help you?” the hostess prompts as politely as she can manage.
Whoops. It seems I’ve been standing here staring into the void rather than giving her my information.
“Um, yes. I’m meeting someone. His name is Garrett Alexander. I’m not sure if he’s here yet or—”
“Right this way,” she cuts me off to say, turning from the stand and walking down the steps into the sunken room.
I stutter-step around the podium and follow, my eyes scanning wildly as we walk through the room.
Oh boy. It’s actually happening. Right now. My date with—
“Lauren,” Garrett’s warm voice calls, yanking my attention to the fact that we’ve stopped at a table—my table. Our table.
“Hey…uh, hi,” I say awkwardly, reaching out a hand for him to shake.
God, it’s so weird I can hardly stand it. He’s literally too handsome for words in a black button-down shirt and dark-wash jeans, and I’m trying to shake his hand like he’s a hospital administrator.
The hostess smirks as she makes her exit, and I just keep shaking his fucking hand.
Up and down. Up and down. I move our hands, and it’s like I don’t know how to stop.
Stop. Shaking. His. Hand!
Thankfully, Garrett has a better handle on himself, slowing the movements of my weird hand and using it to guide me into my chair.
“Thanks,” I whisper.
He smiles, and his eyes sparkle in the candlelight flickering from the center of the table.
Man, his eyes are…striking. They could be featured on the cover of National Geographic, and I swear they’d pass for glaciers.
