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Sry for late reply. was w a client and didn’t have my phone. At least it’s only 5 hours now ;)
My stomach is turning somersaults as I look at my reflection in the foyer mirror. “Get it together, George. You have no idea if this guy is even going to be worth your time. What the—” I peer closer into the mirror, then run upstairs to the master bathroom because it has the best light and mirrors in the house.
And there I see it. Them. Worry lines.
“Goddamnit,” I murmur to myself while trying to flatten out the deep creases running across my forehead.
It’s not enough that I had to give up the life I was building when the League of Docents made me move home, that I had to say goodbye to the love of my life; that I had to watch my boyfriend not even consider moving with me. No, none of that was enough. Now I’m also prematurely aging from the stress of this job.
“Okay. Just relax. Maybe he’ll think they make me look distinguished.”
I heave out a sigh as I drag myself to my bed, where I collapse. I’m not normally one to nap, but I’m completely exhausted, and I have no idea why. I obviously can’t show up to a first date with worry linesandbags under my eyes, so I set an alarm and try closing my eyes for a bit.
The sun is settling into a nest of pink and purple clouds when I pull up to the very trendy restaurant Andrew picked. In fact, it is too trendy for me. I feel the music bouncing in my car before I get out.
I hesitantly hand my key to the valet while starting to doubt if my date is the guy for me. I’ve always been a homebody, not really a party guy. But being a homebody has left me lonely, so it’s time for me to try something else.
As I push through the club doors, I note what an odd place this is for a first date. I guess he didn’t want to talk much, or at all. No ice breakers or deep conversation can possibly be heard over the blaring sound system.
I look at the people sitting at the bar. That’s where he said he’d be. I check my watch. 7:03. Perfect. Not on time, but not so late as to be held against me. I wonder which one is him. As the music fades off, like I'm on a plane taking off and my ears haven’t popped yet, recognition clicks in my mind when I scan the row of barstools. The person with the black hair perched on the last barstool, that’s my date.
But as I approach, my date’s hair changes under the club’s hyper neon lights. The dark hair looks lighter, reddish now. Right before my eyes that hairs grows longer, fuller. Now the lush mane almost reaches their slender waist, the center of a perfect hourglass figure, which is currently wrapped in a tight red satin dress.
This is not Andrew. Yet I feel like this is who I came to meet. When I’m close enough to reach out my hand and touch her, I take a deep breath. A strong but pleasant smell invades my nose and mouth, cutting right through the sweat-and-alcohol odor of the club. This new scent is floral and citrusy with a sweet earthy undertone that tickles my nose. My hand lowers of its own accord while my senses bask in that scent.
But I don’t want to get kicked out for just standing here and breathing on a customer, so I finally tap the shoulder of my date. “Hey, what is this place? I thought we were meeting at that restaurant I told you about. My mom’s favorite place. Remember?”
As she turns slowly in the seat, I can make out the line of the slope of her breast. I tear my gaze away and let my eyes slide up toward her face. But right as I see the chin and thinkThis isn’t Andrew’s face, the fire alarm shrieks, and everyone runs to take cover from all-encompassing cascade of the building’s sprinklers. In all the chaos, I lose my date. Someone pushes into me, and I fall back.
As my butt hits the floor with a thud, my eyes open. I don’t think I have ever fallen out of bed before. My ass hurts now. I groan and turn off the alarm on my phone. It’s a good thing I set it because I slept for over two hours. It’s now five; only two more hours until my date.
I turn on my shower so the water’s as hot as I can stand and jump in, using extra body wash so I can be sure to smell my best when I arrive at the restaurant. When I’m dried off, I apply a little foundation. Obviously, I need to make sure my skin looks good. And I put gel in my hair.
I move to my closet and peruse the racks, eventually landing on a black button-down shirt that I wear untucked over dark-wash jeans. I leave the button below the collar open to show a triangle of white tank top underneath.
I look at the finished product in the mirror. I think I look decent, but I’m not sure it’s enough, so I take a picture and send it to Miranda.
How do I look?
Miranda barely hesitates before responding.
HOTTT!!!! Go get him!
I smile. She often makes me smile. Too bad she’s not a guy. We could have a Joanna-Ben thing if she were. I mean, except for the part that if she were a man, she wouldn’t even be The Guardian; I wouldn’t be her docent; and we’d never have met. But there’s no point thinking about what-ifs. That path leads only to remembering what I’ve given up. And tonight’s date is all about moving forward.
Contrary to my dream, I did in fact choose the location for our date this evening, a fancy Italian place in a swanky nearby town. This restaurant was my parents’ favorite date night spot. I haven’t eaten here since I was little. I barely remember the food, but when I called my mom and freaked out that I had a real date to plan and couldn’t think of where to go, she told me to pick this place. So here I am.
As the valet gets into my car, I glance at my watch. 7:03. Not perfectly on time, but not so late as to be held against me. But the number makes me stop and think for a second. It’s familiar, but I don’t know why. I shake my head and walk through the front door of the colonial-era house that is home to one of the best restaurants in the state.
After giving the hostess my name, I read the typed transcriptions above framed originals of General Washington’s letters from his time in this town during the Revolutionary War. The hostess comes over to inform me that the guest I’m meeting has not yet arrived. I agree to be seated rather than waiting around the host stand. Just as I sit down and cross my hands over the menu to wait, I see Andrew enter.
His dark hair is kept short in back but longer in the front. It’s a sexy reverse mullet swept to the side so I can see his big, brown eyes from across the room. He likely gets whatever he wants, whenever he wants it, with those puppy eyes.
Time seems to slow for a minute. While he talks to the hostess and smiles, his confidence shines like the rays of the sun. I feel my heartbeat quicken, and I’m suddenly aware of how ridiculous I look with my hands folded like a school boy of yesteryear, waiting patiently for directions from my teacher. I disentangle my fingers and consider picking up the menu to attempt to look casual when I realize he’s on his way over to me, and hiding behind my menu would look rude.
I run my fingers over my (hopefully) perfectly coiffed hair and twirl a short lock near my neck. It’s a stupid habit I’ve had forever. Evan always thought it was adorable. My mouth is insanely dry, so I take a long swig of water when Andrew finally gets to the table. I hurry to stop drinking while pushing my chair out to stand, and water splatters down my chin.
Andrew chuckles. I feel heat rise to my cheeks. I’m not sure what to do next, but Andrew reaches down, picks up his napkin from the table, and uses it to dab the water from my chin. Our eyes meet, and his smile widens.
