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“A hazelnut iced coffee, please,” I said to the barista, who was a friendly young adult with a bright smile. I wasn’t a huge fan of coffee, except when it came to the benefits of caffeine, so I normally tried to add flavor.
“Name, please?” She lifted the cup.
“Marc.”
My grandfather had preferred Marcus or Mr. Worthy. He considered it a sign of respect. But it’d never stuck for me. My family started calling me Little Marc for differentiation’s sake, and Carmen had used the shortened version as well.
Once I’d gotten my coffee and added two sugars, my date still hadn’t shown. I found a table near the window, feeling a bit miffed that the guy was either standing me up or running late. Tardiness was one of Carmen’s biggest pet peeves, and I certainly wasn’t perfect, especially when it came to work, but at least I’d learned to let people know with a quick text if something came up or the shop got too busy. “It’s important that people can take you at your word,” my grandfather used to say, and I’d been trying to live up to that standard my whole life.
I pulled out my phone and scrolled through the app to see if he’d canceled, but there was no message. Instead, I noticed a text from Delaney. Lane. My grandfather would think his name was strong too. He’d also think it was admirable that Delaney had been his mother’s maiden name. And it went well with his last name: Roberts.
Good luck tonight.
It was a nice gesture after he’d acted so weird at our last group session.
I wanted to complain that the guy was late, but I also wanted to keep it to myself. Not only because I was possibly on the verge of being ghosted, but because I needed time to process it.
I ignored Delaney’s message for now and promised myself I’d only wait ten more minutes. That was when the bell above the door rang, and a guy with broad shoulders shuffled through the entrance.
I recognized James from his photo, so I lifted my hand to direct him my way, taking in his solid stature and chiseled jaw as he drew nearer. He was about ten years younger than me and very handsome in person, even more so than in the profile pic he’d posted.
“Sorry, I’m late. Traffic,” he muttered, and I relaxed a little more. At least there was an apology, so I supposed I needed to cut him some slack.
“It’s cool.” I pasted a smile on my lips. “I would’ve ordered you something, but I wasn’t sure what you liked.”
“I actually hate coffee,” he said with a wave of his hand.
My stomach tightened. “Well, shit. Why did you agree to meet at a coffee shop?”
“Because they sell other kinds of drinks here, and besides, it was a good halfway point for us.” He looked over his shoulder toward the menu above the cash register. “I see they have hot chocolate. I’ll be right back.”
I couldn’t help fidgeting as I watched him place his order at the counter. Something felt off, and I couldn’t put my finger on what it was—other than my meeting someone for the first time after fifteen years of marriage. Our conversations leading up to this moment were perfectly pleasant, but maybe I wasn’t paying close enough attention. I was likely amazed that he seemed nice, was attractive, and interested in meeting a couple of weeks after I’d joined the site.
But maybe thinking it was that simple had been my mistake. I was used to the old-school style of meeting someone, where you initially saw them face-to-face before asking them out. Of course, dating sites had been around back then, but they didn’t really catch fire until after I was married. I’d heard a dozen stories over the years from friends or family who’d met their significant others online. I’d thought it was cool that there were easier ways of connecting with people, but it obviously came with its challenges—like not being able to read someone’s eyes or gestures, which left written dialogue up to interpretation.
And my gut ended up being right because when James returned and got himself situated across from me, the conversation felt awkward. I might’ve chalked it up to nerves on my part, but once he got going, he enjoyed talking about himself a little too much. I literally could not get in a word edgewise. He only asked me briefly about my job, and just as I was going to explain how I’d inherited Worthy’s, he launched into something about his friend who owned a gym. I drifted into my own thoughts, and when I heard him clear his throat, I realized he’d finished his story.
“So you work with old stuff?” he asked, so maybe I needed to cut him some slack for rounding back to his original question. “I’m more of a modern type of guy.”
