The Blind Date

by Alice Ward

  I went to the mirror and looked at myself as I gathered my own blonde hair into a ponytail. I was cute, not pretty, nothing to write home about. I scowled at the mirror. Here I was, years later, still thinking negatively about myself.

  Say something nice.

  When I first started to seriously attempt to lose weight, that had been my deal with myself. Once a day at least, I had to look in the mirror and say something nice about the way I looked.

  At first, I couldn’t. I just stood there, berating every single part of my body until one day I noticed that I had the kind of full lips people spent a lot of money to have. So, they became my mantra. Then I started complimenting my eyes. My hair. I stopped biting my nails and complimented them.

  As I started feeling better about more parts of me, it became easier to accept that I wasn’t all bad. And when I stopped hating myself, I started making better choices. Now, my body was slim, the model of fitness, but that old habit of berating myself still snuck in from time to time.

  It’d been a long time coming, shedding all the extra pounds I’d put on by rebelling against a mother who insisted on my nanny feeding me cardboard and tofu for dinner every night. No, most of the time, when I was away from school, my snacks had consisted of a soda and a bag of Doritos. It wasn’t until a few months before college, one-hundred pounds overweight and totally sluggish, that my life changed. While trying to decide what to major in, I took Nutrition 101, and it opened my eyes.

  Six years later, here I was, a Certified Clinical Nutritionist. I couldn’t lie, it was my dream job. As much as I complained to Leah, it was only because I felt the pain of my clients so deeply. This was my passion. I wanted everyone to embrace the healthy lifestyle I lived and loved.

  “Ready,” I said to Leah as I grabbed my own water bottle.

  The gym wasn’t crowded today. We were able to snag two ellipticals right next to each other, in front of the windows overlooking busy Broadway.

  As she set her elliptical for the typical sixty-minute jaunt, and I set mine, she said, “I guess it’s not a good day for either of us. I nearly got myself clocked by a twelve-year-old paraplegic.”

  “Really?”

  The poor kid. I felt stupid for complaining about my obesity woes when poor Leah had people with real life-threatening injuries to take care of.

  She nodded. “It’s always the same. You get pushback first, before gradually, acceptance. I’m sure you’re familiar with that. The key is to just be firm and persistent, and eventually, they get the message that you’re trying to do good.”

  I started to advance into the first uphill phase, and I calmed my breathing so I wouldn’t exert myself too quickly. Nutrition issues may not have been as immediately life-threatening as a car wreck or the other things Leah had to deal with, but they were no less serious. “Yeah. I have to get my butt in gear to present at that open forum. The obesity problem in schools is getting out of hand.”

  Leah laughed. “You need to loosen up, girl. You’re wound so tight.”

  “What? No, I’m not. It’s true. The obesity problem…”

  I trailed off when I realized Leah wasn’t paying attention. She’d heard my sales pitch enough to recite it herself, anyway.

  Okay, maybe I was wound a little too tight.

  I increased my pace and looked over at my friend. Leah was smiling as a muscular, body-building type took the machine next to her. As he dropped his phone into the cupholder, he gave her a smile — no man could resist Leah’s charms. She was tall and statuesque and deadly when it came to the opposite sex.

  She looked at me and mouthed, He’s hot.

  I nodded. Oh, yes, he was. And his body was clearly his bright and shiny temple. The only thing I’d found, though, with men like that, the type who kissed their biceps good night, was that they didn’t have eyes for anyone but themselves. I had yet to find a man who was the total package — who took care of himself and cared about his fellow human beings. That man probably didn’t exist.

  Go for it, I mouthed back.

  She reached over, grabbed his phone, and jabbed in her number, easy as that. The guy grinned. “Text you later.” With a wink, he went over to pump some iron.

  She smiled at her phone. “Brock. That’s his name. That’s a sports reporter name if ever I heard one.” She deepened her voice. “Brock Winters, reporting from KABC in New York. How about those Mets?”

  I laughed.

  “I’ll give him until tonight. If not…” She made like she was snipping with scissors. “Don’t give them an inch or they’ll take a mile. This is hardball.”

  I only wished dating was that easy for me. It wasn’t that I was picky, or a pushover. I didn’t even have the chance to be any of those things. I just wasn’t… Leah. Men didn’t swarm around me like bees. No, I thought I was inadvertently wearing man-repellant perfume.

  “So, will you go out with him if he texts?”

  “Not right away. Besides, you know I have that conference in Vegas all next week. I’ll string him along until after that. The more string you put out there, the harder they try to pull. Always make them pull.”

  Yet another little nugget of dating advice from Leah that I’d file away to use… never. The opportunity never came up.

  Frustrated at myself, I pushed harder on the elliptical, my hamstrings straining with the effort.

  “You really need to go for it,” she said, increasing her speed too.

  “I go for it every day,” I panted between breaths, knowing exactly what she meant by the word “it.”

  “No. Mostly you just hide from it. When was the last time you got some, girl?”

  I cringed at the question, thinking back to high school, the first and only time I’d ever gotten “some.” That time, though nearly seven years earlier, had shaped and was still shaping all my encounters with men. Leah knew I had issues when it came to trusting men, but she didn’t know the half of the reason why. And she didn’t know how truly pathetic my sex life was. For a twenty-three-year-old single girl, alone in the city, I actually thought some nuns got more action.

  Sweat was starting to bead at my temples, so I switched on the fan, hoping it would drown out her voice. “Not having this conversation!”

  She shrugged. “You should still date, at least.”

  “No, I really shouldn’t. I have too much on my mind. How do you expect me to make a difference in the world if I’m thinking about men?”

  “Everyone could use a breather. Even you, the future conquering hero of childhood obesity. I mean, even Abraham Lincoln took time off for nookie.”

  I stared at her. Seriously? “And you know this, how?’

  She grabbed her phone out of her cup holder. “Look. I have the perfect guy to set you up with. He’s cute and sweet, and—”

  “Married?” I rolled my eyes. Because the last guy she’d set me up with had three kids and a wife in New Jersey, something I found out when he showed up and was still wearing a wedding ring. “I’m not going on any more blind dates that you set up.”

  “No, this guy is legit. He had a breakup a year ago and has been struggling to get back into the dating scene. He’s my brother’s college roommate’s… someone. Cousin? I forget.”

  I gaped at her. “You forget? Have you even met the guy?”

  She shrugged. “No, but my brother said he’s legit.”

  “Le-ah.” I gave her a look. “Your brother is thirty and still thinks beer is a food group.”

  She backed off, thank god. I was in no mood to argue this. She knew some of my history. She knew that I’d never actually had a real boyfriend. All I ever had was a series of boring or self-absorbed losers who paled in comparison to a good book and a bubble bath at home, by myself. The few men I did like always disappeared after the first date, as if I’d been giving off warning signals to stay away. It was enough to give me a complex. After all, I’d once read that you attracted the type of man you deserved. Did I really deserve a string of total assholes I wouldn’t ev
en wish on my worst enemy?

  “I don’t know how you do it,” she sighed as our time dwindled down, and we went into cooldown mode. My muscles were straining, happily worked over, and I was breathing hard. It felt good.

  “What? Be single? It’s simple, when you’ve dated the human refuse I’ve been privy to. Alone is the much better option.”

  “But you keep on trying. You don’t give up,” she said, her glass-half-full spirit shining through. “Don’t you want to find someone?”

  I shook my head. Nope, I didn’t want a guy. Didn’t need a guy. Had just about sworn off guys forever. Guys. Phooey. Worse for my health than Heigh-di-Hos.

  Well, most of the time. Sometimes, when I laid in bed in my lonely apartment watching Netflix, I wished I had someone to talk to other than Hobbes. I loved my cat, but I sometimes wished for someone who would stir my mind, maybe even like the same quirky things as me. Things like classic books and R&B music and whatever. But those guys simply didn’t exist.

  Besides, this wasn’t the time. Now, I had to hit the shower so I could go back home and finish that proposal. The children of this city depended on me.

  After work, I took the subway to my apartment in Queens, thinking of all the wonderful words I could pour into my proposal for the upcoming open forum. I jogged up three flights of stairs to my apartment, something I always did to make sure my ass stayed high and tight. I opened the door, flipped on the lights, snuggled Hobbes, and made myself a dinner for one of curried lentils and brussels sprouts.

  After eating, I sat on my queen bed — a bed I was very happy I could sleep in any way I liked — and opened up my laptop. I prepped myself for some writing magic, putting my fingers on the keys. Hobbes jumped on the bed, and I stroked his golden fluff.

  “I’m very happy being alone,” I told him, saying it like a mantra.

  He rolled onto his back and looked at me like, Just pet me, human.

  “And I’m talking to a cat who doesn’t even give a shit about me,” I muttered.

  Truthfully, the idea of snuggling up with someone, of doing a running commentary on bad reality TV together, debating the meaning of classic books, chilling to Marvin Gaye, having someone other than a cat to talk to… it sounded nice.

  And just because I’d had one bad sexual experience in high school didn’t mean that I was doomed to repeat that forever and ever. At least I hoped not. Eventually, I’d have to break that chain. No one had luck that bad.

  I rolled over in bed and found my phone and opened a text message to Leah. Taking a deep breath, I typed. So, about that guy you were talking about.

  A minute later, she texted me back. Yes! His name is Zach. He’s REALLY cute. You interested?

  I tapped a finger on my chin, overthinking all the possible scenarios as usual. Hobbes’ head butted my thigh, giving me a pet me now or I’ll scratch your eyes out look.

  Petting my cat with one hand, the thumb of my other hand got to work. Possibly. When can we set something up?

  Shit. I couldn’t believe I was going on a blind date.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Zachary

  When my father retired, he left me with a lot of shit to clean up.

  I leaned back in my chair at the end of the boardroom table and raked my hands over my tired face. It felt like all I’d been doing since Dad handed me the reins was deflecting bullet after bullet. If I had to hear “But your father…” one more time, I might start throwing punches.

  It was a damn good thing my philosophy was this… obstacles were made to be overcome.

  Because there were a fucking lot of obstacles in Vaughn Industries’ way right now.

  I examined the second-quarter revenue reports again and threw up my hands. My first quarter as CEO of the company my grandfather built from the ground up nearly seventy years ago was one of the bleakest on record. Granted, I’d only been at the reins for two months of it, but it didn’t matter. I was in control now.

  We hadn’t done this piss-poor since the recession of 1980. I stared at the numbers, daring to believe that they were a mistake.

  “This is totally fucking unacceptable,” I said to the grave faces around the table. I pounded the thick wood like my father would have, enunciating each syllable: “Un. Ac. Cept. A. Ble.”

  Ann Baldrick, my marketing director, nodded. “We’re already looking into possible causes.”

  I shook my head. “Dammit, Ann. I don’t want to hear about causes. I want solutions. Bring me solutions. I want to know how we plan to get our market share back.”

  My father had bred me for this position, as his father had before him. I’d spent every summer since high school learning the ropes, then attended Harvard undergraduate and business school. My father told me I was ready, that I had credentials to steer our company to success. That was exactly what he said during his speech at the company retreat two months earlier when he’d symbolically passed the torch to me.

  Funny, I’d sat in on meetings like this for years, and everything was usually so… amicable. We went around to each of the twenty directors, and as each one gave a report, my father usually nodded and said, “Good, good.”

  That was when things had been good.

  Now, they were shit.

  And I wasn’t going to sit there and nod like a fucking monkey when the company was in a steep decline.

  Bob Wilson, our vice president of sales, spoke up. “Right away, Zach. We’ll put together a report for, say, the nineteenth?”

  I shook my head. “One week,” I told him, holding up a single finger in case he didn’t hear me correctly. “I want a detailed report in one week.”

  When my father was busy planning his retirement to a golfing community in Palm Beach, Florida, he hadn’t anticipated that R&D would be dead in the water, bringing nothing new to the table. Or that our recruiting department wouldn’t be able to nab the top individuals we needed to fill our management positions, despite adding value to our benefits package. Or that acquisitions would drop the ball on our merger with TastyMade. Or that the news would be down our throats because the obesity rate in this country had now reached epidemic proportions and they were looking for a scapegoat. Hell, France banned our products for possible cancer-causing ingredients, which was a load of bullshit. The whole packaged food industry seemed to be going to hell, and… lucky me, the company was now all my problem.

  It was a good thing I loved problems. Give me the most fucked up knot in the world, and I’d sit there until my fingers fell off, straightening out all the tangled pieces, making it work better than when it was new. I lived for this shit.

  Ann clicked on the top of her pen, giving me a wary look. “We may have that report, but your father—”

  Fuck it all. “Look. My father did things a certain way. I got it. But I’m not interested in what he did. I want new ideas. Fresh ideas. If we have to go against seventy years of know-how to turn this company around and start bringing the numbers up, I’m not against it. Let’s take some risks.”

  They stared at me, wide-eyed. I might as well have just spit on my father. Yes, he was a good leader and could do no wrong in their eyes. When he said to do something, they just followed. Often blindly.

  And maybe that was the problem.

  I waved them away. “Get out of here and don’t come back until you can bring me some fresh ideas,” I said to them, sick of seeing their faces. Normally, I loved my crew, but not when we were down this far. They’d failed, and I didn’t like it.

  If someone failed my company, they failed me. And it was personal.

  All of these people were my father’s hires and many had been on the payroll longer than I’d been alive. We’d had a long string of successes, led by the release of our biggest seller, the Heigh-di-Ho, twenty years ago, which were chocolate-wrapped Swiss rolls that the damn queen of England even called, “The tastiest food ever made.” Then came wide distribution, not only to the fifty states but to Canada, Mexico, and Europe. Next, clinching the contract to serve our
snack cakes, Heigh-di-Hos, Twinkle Toes, and Color Bombs, with one of the largest vending machine suppliers in the country.

  Our newest battle? Getting the cakes in all the public school vending machines across the country. Up until this quarter, it had been inevitable. After all, our frozen food division already served half the school lunches in the city. Now, though, with a bunch of assholes crusading to keep our food out of the schools, we’d taken a step back. We needed a spark to make things happen, but it seemed like none of these people had that fire. They were resting on their past successes instead of paving new ground. They’d grown lazy.

  I strode out of the boardroom, pulling out my phone to message Gavin, my partner in crime. We’d talked about getting a late lunch, but I hadn’t thought it’d be this late. I realized he’d texted me an hour ago. I have a hell of a hangover. Lunch?

  Gavin having a hangover wasn’t news. He and I loved to party, which was probably why we were best friends. We had this ongoing competition to drink each other under the table. I’d missed last night, though, missed a lot of parties lately because I’d been prepping for this shit meeting. I stabbed in my return message. Lunch, now?

  His comeback made me smile. You mean Dinner? I’m up for it.

  I checked my watch. It was after three, so yeah, closer to dinner than lunch. It seemed like my meals were always taken later than I expected, or in a rush. A diet soda here, a package of Heigh-di-Hos there. Basically, anything that was handy. Since I’d taken the reins of the company, my carefree days with Gavin had gone the same way as Vaughn Industries… to shit.

  Not that I minded so much. I was thirty-two now, no longer a kid. The drinking to excess, one-night stands, and morning hangovers had started to get a little old.

  We had a tacit agreement to meet at Gallagher’s on West 52nd, our go-to place for steak, which was right down the street from my offices and downstairs from his apartment. When I got there, Gavin already had a table and was sucking down his third glass of water.