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ONE
NOVEMBER 2017
LETTIE
I pickedat the salad on my plate, scooting the lettuce around and making it seem like I’d eaten more than I had. I wasn’t really that hungry. Maybe I had been, but my appetite had slowly disappeared along with my interest in the person who sat across from me. I stabbed absentmindedly at the cherry tomato in the middle of the bed of lettuce—reminding myself to never again swipe right solely based on a person’s crisp jawline—and surprised myself when my fork didn’t poke into it. I stabbed it again, a little more aggressively, and watched as it shot out from under my fork and hit the person attached to said jawline right in the face.
Right in the middle of his forehead.
I burst out laughing as I watched him close his eyes upon impact, but immediately covered my mouth with my hands when I saw his face turn grave.
Okay, apparently it hadn’t been funny.
Apparently, it had been obnoxious or annoying or whatever his expression was trying to tell me.
“I am so sorry,” I said, still trying to stifle snickers. I cleared my throat. “Super sorry.”
Jake’s face was bright red and his brows were furrowed. “Yeah,” he began, not at all amused. “It’s fine, I guess.”
I made a mental note that Jake Assman—yes, really his last name— may have had a check on the pro side for his looks, but he did not have a sense of humor, andthatwas going to be a big fat slash on the con side. How could this man possibly appreciate my wit and charm if he did not find a tomato in the face as hilarious as I did?
He also did not find his last name amusing. That had been evident when I’d asked him if he was indeed an ass man and he’d refused to entertain me with an answer.
I was actually surprised he’d given me his real last name in the first place when I’d asked. I’d told him it was so I could stalk him later, which again, he had not found funny, but after he told me it had made sense, the fact that he’d set his profile name as simply “Jake A.”
His profile name on the dating site I’d always said I wouldn’t be caught dead on.
The dating site where I’d told myself that Jake A. was not my type and yet I’d still found myself swiping right, almost as though my hand had a mind of its own. I’d always said I would never date a guy who posts a gym selfie with his eyes squinted and his lips puckered, but there I was, desperate enough to be out in public with one.
Then again, I’d also said I would never be one of those people who spends their free time birdwatching, but at thirty years old, I had developed an affinity for mourning doves and mockingbirds. I had also recently found out that I was one of those people who watches the shorebirds at the ocean more than the waves.
It just seemed like life was in it to mock single women in their thirties. It wanted to make us believe we were one thing— thirty, flirty, and thriving— but then have our best friends ridicule us about being single so much that we end up on a dating website. Which results in finding ourselves in the middle of a painfully awkward dinner, sitting across from a guy we had absolutely nothing in common with.
A guy whose face looked like he was in a constant state of constipation.
He did have pretty eyes though. And the jaw really was razor-sharp.
I’d had a feeling our first date was not going to turn into another one before we’d even sat down. He’d been on the phone when I’d arrived and promptly held up his pointer finger suggesting I wait. I’d overheard him telling “Chip” to “just get in her pants already.” The only reason I hadn’t walked out immediately was because I’d been starving, and I had figured, if anything, I could have the guy buy me some food as a reward for driving all the way over here.
Also, he owed me because his profile said he wanted to “bring back male chivalry,” and I didn’t think a pointer finger in the air was very chivalrous.
Honestly, I should have just left after Jake began telling me about his finance business in great detail. I’d been sitting there for a solid thirty minutes, tears of boredom filling my eyes. I was barely even listening as I shoved a piece of bread into my mouth and grimaced.
What kind of bread even is this?
It was obvious that it was neither fresh nor homemade like they claimed on the menu:“Fresh-baked bread daily.”
If that bread was freshly baked, then the baker had definitely rushed the rising process. Any half-decent baker would know that fermentation during the rising of bread adds flavor. The slower the rise, the tastier the bread.
Not thatIknew much about baking, but there were a couple of people in my life who knew an awful lot about it. And unlike Jake, I was interested in more than just hearing myself talk.
Jake wiped his mouth delicately with his napkin then placed it back on his lap. “So, Lettie, is your name short for anything? Or is it just Lettie?”
I brushed a piece of hair from my face and picked at the bread again. “Violet.”
“That’s a pretty name. How did you get the nickname?”
I suddenly wished he’d gone back to talking about his boring job because I had already decided this was going nowhere and I didn’t particularly want to be answering all his questions.
