His eyes dart sideways and then up at me. “No?”
I give him a half smile. “I like that you keep getting into these wildly uncomfortable situations, and you don’t run. A lesser man might’ve bolted out that door, but you rang the bell. That’s impressive. It’s brave.”
“Or stupid.”
“Let’s focus on the positives here, dude. You staying was honest. That’s good.”
“Really, Kat, I am so sorry, I thought it would be—”
“Stop apologizing.” I sigh. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Although you maybe could’ve dinged that bell a little sooner.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Probably.”
Frowning, I ask, “Ben, exactly what is your job?”
“I’m a pediatric physical therapist. I didn’t realize we hadn’t discussed it.”
“Apparently there are a few things we missed in conversation,” I say, with a staggering sense of guilt barreling through my chest. I pull in a breath and let it out slowly. “So. How much did you hear?”
His gaze sort of travels against his will back to the cupcakes. “A lot.”
“Sex? Boyfriends? Jawlines? Vaginas? All of it?”
“More or less.”
I huff. “In my defense, you do have a really stellar jaw, though. I mean, gosh.”
“Thank you.”
“And I’m assuming you’ve now figured out why I was at the hospital this morning?”
“I’ve got a general idea, yeah.”
I shift my weight from foot to foot, because I don’t know what else to do with my body at the moment. Finally I shrug and slap my hands down on the counter, and he jumps a little. “Sorry. Okay, here’s what I’m thinking. This is really awkward.”
“A bit.”
“So, I figure we have two options. First, we pretend this never happened. We carry on like none of this hideousness ever existed. You are Ben Cleary the customer. I am Kat Carmichael the cupcake wizard. We smile, we say hi, we never speak of this again. Thus ends our venture into whatever it was we were doing. And I won’t hold that against you in the slightest, Ben, seriously. No judgment, no animosity on my end. Although I may likely beg you to forgive me for my lack of openness the other night in regard to what I’m dealing with right now.”
“What’s option two?” he asks.
“Option two? We chat it out. You came here to ask me to dinner? We go on a proper date. Like, not right after work—a Saturday night, restaurant, real date. I’ll wear date clothes and everything. If I still own that sort of thing. And we can talk about the not-at-all-embarrassing things you just heard me shouting about. And Saturday night, because that’ll give you plenty of time to realize how bizarre all of this is and panic yourself out of it.
“Really, you can take the first option. It’s okay. I’ll understand completely.”
He pulls at his tie again. I’m recognizing it’s a nervous habit of his. I’m also realizing that it’s probably a bad sign how often he tugs the damn thing around me. Goodbye, jawline. I hardly knew ye.
“Give me your phone,” he says, quite unexpectedly.
“Excuse me?”
“Your phone,” he repeats. “Can I have it for a moment?”
I’m so surprised, I reflexively reach into my apron pocket and grab my phone without thinking. Before I know it, I’ve handed it over the counter to him. He takes it and starts calmly poking at it. I’m both slightly annoyed and burning with curiosity. A second later, his pocket beeps and he hands my phone back to me.
“There,” he says, checking his own phone. “Now you have my number, and I have yours. That gives you the chance to panic out of it, too.” He pockets his phone and looks up at me. “Saturday. Is eight okay?”
I stare at him. “Sure.”
“I’ll text you details. See you tomorrow morning.” Without another word, he turns and walks right the hell out of the shop. I’m left standing here, still holding my phone, at a complete loss for words.
There’s a clattering sound, and through the kitchen door come crashing my coworkers, all three trying to pop through at the same time. Shannon is grasping the front counter for support; Liz is covering her mouth with both hands, eyes wide like she just saw the Dark Lord himself; and Butter is legitimately breathing into a small white paper bag.
“So,” I say, looking around the shop. “I think that went really well.”
13
Maybe I’m a little nervous.
It’s a lot easier to be nonchalant about things when I’m wearing jeans and my apron and a fine layer of flour. It’s an armor of sorts. Plus, it’s easier to make a quick getaway in sneakers than it is in these little floofy ballet-flat-looking shoes I’ve currently got on.
According to the lady at the store, they are all the rage for casual elegance, but all I can think is they are trying to murder me by slowly severing my Achilles tendon.
I didn’t realize how out of date my closet was. I also didn’t realize I didn’t own anything that isn’t meant to be worn with jeans in some capacity.
In the back of my closet, I found this dress, which was very unfortunately purchased as a funeral dress. I kept it just in case another somber occasion popped up. I wore it only to the one funeral approximately four years ago, though, so I don’t think “funeral dress” counts as a running thing. Oh, I did wear it to an engagement party for a coworker of Ryan’s nearly three years back! There’s some balance there, surely. Maybe this outing can change the vibe and officially make this my little black dress.
Oh god. The last time I wore this was on a date with Ryan.
Why, oh, why didn’t I buy a new dress when I went shopping for these obnoxious little flats after realizing I don’t own any footwear that isn’t boots or covered in splatters of dried frosting?
Maybe I’m a little nervous. But I promised Ben date clothes, and this dress technically qualifies...right?
I’m standing on the sidewalk in front of Poisson, pretending to check my phone and feeling not at all like running home for my jammies and a blanket fort. As promised, Ben texted directions, and here I stand, waiting for him to appear, wondering why on Earth I ever thought this was a good idea.
“Glad you could make it,” he says from behind me, and I damn near drop my phone. I whirl around and plaster a smile on.
“I’m not going to lie, I’m impressed you showed up.”
He smiles back. “I don’t run, remember? I hear it’s endearing.”
I roll my eyes. “This is cheating, by the way. You look like you’re dressed for work. I’m wearing uncomfortable shoes. I thought we had a deal.”
“Hey,” he says, straightening his tie. “It’s Saturday. It takes an act of God or Congress to get one of these things on me on a Saturday. You should be terribly impressed right now.”
I stare at him. “You know, I’ve known you for months, and I’ve never not seen you in a suit. I can’t even picture you in regular clothes. That’s weird.”
“I assure you I wasn’t born in a suit. I don’t even particularly like them.” I keep staring at him. “Are you trying to picture me in a T-shirt or something?”
“I literally can’t do it.”
He laughs. “See? This is good. Neither of us have run screaming in the opposite direction. I think we might just survive dinner. Shall we?”
I giggle in spite of myself. I can appreciate his effort to rise above the hideous awkwardness—and to his credit, he’s doing a fabulous job—but at some point, we are going to have to rip this bandage off.
We head into the restaurant, and he’s got reservations made and everything. Our table is ready, and we’re seated straight away.
I’ve lived here for years, but this is my first visit to Poisson. It’s all white tablecloths and stemware and comfortable elegance
. Not overly pretentious or filled with waiters in tuxedos and violin music, but definitely a step higher than Ernesto’s.
As soon as the waiter comes to take our drink order, Ben pipes up and goes first. Gin and tonic, with a wink to me. He’s going for gold. I order the same with a grin, and our waiter heads off.
“Now, see?” Ben says, opening up his menu. “Think of all the things I won’t have a chance to learn about you now.” He clicks his tongue.
“Ha-ha,” I fake-laugh at him. “You’re in top form tonight. But look, there’s a giant elephant on this table, so maybe we should chat about—”
“No, wait,” he says quite seriously, and sets his menu down. “Hear me out.”
I frown. “What?”
“Okay, so, yes, we’ve got this thing.” He holds his hands up, almost as if he’s preemptively surrendering. “And yeah, it’s awkward, and we agreed we would talk about it, and I think we should, but I was hoping we could have our date first.”
“What does that mean?”
His mouth pulls up in a hopeful half smile, and he puts his hands down. “I came to the shop to ask you out to dinner, and then weirdness happened. So let’s just follow that order. Let’s sit, eat dinner, have what I assume will be a wonderful time. And after, we can talk about all the awkward things. But by then we will have the presumably wonderful meal under our belts, you know?”
I’m trying to fight a grin, but losing. “And just have it hanging over the presumably wonderful meal?”
“It doesn’t have to hang there,” he says with a shrug. “We’ll get to it. I want to talk about it. Especially the bit about you wanting to have crazy, wild sex with me. I liked that part.” I choke on air, and he laughs. “I’m kidding. Mostly. But we will talk about everything, I promise. I made a deal, and I’ll keep it. I don’t want you to think I’m sitting here dwelling on it. I just wanted to have a nice night with you so we have that to fall back on when we do open that can of worms.”
I take a not-at-all-dignified drink of my water in an attempt to clear my throat. “That was mean.”
“Sorry,” he says. He doesn’t look even the slightest bit contrite.
I sit back in my seat and cross my arms and am mildly delighted by the flash of worry that hits his eyes. “I’m curious. Why all the trouble? This seems like a lot of work for a date, fella.”
Now he looks penitent. And a little embarrassed. “Well, I...” He pulls on his tie, and I feel sort of bad. I uncross my arms and lean back toward the table to show I’m listening. “Honestly?”
“Honestly is good, yeah.”
“I find you very confusing. And a little scary. And intimidating.”
“Those...those aren’t good adjectives, Cleary.”
“You are, though! But I also think you’re very charming, and clever, and assertive, and I like you. So.”
“You like me.”
He looks down at his tie again and grins. “Hey, you like me, too. I heard that, you know.”
I smile. “Yes, you did.”
Our waiter comes back and deposits our drinks on the table. “Are we ready to order?” he asks.
Ben looks at me cautiously. It’s a carefully weighted look. He’s not applying pressure, but he’s also not letting his hopefulness go unnoticed. I’m impressed.
It’s also not at all in my nature to just throw pressing issues on the back burner and deal with them at a later time. And it’s not like my relationship with Ryan is just going to magically disappear over appetizers and make this a normal date. Traditionally, I’d rather just get it out of the way so it’s done and we can move on.
But then again, with my track record, my vagina would probably beg to differ, and I’ve only got twenty-four days left, so maybe I could try rolling with things just this once.
I pick up my menu and smile again. “I think we need a few minutes.”
14
“Two years?” Ben whispers across the table. “Seriously?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose between my fingers. “Yes. Two years. Well, almost two years. But, god, why does everyone focus on that?”
He sits back awkwardly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”
“There is nothing about this that isn’t uncomfortable, Ben.”
I’m not overselling. I’ve laid it all out there. The vaginismus, Ryan, Alice, the therapy, everything. The news of my broken special is hanging in the air like a giant neon unusable vagina.
A flash of understanding crosses his face. “Therapy sex. Okay, I get that now.”
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “This is wonderful.”
“No, I’m sorry,” he says, and almost reaches across the table for my hand. Thinking better of the idea, he yanks it back right quick. I’m relieved. I don’t think I could handle any physical contact without bursting into flames. “I just meant I didn’t understand that at all before.”
I drain half my drink. “In my defense, I hadn’t planned to drop that on you until the third date, so don’t hold it against me.”
His eyebrows shoot straight up. “Really?”
“No, not really. I don’t know when that information would have come around—I didn’t think I’d be dating, to be honest.” I force a smile. “Aren’t you super glad we have that lovely dinner to fall back on now?”
“Yes, actually,” he says seriously, and I feel like a big jerk.
“I’m sorry. This is just...astonishingly uncomfortable.”
“So, what...” He pauses, clearly wondering how to phrase this delicately. “What can you do about it? You’re doing therapy yourself, you said. And you’re seeing Dave.”
I hold my hands up. “No. No, I am not seeing Dave. My doctor made me do the intake appointment, but I can do the therapy on my own.”
He looks confused, but says, “Well, Dave is really good at his job. And there are several others who are just as good, if you’d rather see someone else.”
Shaking my head, I take a deep drink. “No. Why is everyone so fixated on me having a therapist? Aside from the fact I think Dave super hates me after that appointment, I can do the therapy myself. It’s not the therapy that’s the problem.”
“So what is?”
Fighting the urge to shove my dessert fork in my eye, I reply, “It’s after therapy. After.”
“The actual...sex?”
“Give the man a prize,” I say, feeling sad. “I have no idea. I assume at some point I will have to bite the bullet and give it a shot, or just accept my life as a sexless wonder. I just really, really, really don’t want to try again with Ryan and have it end in failure. Aside from not wanting to go through the physical pain of it not working—which, let’s be honest, that’s a big motivator—I don’t think I could face him if I put us through that. Again.”
He looks at me for a moment, carefully opening his mouth and then closing it, words forming and disappearing before he can get them out.
“Spit it out, sir.”
“Is there anything... I mean...” He breathes out slowly and pulls his hands through his hair. “I have no idea how to say this appropriately, so please don’t throw a drink at me or something if I get it wrong. But is there anything I can do to help?”
I bite the inside of my lip to keep from smiling. “Are you offering to have sex with me, Ben Cleary?”
He laces his fingers together and fidgets. “You know, I went to a Catholic school my entire childhood, and this conversation has me waiting for a nun to come up and slap me on the back of the head with a ruler, I swear.”
“You are sweating a little.”
He reflexively wipes at his forehead with the back of his hand. “I’m serious, though,” he insists. “You said you’ve only got twenty-four days left, so is there anything I can do?”
/> I give him a genuine and kind smile. “Look, I’m taking this as you are legitimately offering to help and not just trying to get laid, but this isn’t a simple situation.”
“I’m not even going to dignify that ‘get laid’ part, just so you know,” he says and shakes his head. “And yes, this is odd, and I’d definitely feel more comfortable if you went to one of the therapists instead, but if therapy isn’t for you, I get that. I don’t know, a friend in need. If I can help, I want to.”
I sit back in my chair and tilt my head. “Are we friends, Ben?”
“Aren’t we?”
My brows pull together. “How do you know as an adult? It’s not like when you’re five and you meet someone on the playground, and you both like the swings, and suddenly they’re your new bestie.”
“I still like the swings.”
“Me, too.”
He leans forward and puts his hands flat on the table. “Okay, how about this. If I called you in the middle of the night and needed your help with something, would you help me?”
“What kind of help?”
He thinks for a moment. “Maybe my car broke down and I needed a ride. Or my apartment was flooding. Or I needed to hide a body. The usual. Would you come?”
I consider this. “You know, I think I would.”
“And if you called me, I’d be there. I think that’s how adults determine friendship.”
I smile. “That’s a pretty solid barometer. I like that.” He sits back in his chair, pleased. “So, okay. We’re friends. Wanna find some swings?”
“I really do love the swings. I’ll knock a kid right out of the way.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“Okay, I wouldn’t,” he concedes. “I’d wait very impatiently for my turn.”
“Just for the record,” I say, “Mr. Very Nice Guy, you don’t have to feel obligated to help me or my lady bits out of this jam we’re in. This is a lot to take on. I don’t want to cock things up for everyone.”
“Should we set up some ground rules, or something?”
“As in, Rule One, we won’t let this cock things up?”
The Awkward Path to Getting Lucky Page 9
