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Chapter 5
Dean
Thewholeconceptoftonight has me questioning how I ended up here. How is this possible?
I’m going on a practice date.
With my dating consultant.
That my mom organized.
Is it time to give up on life?Join a monastery and live out my days surrounded by bald men in gray robes? It’s hard to reconcile just how low I’ve sunk. I refuse to believe I was always down in the mud like this.
At work, I’m killing it. Clients pay hundreds and hundreds of dollars an hour for my advice. My opponents live in fear of coming across me in the courtroom. I’m confident, prepared, and successful by any measure. And yet here I am, sitting across from Abbi, about to order dinner in a small, nondescript restaurant. I’m about to endure the next couple of hours being picked apart, having every action critiqued and my behavior corrected.
Fuck.
I feel bad about what happened last night. I do. But that’s not the reason I’m here now. After the call with Abbi, guilt set in, and I realized that this is her livelihood. Everyone but me is going into this exercise with good intentions and in good faith. I really should do the same.
I love my career, and I’m good at it. It’s not just about the money, although that’s pretty great too. It’s about doing something I can be proud of, leading my team and helping my clients out of binds, and building a name and legacy for myself.
Maybe that’s just what Abbi does, too, in a way.
Still can’t believe this is how I’m spending my Friday night.
After picking Abbi up from her downtown apartment building and leaving the car in what I hope is a secure parking garage, we’re holed up in a tiny hole-in-the-wall restaurant in a somewhat questionable part of town. I pick up the menu and surreptitiously study Abbi over the top. She looks different than the last time I saw her. Then, she was all business, chic, classic, but tonight, she’s way more relaxed, wearing feminine clothes—rose-colored skirt, black sweater, and black heels. She’s so feminine, I can hardly draw my eyes away. Everything has a texture—I think the skirt might be velvet, the top looks soft, maybe cashmere, and the heels are suede. She’stouchable.
I clench my fists to stop myself from doing something stupid. Why do I keep looking at her?Creeper.
The menu is surprising. Abbi’s a foodie. The food is Asian fusion, and everything sounds amazing from papaya salad to handmade noodles to spicy dumplings. Lots of little dishes—tapas style. I’m not actually surprised she picked a place that’s a bit unassuming, maybe even underrated, but for the brave, adventurous type, it’s a goldmine. That’s how she comes across—able to look beyond the exterior and find the details that count. Maybe this won’t be so bad, after all?
Abbi sets her menu down and looks at me through long black lashes. Her red lipstick clashes perfectly with her pink skirt. She smiles over at a waiter to get his attention, and this does something to me. There’s a twist in my chest as well as against my zipper, and I know I’m in trouble.
I’ve gone to the dark side. I do my best to ignore it and focus on the woman across from me.
“What’s good?” I ask, folding the menu closed and placing it on the table. I want her to choose for us.
“Pretty much everything. The Thai salad, the sticky short ribs, the fried school prawns. The cocktails are pretty epic too. All Asian themed.”
“Sounds like you better order for us both then,” I say and watch her eyebrows shoot up.
“You’d let me order for you?”
“Sure. Why not. You’re in charge of my future love life, dinner seems like small change.”
“Ha-ha. Very funny. Okay, I’ll order.”
The waiter makes it to our table, and Abbi orders, having no trouble pronouncing some of the foreign dishes. I watch her as she talks to him about the ingredients in the cocktails and what would best match the food. I can tell from the way he nods and gives her a full megawatt smile that he’s impressed with her knowledge and genuine interest in what she’s looking at on the menu.
Interested people are interesting. My dad always used to say this to me as a kid, and it never really clicked until now. Yes, well, if this little interaction I’m watching is anything to go by, Mr. Perfect-White-Smile is downright captivated. Even though to any observer, she’s on a date with me. What am I, invisible?
The waiter finally leaves, and Abbi turns her attention back to me.
“This practice date… how am I doing so far?” I ask her in a mocking tone, but after watching the waiter fawn over her, I’m prepared to admit to myself that I do actually care what she says. I seem to want to needle her and get a reaction.Strange.
She bites her lower lip and nods pensively. “Too early to tell. You’re being a bit… passive.”
“Passive? What the hell does that mean?” The irritation is evident in my voice. I don’t think I’ve ever been called passive before, certainly not as an insult.
