Page 1 of I Wish He Would

I am the queen of bad first dates.

I’m talking about a list so long and egregious that I could turn it into a best-selling novel.

Maybe tonight will be the night my luck changes. I went out of my way to get my nails done and buy a new dress at my favorite thrift store, so here’s to hoping.

When the time on my dashboard screen changes to six, I grab my clutch from the passenger seat and lock my car before heading into the restaurant. It’s one of those places where the lighting is dim enough that it makes you question if you’re getting old when you can barely read the menu without using your phone’s flashlight.

“How many are in your party today?” the hostess asks.

“I’m actually meeting someone.” I smooth my hands along the form-fitting black dress, loving the feel of the cool satin beneath my fingertips, and smile at the hostess.

I pull my phone out of my clutch as I move past her, opening the text thread with my cousin, Patrice. I scroll until I find the picture she sent me of Mike, the guy from her work, who I’m supposed to be meeting. Brown hair that’s just the right length where it looks intentionally messy. Gold-rimmed round glasses. Kind eyes. He’s also twenty-nine and a realtor. He sounds stable, unlike some of the guys Patrice has set me up with before.

I slide my phone back into my clutch and scour the tables for him. The first checkmark in the pros column for Mike is that he invited me to a local steak house for our first date. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good taco truck or hole-in-the-wall restaurant, but this place is quiet and romantic. The perfect spot to get to know someone without it being so loud that you can’t hear the other person talk.

When I spot Mike at a table near the back windows, I let out a relieved sigh. He gets another check in the pros column for being on time, early even.

I always end up regretting going on dates with the men Patrice sets me up with. The last guy took me to a smoothie shop and proceeded to order two drinks. I thought it was a little forward of him to order for me without knowing what I wanted, but I went along with it…until he tried both smoothies, took the one he liked the most, and left me with the crappy, healthy one that tasted like blended grass and dirt water.

If that wasn’t bad enough, he then proceeded to talk to me for two hours about his recent metamorphic experience at a crying retreat. I laughed a little, thinking he was kidding.

He wasn’t.

Nope. He was so offended that I didn’t understand the life-altering experience that he proceeded to cry for the last thirty minutes of our date because he learned during the retreat that crying is the best way to let all your emotions out. That was two and a half hours of my life that I’ll never get back.

But for some reason, I let my cousin convince me to give her another shot. Probably something to do with my avoidance of any form of conflict. At least this date looks promising so far.

I take a steadying breath and walk through the maze of tables, taking note of the exits and where the bathrooms are along the way because when a girl’s been on as many dates as I have, I know it’s best to always have an exit strategy.

I stop in front of the table, and my date doesn’t bother looking up. “Are you Mike?”

He glances up at me with a tight smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yes. Nice to meet you.” He presses his lips together and glances around like he’s searching for my name in his mind but can’t recall it.

“Alyssa.”

“Right.” He looks back at his menu with squinted eyes and a furrowed brow.

Okay, then. I take the seat across from him and set my clutch next to my glass of water. It’s a little weird that we’re at a four-person table when there are plenty of available two-seaters, but maybe he likes having his space. Or maybe he’s one of those people that orders every appetizer on the menu and needs a space big enough to hold all the food.

A middle-aged woman with dark brown hair, a nice blouse, and black slacks approaches our table. I place the black cloth napkin across my lap and look up to order my go-to drink at restaurants: lemonade. But she doesn’t ask for our drink orders. She leans in and presses a kiss to Mike’s cheek, then takes the seat in between us, closest to the window.

I’ve never been to a restaurant where the waitress sat down at our table to take our order, but maybe it’s a new thing I’m not aware of.

The woman clasps her hands on the table and stares at Mike. “Are you going to introduce me?”

My brow furrows. Why would my date need to introduce me to our waitress?

He nods and gestures to me. “This is Allison.”

I shift uncomfortably in the wooden chair. “Alyssa,” I correct him. There’s strike one in the cons column.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Alyssa.” She reaches her hand out. I shake it, not liking where this is going. “I’m Susan, Michael’s mother.”

No.

I must’ve heard her wrong. Because there’s no way this twenty-nine-year-old man brought his mother on a date.

There has to be some other reasonable explanation. Maybe she has a disorder that causes her to kiss strangers on the cheek and sit at random dinner tables and refer to herself as their mother.