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Yes, I eat seafood. Can you even call yourself a Floridian if you don’t? LOL.
Hudson
Great. Then it’s a date. I’ll pick you up at your shop on Thursday around noon. Gotta go. I’m at Hooplas and it is getting busy. Bye.
A date? Did he mean an actual date or that we’ve set a date for lunch? And why are there butterflies in my stomach? Am I nervous? I shouldn’t be. It’s just lunch with a friend. I do that all the time.
I need help, so I screenshot the text messages between Hudson and I and send them to Grace. No sooner do I send them that my phone rings.
“What does he mean ‘it’s a date’?” I answer with no preamble.
“It means you have a date. Congratulations. I’m so proud of you.”
“Grace, I just wanted to have lunch with a friend. Does he mean ‘date’ as in date date or that we have set a date for lunch?”
“With all the evidence presented to me, my verdict is that you have a date date.”
“What evidence?” I’m so confused. Maybe I should cancel.
“He took you home from the bar, stayed to make sure you were okay, took you to breakfast, held your hand, then came over to your house all day yesterday, left you a note, and now has asked you out. Evidence, my friend. He’s into you.”
“But I’m not his type, Grace. Have you seen him? He doesn’t have an ounce of fat on him. His muscles have muscles.”
“I know and have you checked out his butt? I bet you could bounce a quarter off it, and it would bounce six inches.”
I feel the jealousy creep in again with her talking about Hudson like that, but I have no ownership over him. Besides, she’s not wrong. He has a nice, firm butt. Unlike my jiggly one.
“Grace. Be serious.”
I hear her huff, “Fine. Want me to be serious? I really believe he’s into you and this nonsense about you not being his type is getting old. You’re beautiful, funny, and weird. You’re the total package, Kate. You own your own home, own your own business, and you have all your shit together. In all things, you are confident, but when it comes to your looks, you’ve always been so critical of yourself. I’ve never understood it.”
“Weird? I’m weird? How am I weird?” Now I have even more things to worry about. Great.
“You have a pet goose. It’s weird.” Okay, she’s not wrong there. I’ll give her that. “But the rest of it is true, too. Besides, if he doesn’t see your value, then you move on. Simple. It’s just lunch, Kate.”
“Okay. You’re right. I’m probably freaking out for no reason.”
“Exactly. Now, what are you going to wear?”
Great. Now I’m freaking out all over again.
Grace and I have argued over what I plan to wear for tomorrow’s lunch date since I told her about it the day before yesterday. I plan to wear jeans and a shirt. She is advocating for a dress and a spa day beforehand.
Even though I keep telling myself it’s just lunch between friends, I found myself watching the firehouse across the street from my shop all day yesterday, trying to catch a glimpse of Hudson, but to no avail. The fire trucks and rescue units were out all day. They must have had a busy shift.
Today, Grace showed up during my big delivery of supplies to irritate me again about what to wear and I finally had to shoot her down. It didn’t help that Chloe is on her side. So, I threatened Chloe of not showing up for any of the interviews tomorrow for additional staff. She then told Grace to mind her own business. Smart girl.
Right now, I’m on my way to my first kickball practice. I’ve been looking forward to this all week and am pretty excited for it. I mean, how hard can this be, right?
I pull up to the sports complex and see Grace waving at me and the empty parking spot next to her car.
“I was wondering if you were going to make it. Hurry up. They’re about to start.”
“I’m coming. Hold your horses. I had to run home to get my sneakers. I forgot to bring them with me to the shop this morning.”
We make our way over to the dugout and have a seat next to a bunch of other women. We all cordially nod to each other, but no one’s actually talking… except of course Grace.
“Hi there. It’s our first time.” She announces to the group then sits next to me and gives me a look. “What?”
