by Max Monroe
Me: See you then.
Senna: Can’t wait. ;)
I sigh again.
The woman is the same, the game is the same—it’s all the same.
So why does it feel so different?
Maybe
Is that him?
Oh, never mind, that guy is wearing a uniform. Pretty sure no one would schedule a date during their flipping shift.
Or wait…is that him?
Unless he didn’t offer up the information that he has a wife and a baby who he’s bringing to dinner with him, that’s probably not the right guy.
While sitting at the bar of the restaurant, I’ve been playing the “which guy is my date?” game for the past fifteen minutes, and I honestly can’t remember what he’s supposed to look like anymore.
This is exactly what you get for arriving twenty minutes before the date is supposed to start.
Definitely one of those times where fashionably late is the way to go, Maybe.
I pull my phone out of my purse and discreetly bring up the TapNext app and proceed to study Jess’s profile picture.
Okay. Just remember…Blond hair. Brown eyes. Fairly broad shoulders.
I memorize the basics of his attributes like I’ll be tested on them later.
You can do this. You can and will remember what your date looks like.
I slip my phone back into my purse just as the bartender steps up and asks me if I would like another glass of wine.
I glance down at my now-empty glass and immediately shake my head.
Considering I guzzled that thing down in a matter of five minutes and I hardly ever drink alcohol, another serving will pretty much guarantee I’m a slurring, rambling hot mess during my date.
“No thank you,” I say, conscious of self-preservation and safety. The bartender nods his head in understanding and moves to the other end of the bar to wait on a new customer.
Another few minutes go by like one of those time continuum movies, where a second feels like a year, so when I glance at the door and see a blond-haired man striding in, I immediately stand to my feet.
That’s him. I’m sure of it.
He stands at the hostess counter, most likely letting her know he’s looking for someone—me—so I decide to make it easy on everyone and walk straight up to him.
“Hi,” I say, and he looks up to meet my eyes.
“Hello.”
Shit…now what?
Do we shake hands? Or do we hug? Or do I curtsy?
Jesus…don’t curtsy.
Impulsively, I go with the hug, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “It’s so great to finally meet you in person,” I say, and I note that he just barely hugs me back.
“Uh…”
Shit. Did I just infringe on his personal boundaries?
Is hugging during the first-date introduction a big hell no?
God, why am I so awkward at these things?
Desperate to smooth it over, I search for something else to say.
“You’re even more handsome than on your dating profile.”
“Your what?” a female voice behind him shouts, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“Uh…” The guy looks back and forth between us. “Wait…no…”
“You have a fucking dating profile?” the woman asks, her voice practically shaking with the need to kick his ass.
“Wait…no… I don’t know…” His blue eyes go wide.
Ah, shit.
His blue eyes.
Not, as my study guide failed to help me remember, brown. Sure, I remember now, but that doesn’t do this guy’s balls a whole lot of good. Seriously. If the vein in this woman’s forehead is any indication, she’s about to go Jackie Chan on them any second.
“What in the hell is going on?” his wife, I’m now figuring out by the giant rock on her finger, asks.
“Honey, just calm down for a second,” the man—a man who is most definitely not Jess—says. “I don’t know this woman. I have never seen her before in my life!”
“She sure seems to know you!”
“Oh God,” I mutter, a quivering hand coming up to cover my mouth. “I am so, so, so sorry. I thought you were my date. But you’re not.”
“No,” he says in a firm, extremely pissed-off voice. “I am not your date.”
“He’s not my date,” I repeat myself, but this time, I meet his wife’s eyes. “He’s not my date.”
She glares.
“I’m so sorry. He looks like my date, but he’s not my date.” I look at Not-Jess again. “You’re not my date.”
The man shakes his head. “I’m definitely not your date.”
“My date’s name is Jess, and your name isn’t Jess.”
“My name is Tom,” he says with conviction to female Jackie Chan—like his wife doesn’t know what his fucking name is.
“How about we go on down to the courthouse?” she yells. “Get Peeping added in front of it.”
Oh. God. This shit’s gone severely sideways.
“Again, I’m so sorry,” I apologize and jet. I really don’t have any interest in waiting around to tell them how to spell my name for the irreconcilable reason on their divorce papers.
I hightail it away from the hostess stand and push through the doors of the women’s restroom. Once I’ve safely locked myself inside one of the stalls, I pull my phone out of my purse and call Lena.
She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, girl.”
Already worked up from nearly breaking up a marriage, I skip the pleasantries altogether.
“Holy shit, I’m on a date and I just went up to the wrong guy and hugged him and he is here with his wife and fucking hell why am I so awkward, Lena? Seriously, I think I might have just inadvertently caused trust issues in someone’s marriage. I can’t believe I just—”
“Take a breath, girl.” She cuts me off on a laugh. “You’re literally talking a million miles a minute.”
I inhale a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just that shit went down out there by the hostess stand.”
“Okay, so what happened, exactly?”
I explain it to her again, but this time much slower, and by the end of my story, she is laughing her ass off.
“Lena! It’s not that funny!”
“Oh, but it is,” she retorts. “It’s hilarious, Maybe.”
“God help me.” A groan jumps from my lungs. “I should never be allowed out of my apartment.”
“It’s going to be fine,” she reassures. “And anyway, you need to remember that it doesn’t matter how this date actually goes. What matters is if Milo knows you’re on a date. You can be a total hot mess on this date, and it doesn’t matter.”
The realization is liberating. “Okay, you’re right.”
“I know,” she says with her signature confidence. “So, does Milo know you’re on a date?”
“He knows. I asked him for help picking out my outfit.”
Lena doesn’t respond right away, and it makes me freak out a little.
“Wait…oh God…is that bad? Did I screw up Phase 3 of the plan?”
“Honey.” She laughs. “You’re a damn genius. Making him pick out your outfit for a date with another man? Jesus Christ, I hope you sent him pictures in lingerie.”
A laugh of relief leaves my lips. “Not quite, but I did sample a couple of cleavage-boosting dresses.”
“Brilliant.”
I smile. “So now what do I do?”
“Go back into the restaurant and try to find your date. This time, don’t start hugging and schmoozing and shit until you’re sure it’s him.”
“And then?”
“And then just enjoy the free dinner.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “Just go back inside the restaurant, eat a giant bowl of fettuccini alfredo, and try to enjoy yourself. No use sitting through a dinner in misery, you know what I mean?”
My stomach growls in the name of fettuccine, and suddenly, I’m at ease. If there’s one thing I know how to do, it’s eat a bowl of pasta.
“Yeah, for once, I think I do know what you mean.”
Milo
At exactly eight o’clock, I pick Senna up from her apartment in Midtown, and we head toward SoHo where I reserved a table for two at one of my favorite steakhouses.
Senna is all long legs and red lips and long blond hair flowing down her back in a mane of curls and waves. And her tight white dress is probably illegal, even after Labor Day.
When we were escorted from the hostess stand to our table, she turned heads the entire way, and her familiar display of flirtatious eyes and long lashes has been in full effect since I picked her up.
Not to mention, her apparently bare foot is already rubbing against my jeans-covered leg.
She’s happy to see me.
And like with all of our previous “dates,” she’s expecting for things to lead toward sex at my apartment by the end of the night.
“How is your steak?” she asks, her voice slightly purring with her words.
“It’s good.”
“Can I have a bite?”
“Uh…sure,” I respond and go to put a piece on her plate, but in a dramatic display of her cleavage pushed out between her arms, she rests her elbows on the table and opens her red-painted lips, urging me to feed it to her.
So, I do.
And she moans her approval.
“You’re right,” she purrs and licks at her bottom lip. “It’s really good.”
I should be one hundred percent enjoying this display.
Should be being the operative words.
But instead of enjoying the ease of our no-strings-attached relationship and the sexual satisfaction we’ve been known to give each other in the past, my mind is about twenty blocks away. In Greenwich Village. Wondering how Maybe is doing.
Is her date going okay?
Is he actually a stand-up guy?
What are his fucking intentions?
That dickhead better not be expecting sex from her tonight…
Every single question and thought bouncing around inside my head only make me more uncomfortable.
When Senna excuses herself for the ladies’ room, a sigh of relief escapes my chest, and I pull my cell out to send a quick message.
Me: How’s it going?
Thankfully, she responds not even a minute later.
Maybe: He’s not a serial killer. At least, I don’t think he is.
Me: That’s reassuring.
Maybe: LOL. It’s fine. No red flags so far.
Me: If any red flags arise, you know you can call me if you need an excuse to escape the situation.
Maybe: Are you offering me a date out?
Me: A date out?
Am I really so old that I don’t know the terms the kids are using anymore?
Maybe: Yeah. You know, where you already make an arrangement with your friend to call in a fake emergency or something if the date goes to shit.
Me: Do you need a fake emergency?
Maybe: LOL. I’m good. And I thought you were on a non-date date tonight?
Me: I am. But I just wanted to make sure you’re okay.
Maybe: It’s all good in the hood. Go enjoy your dinner with your lady friend who may or may not be a fuck buddy.
All good in the hood. A part of me wants to laugh, but the part of me that’s worried about her is far too great.
Me: Are you sure? It’ll be a real bummer if you end up as a Missing Girl on Dateline.
Maybe: LOL. I’m fine, Milo. Promise. No need to play the big brother role.
Big brother role?
Is that what I’m doing?
It sure as fuck doesn’t feel like that to me.
Me: How about this? Text me when you get home tonight so I don’t have to worry about you being locked inside some weirdo’s apartment.
Maybe: What if the weirdo finds my phone and pretends to be me and texts you false assurances?
Me: Jesus, kid.
Maybe: I’ve seen Law & Order, Milo. That’s how it works.
Me: Well, then I guess you’d better send me photographic evidence.
Maybe: I can handle that.
I read her text message and wait for the relief and satisfaction of our agreement to take over, but it never comes.
It’s only when another text comes in thirty seconds later that I know exactly what I have to do to make tonight right.
Maybe: This time, I’ll be wearing the right day of the week. ;)
As soon as I can get away from this dinner, I’m going home…alone.
Maybe
Another Saturday at the floral shop and I’m so bored, I might start beating my head against the wall just to spice things up.
Unless it’s Mother’s Day weekend, Bruce has yet to fully grasp the sad and incredibly slow pace that is kept on the weekends.
Well, either that or he simply doesn’t care.
He is obstinate in keeping a full staff scheduled, even though he knows we’ll mostly be twiddling our thumbs. Hell, one of our regular delivery drivers, Stan, is here with nothing to do. He finished all of his deliveries before eleven this morning, and now he’s just sitting outside on our back patio—where all the staff takes breaks in the spring and summer months—and talking to his girlfriend while chain-smoking cigarettes.
Martha and Rosaline, two of our back room staff members, have cut more bouquets than we need, and I went ahead and told them to take a long lunch. What Bruce doesn’t know won’t kill him.
For most of the morning, I focused on cleaning up the shop. Dusting, sweeping, wiping down everything with a surface. But once I smelled like bleach and even the walls were fucking shining, I gave up the good fight on trying to stay busy and plopped myself down behind the counter to suffer through the monotony by browsing social media and looking at YouTube videos of jumping goats and mischievous puppies.
The things we do for boredom.
YouTube no longer a suitable distraction, I pull up my Kindle app and dive back into my current read—The Other Side by Kim Holden. I’ve been a fan of hers since I read Bright Side, and only a few chapters in, I’m certain this book is going to be the beautiful, emotional, addictive ride I’ve come to expect with any of her books. She is just one of those authors who holds the power to tear you to shreds, and yet, by the time you reach “The End,” she’s put you back together again in the most awe-inspiring, life-changing way.
Seriously. It took me three years to not think about Kate from Bright Side on a daily basis.
Ten more pages in and I’m hooked. Riveted.
Until my phone dings with a sound that I’ve come to learn is TapNext.
I pick it up to find a message from Jess—my date from last night.
Showcasing blondish-colored hair, dark brown eyes, and a one-dimple smile, his profile picture stares back at me as I read his message.
@NotYourUncleJess-E: Just wanted to say I had fun last night and hope we can meet up again soon.
Have. Mercy.
Fun last night? Were we even on the same date?
By the time I located my correct date, the night didn’t exactly go swimmingly.
When it comes down to it, Uncle Jesse and I didn’t jive.
When I zigged, he zagged.
When I laughed at our server’s silly joke about meatballs, he stared at me like I’d lost my mind.
And when he cracked himself up over a vulgar story about his friend losing his credit card while trying to swipe a stripper’s breasts, it was my turn to question his mental stability.
And it wasn’t that hearing about him and his buddies being at a strip club bothered me, it was more the way he commented about the woman’s appearance. And I’m not talking nice compliments here. By the end of his stupid story, I knew the exact locations of Lacey Lou’s cellulite and stretch marks.
You’d think Jess was some kind of perfect s
pecimen without any flaws, but obviously, that’s not the case. No one is perfect. Jess is a bit of an egotistical prick. And I guarantee Lacey Lou is damn beautiful in all of her stripper glory, cellulite and stretch marks and all.
The rest of the evening stayed smack-dab in the middle of awkward. I spilled marinara sauce on my white blouse. And when he asked me if I wanted to head to a bar to continue the night, I made up some lame excuse about having to be at work in the morning.
Technically, I wasn’t lying. I mean, I am at work today, but it wasn’t even nine o’clock by that point in the evening. Unless I was a seventy-year-old woman who calls it a night before the evening news, I was one hundred percent exaggerating my usual bedtime.
Needless to say, it was a sad, sad dating experience, and I’d rather strip with Lacey Lou than repeat a date with Uncle Jesse.
Instead of messaging him back, I click out of the app and call the one person who needs to hear what went down.
Lena answers on the second ring.
“I was literally just about to call you.”
I grin. “Is that so?”
“Of course, girl,” she responds. “I need to hear about your date last night.”
“There is nothing to hear.”
“What do you mean?”
“Jess is literally not worth talking about,” I comment.
“That bad?”
“I was home by nine.”
A laugh fills my ear. “That’s never good.”
“Tell me about it,” I mutter and pick at a few pieces of lint on my jean shorts. “I don’t care what you say, I refuse to go on another date with that man.”
She laughs again. “Well, good news is that who you went out on the date with doesn’t matter. The point was that Milo knew you were on a date. Which he did, so it’s safe to say our goal was achieved.”
