“Okay, here’s something a good Southern girl should know.” He leans back in his chair and folds his arms across his chest, whichaccentuates pecs and biceps that he’s clearly been honing at the gym. The move has the same rehearsed air as the watch thing from a moment before. Seriously, isanythingabout this guy genuine? “Name three SEC quarterbacks who’ve won Super Bowls.”
I suppress a sigh. “Namath. Stafford. Manning… Manning. Some double coverage for you.”
He just blinks at me.
“It was a joke. Eli and Peyton. Double coverage? Double Mannings?”
“Ha. Right.” He uncrosses his arms and reaches for his drink. “It wasn’treallythat funny.”
No, it wasn’treallythat funny, but I had the grace to fake laugh when he made a joke about ordering sake bombs at a Michelin-starred restaurant. The least he could do is give me a courtesy smile.
“I mean, women aren’t that funny.” He says it with a wide, bright smile as if inviting me into his sexist joke, as if testing to see whether I’m one of those girls who “doesn’t take herself too seriously.” (Actual quote from 99% of dating profiles.) To his credit, Taylor F.’s profile had not used that line, but instead said he was looking for someone with “a sense of humor,” something I’ve always taken to mean that you were funny. Thatyouknew how to makesomeone elselaugh. It’s become clear that what Taylor F. actually wants is just someone who thinkshe’sfunny.
I’m so tempted to pull a Sybil and bolt—the girl has a little bit of a habit of running from tough situations, and that included her own wedding, though somehow it all worked out in the end. It always does, for her. But I’m not Sybil, and politeness is so ingrained in me, it’s practically strapping me to the chair. Our friend Emma would stand up immediately, say something withering, and march out of the restaurant. Sybil—if she hadn’t already run away, that is—wouldflash a smile that was all teeth and tip her martini into his lap. And Willow would lean onto the table and sincerely inquire after his mental health—after all, she’d say, someone this attention-needy might’ve been neglected as a child.
What do I do? I force the muscles of my face up into a smile as if I’m in on the joke and lob back, “I know lots of funny women.”
And I do. Each of my best friends is hilarious in her own way. When I think of belly laughs, tears, aching cheek muscles because you’ve been smiling so much—I think of time spent with the Core Four.
Taylor F. smirks. “Yeah, sure. But notfunnyfunny.”
The server drops by our table again—she’s young and friendly, wearing her dark hair in a ponytail at the top of her head. I’m about to sayTo hell with itand ask her to bring me a third glass of wine, but then the soft light of the restaurant glints off the pendant resting on the server’s collarbone. It’s a distinctive piece of jewelry, and I immediately recognize the design—or rather, the designer.
Cara Lancolm.As in, the woman who was dating Aaron B. at the same time that he proposed to me on television.
The very one whose jewelry profits soared after the scandal broke.
My grip tightens on my chopsticks, but I force the muscles to relax, placing both sticks delicately on the celadon-glazed rest beside my soy sauce dish and folding my hands in my lap.
CLS necklaces (Cara Lancolm Studio) went viral a while ago by this point, and yet they’re still trendy. This one is her signature design: three stylized strawberry leaves in yellow gold. I honestly see themeverywhere, and it never ceases to spike my blood pressure.
The server places two small plates in front of us. “For this course, we have an A5 Wagyu lightly lacquered with our house-made, yuzu-infused teriyaki sauce. Enjoy.”
Taylor F. smiles back at me as the server leaves, and I realize that he thinks this date is goingwell. He’s having a really great date with a semi-celebrity who he thinks he’s eventually going to sleep with.
I don’t know if he’s completely oblivious, or if I’ve just become that good at putting on a show. But I know what he sees. Blond hair augmented by extensions. A heart-shaped face with full makeup that he thinks is minimal. A flawless Southern California tan. Arms and abs toned from daily Pilates. Someone beautiful in a girl-next-door way, with enough ambition to be interesting at parties, but not someone who’ll outshine him.
There’s a reason I picked up on all his practiced moves—because I have plenty of my own. Back onLovedBy, I was a producer’s dream. Ilikedbeing told where to stand and what to wear. I liked knowing the right thing to say. They wanted me to ask about a contestant’s absentee dad? Done. Kiss a guy beneath that window because they’ve got rose petals ready to drop? You got it. I was a natural. My older sister Linney says I was so good for the show because I grew up doing pageants. That I have “the weirdest mix of competitiveness and people-pleasing” she’s ever seen.
And she’s not wrong. Because even as this date crashes, there’s still something in me that wants to make sure he walks away from this date liking me. I want to walk away havingwonthe date. It’s ceased to be about making other people feel comfortable because it’s the right thing to do—instead, it’s become a game.
Finally, I spot something sparkly at the hostess stand. It’s Sybil—in a drapey sequined top and jeans, her wavy blond hair a mess around her shoulders. Oh, thank the lord. I let out a relieved breath as she spots me, too, and rushes over, her towering platform shoes clacking on the restaurant floor.
“Thank god I found you,” she says breathlessly. She also seems tohave adopted the mid-Atlantic accent of an old Hollywood starlet. “There’s been”—she pauses for effect—“anemergency.”
Sybil is many things, but an actress isn’t one of them. And this is not her best work.
And Taylor F. may be an arrogant douche, but he’s not a complete idiot. He turns toward me, realization shrouding his face as it morphs into anger. “Did you text your friend to come bail you out of this date? Do you know what I had to do to get a reservation here?”
Sybil pipes in, dropping the accent. “Um, wake up at six a.m. to get a reservation on Tock? Like everyone?”
“I—” Taylor F. stops.
“It takes setting one alarm and, like, two clicks on the app.” She shrugs and turns back to me. “I brought Jamie here for his birthday last month. The chicken hearts are insane. So good. Ready?”
“Ready.” I gather up my purse, then turn guiltily back to Taylor F. “Sorry, I just don’t think this is going to work out.” Even now, I try to cushion the blow of my rejection.
“Whatever,” Taylor F. scoffs. “No wonder Brinkley dumped you.”
