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It's all very predictable, though. He's thirty-one, nearly a decade older than me, and like me, he graduated from an Ivy League university and comes from a highly respected, connected family.
But that's where the similarities end. Because, unlike me, his veryordinaryfamily doesn't dictate his future. Not to mention, I broke my back to finish my education as early as I possibly could, and this guy is still acting poetic about his college days.
"Backwards. All of his clothes were on completely backward! Can you believe it?" he laughs, taking another long sip of white wine. "God, I just can't imagine how I would have gotten through Brown without good old Eric."
Maybe you should have asked Eric on this date, then,I muse, absentmindedly swirling my barely touched glass of red wine. I Don’t like drinking on dates, not even to take the edge off the usual awkwardness. For me, alcohol is reserved for things that are actually entertaining, like family dinners or hanging out with my best friend, Amanda.
Speaking of which, I'll have to tell her this blind date has been a complete dud. She was the one who set it up, and while I appreciate that this guy isn't completely unattractive, there is no way I'll be seeing him again. Because just like every other date I get set up on by Amanda, my parents, or anyone else, I'm bored out of my mind.
I frown at that thought as Dud Date launches into another college story. Come to think of it, do Ieverenjoy myself on blind dates like this?
Hmm. I guess I Don’t. This doesn't make much sense because most guys I'm set up on dates with seem like genuinely decent people—all successful with impressive pedigrees.
I think something must be wrong with me because this guy seems perfectly nice and is relatively attractive in an objective sense. He hasn't chewed too loudly, acted condescending to the waiter, made cringy innuendos at every turn, or brought up the subject of exes. And most importantly, he doesn't seem the type to ask too many questions about my family, like where our wealth comes from and what we do. It's a trait I'm obligated to look for on any date.
And yet here I am, utterly uninterested.
Iwantto be interested. I'd love it if the smile I was giving him right now wasn't completely fake, and it would be great if the way Dud Date eagerly brushed his fingers against my hand on the table did anything but make my skin itch a little there.
Really, I'd like to be all in on this the way he seems to be. The poor guy has been shooting me gooey-eyed looks since the dinner started. But despite how nice he is and my desire to satisfy my family by finding someone to settle down with soon…I just feel nothing.
It's annoying because I'm used to succeeding at my pursuits.
"I feel like I've been talking this entire time," Dud Date finally chuckles, setting down his fork and dabbing his face with the cloth napkin from his lap as the music changes again.
As boring as this date has been, I have to give him points for taking me somewhere new. Most blind dates try to impress me by taking me to expensive, fine restaurants in Los Angeles, not realizing how commonplace those are to me.
This guy met me in San Francisco, with a nice restaurant and a dance lounge rolled into one. It's unique, and the music and dancing on the dance floor changed every few minutes, which has helped keep my boredom at bay. It's also not terribly crowded for a Friday night, which I appreciate. There are a couple of group dates, a few gaggles of laughing friends, and the occasional couple sitting at tables or swaying on the dance floor.
"Giulia?"
I realize I missed one of my cues and smile at him, lifting my wineglass. "Not at all. I enjoy hearing about Brown. It sounds like Eric was a real partier."
He seemed pleased to know I was listening enough to remember about Eric. I personally think it's a bad sign if I can remember his old roommate's name when I've already forgotten Dud Date's.
"So, what about you?" he presses. "I still Don’t know much about you, just what Amanda told me."
"And whatdidshe tell you?"
He tries hard to smolder as he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table, looking me over appreciatively for the thousandth time since this night began. "Well, not much. She said you were gorgeous, but she was far underselling you in that department. " He grins.
Does he expect me to throw my panties at him for coming up with that? I give him a dry smile. "How nice. Anything else? I know my bestie, and she's bound to have talked about something besides my physical appearance."
That's not entirely true. I've found out during several dates that all she said to them was that I was "totally hot," That was apparently enough for them to sign on for a blind date. Not sure whether that's a poorer reflection on them or her, but Amanda would just roll her eyes at me if I complained about her methods of snaring men for dates.
"Amanda mentioned that you are a bit of a workaholic," he admits. "But she didn't say what you do, so what is it?"
"Financial management."
It's my standard vague response, and there's no need to specify that it's for my not-strictly-biological family or their complex web of extensive and often illegal practices. Luckily, most people accept those two words at face value, envisioning me typing away in an office cubicle instead of meeting with shady people or shmoozing upper-society contacts that my family covets.
"Really? That sounds nice—although I have to say, you didn't strike me as the numbers type."
I arch a brow, curious about what first impression I must make. "What type did I strike you as?"
Dud Date shrugs, downs the rest of his drink, and then fiddles with his cutlery, clearly unsure how to answer. "Well... that's a good question. I mean, I just met you, so I'm not sure you really fit into any one box, but you seem sort of…."
I want to tell him to get to the point and just spit out whatever he thinks of me, but the music changes again, and I happen to glance over his shoulder at the dance floor just as another group walks in.
