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And it is an oasis both in culture and in grace. The second you step through its doors, you feel underdressed or fancy, depending on your attire. Thanks to Jimmy, I feel just one single notch below adequate, which is pretty much my sweet spot; not too cocky, not too awkward. So I feel a stroke of confidence when I walk up to the hostess and tell her that I’m here to see someone, a young man who’s waiting for a Bobby Parker. She smiles knowingly, murmurs, “Right this way,” and kindly leads me through the restaurant.
My pulse is pounding something awful in my neck. I know it’s my imagination, but it feels like everyone in the restaurant—all these married couples and business suits and gowns—are looking my way. I don’t pay any attention to them, because if I do, I might trip over my shoes (Jimmy’s shoes, rather; we are the same size in practically every dimension) and humiliate myself royally.
I don’t know who to expect, but my mind flaps through a twenty-photos-a-second slideshow of possibilities. A cute blond? A square-jawed brunet? A curly-haired dude with freckles like the one at the nightclub? A fashionably tragic boy-next-door like me? A hulking brute with muscles for days? A pencil-thin fashionista who wears scarves in July? A dad-bod bear with sweet eyes?
After winding through one section to another, at last we come to a sea of tiny round two-person tables, all white tablecloths and candlelight. She leads me to a table in the dead center.
It’s empty.
“Um …” I start.
“He must’ve stepped away to the restroom.” She smiles, her eyes squeezing halfway shut when she does, then gestures at my seat. “Your server will be with you two shortly.”
I take my seat, then accept a menu from her. “Thank you,” I say belatedly to her back after she promptly walks away.
I don’t even look at the menu. I just glance around myself, not comfortable in the least. I have no idea who’s about to come back to the table and join me for my date. Added to that the fact that we’re seated at a tiny table right in the middle of the room, with straight couples on all sides of us. Older ones with wrinkles around their eyes and mouths. Middle-aged ones who look bored of each other. Ritzy wives who put on every piece of jewelry they own. Stiff, suited men who dab at the corners of their lips after each bite with their beige cloth napkins.
Suddenly, a guy approaches my table, handsome, sweet-eyed, and full-lipped.
My heart jumps. My mouth spreads into a smile. Oh, wow.
And then he passes right by to meet with his girlfriend—an equally pretty vision in green and silver, and the pair of them take a seat at a table together.
Sigh.
Still have no idea who I’m looking for.
Someone else passes by my table, but he’s old enough to be my grandpa. Another guy my age strolls by—dark hair, dark eyes, shiny gold watch and swagger—but he’s heading for the exit.
I bite my lip and stare at the menu, not really reading it.
My leg bounces in place.
I think about Jimmy lounging out there in his ma’s car, his feet kicked up—good foot and bad one—relaxed as a cat with its face stuffed in a warm shoe. I envy him right about now.
Maybe it isn’t too late to stand up my date.
That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it? To even consider doing something like that?
Stop it. Don’t even think of doing that. How rude. I lift my menu to my face and turn all my focus onto it. Even if our meal is covered, it doesn’t save me from the awkwardness of the server showing up too soon and staring at me for an hour while I still haven’t made up my mind between the salmon or the steak.
I really could just go.
Couldn’t I …?
I could just get right up, scurry outside, hop right in the car, and tell Jimmy to hightail it back to Spruce. He’d probably be all over that idea in a hot second. Then we’d plan out our night like a pair of free birds. I’m off tomorrow, so we could hit up the arcade, or go out to the Strong ranch—which I’ve spent approximately half an hour at this whole summer so far, and that half hour was today when Jimmy dressed me with his vast wardrobe.
The thought comforts me instantly. All my anxiety is gone at the thought of running off with Jimmy and foregoing this foolish blind date. I mean, really, I love her and all, but what was Nadine thinking? How presumptuous of her, to think I need a guy, right?
Right …?
If only I could stop my foot from bouncing maniacally in place.
“Hi.”
The single, blunt, deep-voiced syllable comes from the chair across the table from me.
