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“Well, you were pretty quiet on the drive over and didn’t try too hard. I mean, even a comment about the traffic would be better than nothing.” She shrugs.
“I was trying not to dominate the conversation and make you uncomfortable. I thought women hate it when men spend the whole date talking about themselves.”
“Oh, we do. Mainly because there are plenty of topics to talk about that aren’t… you.”
“It’s a two-way street. Why didn’t you start up a conversation?”
Abbi’s left eye twitches. I can tell she’s frustrated with me. She did this before in the coffee shop—it’s one of her tells. As a lawyer, being able to read body language is a key skill, and I’m very good at it.Perhaps not as good as I thought if I’m being too passive.
“That’s because tonight is about you, not me. I’m not the one who needs a date in this twosome.” As soon as she says the words, I can tell she regrets them. And so she should. She reaches over the table and places her flat hand on its surface right in front of me.
“I’m sorry, that was rude and thoughtless. I apologize.” The look in her eyes tells me she genuinely means that, and it was said in haste, in the heat of the moment. My irritation dissipates.
“It’s okay, I don’t want to be here either. I mean, it’s not you, it’s just…” I fumble over my words, which is uncharacteristic for me. For some reason, I want her to know that it’s not her company that’s the negative making me reluctant to be here, it is the way this situation came about. But the more I think about it, I don’t actually mind being here. For a second, my palm itches, and I almost reach toward her hand, but then she draws it back, and the moment passes.
“This all just feels very contrived, and there’s the issue of my parents orchestrating it. I feel ridiculous.” There. I’ve laid myself bare, and I’m at her mercy.
Abbi sighs. “I hear you, but if you really don’t want to do this, we might as well call the whole thing off. If you can’t get over the hurdle that got you here, it’s never going to work.”
She’s right, of course. It may be less than ideal, and I have hang-ups about it, but I’m here, and the choice is mine. She’s already seen some spectacularly poor behavior from me and listened to my whiney alter ego that came into existence the last few days, and yet she hasn’t kicked me to the curb. I should probably stick around and see what she has to say. A few pointers can’t hurt, can they? But is she really qualified to give that advice? I mean, what makes one a dating expert? Someone married? Engaged? A serial dater? How does one go about measuring expertise? She’s maybe five years younger than me, so it can’t be experience, and I don’t see a ring on her
finger. Why didn’t it occur to me earlier to ask about this?
“I’ll work on that hurdle if you can tell me why I should be taking advice from a single woman about how to fix my love life?” Her eyes widen, and her cheeks flush. Oops. I’ve simultaneously pissed her off and embarrassed her. Go me.
“W-what?” she sputters. “How do you know for sure I’m single?”
“No guy in his right mind would let his girlfriend, fiancé, or wife come out on a date with me looking like…” I motion my hand over her. The pink on her cheeks deepens to red.
“Let me? That’s offensive. Women aren’t owned, Dean.” Her frown is cute. I knew my comment would irk her, and I made it anyway.Don’t worry, I’m not a pig. I know women aren’t men’s property.
“You know as well as I do, this isn’t a date but a practice run so that you don’t blow it tomorrow night. And also, the way I know I’m good at this is my track record.”
Oh right. Of course. I nod but don’t say anything. That’s how I know I’m good at my job too.
Thankfully, the food starts arriving, and we’re busy for the next few minutes looking at fragrant steaming dishes and filling our plates with the delicious-looking food. We both tuck in, and I watch her enjoy the meal—eyes rolling back and a quiet moan of pleasure as the food hits her tongue.
That makes me wonder what it would be like if this was actually a real date, and Abbi was my girlfriend. A date where I’d made the plans and carefully thought about where I would take her—somewhere she hasn’t been before that served amazing food like this. Or maybe another place altogether—a gallery or to listen to live music. I imagine her tapping her toe as we stand at a bar and watch a band on stage. Or maybe at a comedy show—a good one, not some horrid improv, where I could listen to her laughter, real laughter, and join her in it.
Or maybe simply hanging out together in my apartment, cooking something together, watching a movie on the couch together—regular everyday things—things I’ve never done with a partner before. Not really.
That sort of thing ended in college when I wasn’t a fully-fledged adult, and it’s been casual ever since. I think I may have sold myself short on the whole dating thing. The idea has appeal, but what about the aftermath? When it all falls apart? The rejection and the hurt?
“How’s your food?” she asks, motioning to my plate with her chopsticks.
“Good. Great. Thanks.” I force a smile, but I can tell Abbi sees right through it.
“I don’t have to currently be in a relationship to be good at matchmaking,” she says. Her tone isn’t condescending or a lecture, she’s just explaining herself. “I’ve been doing this for a while, and my track record says I’m pretty good at helping people. I’m trying to give you the resources to succeed.”
“I imagine my mother made a bit of a fuss about this all, then?”Oh, the shame.
“No, not really, but everyone knows who she is, and my boss basically said that if you or your mom aren’t happy with the results of this, then they might reconsider my position.”
Fuck. “That’s harsh.”
“Maybe, but that’s the way it is. I probably shouldn’t have told you about maybe losing my job. It has nothing to do with you, and it’s not why I’m here with you tonight. I’m here because I want to change your mind about finding a partner. You’re the only client I’ve ever had who was so opposed to the idea.” She shrugs. “Also, the food is
great.” She smiles and snags another sticky rib and goes to work on it.
She’s not wrong—the food is phenomenal.
I watch her as she eats. There’s something about her that captures my attention. I can’t quite put my finger on it. She talks right to me, explaining what she means. She speaks her mind but isn’t unkind about it. And she really does want me to succeed. All of this makes me feel far less hostile toward the situation and maybe even a little warm toward her.
Maybe she’s a soldier in the trenches just like me?
She slurps on a giant noodle and giggles, and I smile at that too. She’s not afraid of being herself, having fun. I had a wall up that didn’t let me see that until now. Maybe she’s right, happiness and love might be possible for me with the right person.
“Hey, who said you could eat the last dumpling,” I accuse playfully, entering into a little fray with our chopsticks until we both stab the solitaryjao long baoon the plate, and I’m almost on the floor laughing.
If all dates are like this, I might just enjoy myself.
