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Oh crap, Dean’s about to pull the pin on this whole thing.
“Give me one last chance, Dean. I’m determined to find you a match and see this thing out to the end. Please.” I’m not entirely opposed to begging if it comes to that. I rush down the sidewalk toward work.
“I don’t know, Abbi…” Oh shit, here we go. I’m in the building foyer now, and I make my way to the bank of elevators.
“I’ll drop you a line shortly with details of a date for tonight.”
“Abbi, I think I’m just going to have a quiet night, give it a miss tonight.”
“Well, that’s not exactly your call now, is it?” I say in a voice that’s pure passive-aggressive. I rarely play the card, but at this point, nothing is beneath me. “Your mom is my boss, Dean, and I don’t think she’ll be impressed if I call and tell her you’ve refused a date tonight before you even hear about it.”
There’s a long sigh on the other end of the phone.
“Okay. Send me the details.”
Never has the sound of a defeated man been sweeter.
I think rose-gold might be my color.
No seriously, my eyes have never looked better. As I turn my head from side to side, admiring my handiwork, I reach for the half-empty—half-full, trying a new attitude—glass of wine. After hours of sorting out Dean’s last-ditch date as well as the rest of my normal workload, I’m finally at home, relaxing and watching makeup tutorials on Instagram. I’ve just evened out my eye makeup, which I started at lunchtime. Yep, I sported one fully made-up eye all afternoon. Basically, I just tried to stay on everyone’s left side. Sure, I got some strange looks, and sunglasses after five got me a few raised eyebrows, but whatever. I’m home now, enjoying a glass of wine, possibly self-medicating, and crossing my fingers for Dean’s date.
Mostlycrossing my fingers.
I push that thought aside and wander over to my wardrobe, flicking loose waves of hair over my shoulder.
The date tonight is at a swanky rooftop bar, the weather is unseasonably mild, and I thought the ambiance of the place would turn anyone’s thoughts to soft and romantic. Usually, I only suggest locations for dates and leave it up to clients to organize them because part of this process is communication before the date and putting thought and effort into what a potential partner might like. But with such a short amount of time, I went right ahead and called in a few favors, setting Dean and Luella up with a prime table giving privacy as well as a view out over the city lights. I’ve spoken to the hostess, and she’s going to organize a fun little cocktail-making lesson for them behind the bar, just to get things rolling and make sure they have lots to laugh about.
As I flick through my clothes, I wonder what I’d wear if I were going on the date. It’s been a while since I’ve even thought about a real match for myself. My day job sort of sucks the fun out of it. But imagining myself on a sexy date with a hot man on a rooftop, way up high in the city, that’d benice. More than nice.
I have a few options that might be suitable. Leopard print top and a black pencil skirt with spike heels? Sequined shift dress? A sheer, gauzy blouse and tight jeans? Patterned jumpsuit? I wonder if Hannah has anything that might fit me in her closet?
Ohhh, my trusty little black dress. I pull my favorite dress off its quilted hanger. It’s a rare splurge rather than a sale or secondhand purchase. It’s pure silk, and a deep V-neck skims my hips, built-in bra, and doesn’t require me to suck in my stomach all night. Oh, and it has invisible pockets.
Frankly, it’s perfect and should be tax deductible for single girls.
I quickly strip bare and step into the dress. Its one weakness is that it does require seamless underwear. Just as I turn to open my underwear drawer, my phone rings. I glance at the time as I answer the unfamiliar number. It’s ten to seven.
“Hello?”
“Abbi?” a weak and croaky voice asks. Who on earth is this?
“Speaking.”
“It’s Luella. Abbi, I think I—” There’s rustling and a horrible retching sound on the other end of the line. Oh crap, Luella’s sick. I hold the phone away from my ear. I’m a sympathetic vomiter—if I see or hear it, I’m likely to do it. A moment later, she’s back.
“I’m sorry, I think I ate something bad at lunchtime. I’ve been vomiting for the last half hour.” She’s breathing hard, and I can tell it was a struggle for her to even get a sentence out.
“That’s terrible. Do you need anything?” There’s nothing worse than being sick and needing supplies.
“No, thanks, I can ring a friend. I can’t get through to the venue to leave a message for Dean, though,” she says and moans softly. I’ve probably got half a minute until she’s vomiting again. I’m not at all surprised—the bar would be too busy on a Thursday night with customers to be answering the calls.
“Leave it to me. You get better. I have a great guy I’ll set you up with next week.”
“Thanks, Abbi, talk to you—” From the sound of things, she just dropped the phone, and there’s thatdelightfulheave as she loses the contents of her stomach. I hang up quickly, trying to hold onto my last meal, and start to think the situation through.
This was Dean’s last chance at a date before the wedding if he had even a shot in hell of finding a match that he’d feel comfortable asking to the wedding. This officially means I’ve blown it. If this date doesn’t go ahead, there’s zero prospect of him having someone by his side because he’s tied up in pre-wedding festivities after this evening.
His poor mom will be heartbroken.
Dean will be all alone.
I can’t let that happen.
