by Amiee Smith
Wednesday, 6:43 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: No. I did not send one to Lynn. She has a boyfriend and he is currently staying at my house. The Chardonnay and bourbon are my favorites.
Wednesday, 6:44 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: The bourbon is fantastic.
Wednesday, 6:45 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Glad you like it. It’s from a distillery in Alameda. I’m having a glass right now. Did you read the card on the basket?
Wednesday, 6:46 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: I did. I don’t know about dinner on Saturday. BUT I’ll bite… tell me about you. I know you’re Persian, rich enough to own a plane and tall. How tall exactly? Age? Blood type? Kids?
Wednesday, 6:47 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Do you really bite?
Wednesday, 6:48 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Maybe. Answer the questions before I get bored and go play GTA.
Wednesday, 6:48 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: It seems like you’re not as busy as you said. Let’s meet up. Drive over. We can have a bite in.
Wednesday, 6:49 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: No car. I’ve already prepared a plate of treats from the basket. GTA is serious busyness.
Wednesday, 6:50 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: I don’t know if I can compete with GTA, but I’ll try. 6’2. 34. O negative. No kids. But I think about being a dad every day. Same questions. And tell me more about the biting.
Wednesday, 6:50 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: 5’8. 31. AB negative. No kids. I definitely want a family. We’ll save the biting for another time. I should go. Thank you again for the basket. Good night, Michael.
Wednesday, 6:51 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: More cold shoulder. Eventually, I will prove to you I’m nothing like the jackass who broke your heart. Good night, Lilly.
Wednesday, 6:53 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Yes, he was a jackass. My bitterness is palpable and probably unattractive.
Wednesday, 6:53 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: You’re sexier than you know, babe. Have a good game.
THURSDAY
Thursday, 10:45 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: Good morning, Lilly.
Thursday, 10:45 a.m.
Lilly Shepard: It’s not morning for me… I sleep late on the days I work.
Thursday, 10:45 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: Did I wake you? I’m sorry if I did.
Thursday, 10:48 a.m.
Lilly Shepard: I was awake. In bed. Thinking about a tall, fine as fuck man who sends good gifts.
Thursday, 10:48 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: Fine as fuck? Or fine enough to fuck?
Thursday, 10:49 a.m.
Lilly Shepard: I can’t deduce the situation without facts. Come over…
Thursday, 10:50 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: When?
Thursday, 10:50 a.m.
Lilly Shepard: Now.
Thursday, 10:52 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: I need to be on a conference call in 20 minutes. Besides, I don’t want to be your booty call, Lilly. I want to be your man. Let’s do breakfast in the morning after you’re done with work. A quick bite.
Thursday, 10:53 a.m.
Lilly Shepard: The quick bite offer just expired. Good luck with your meeting. Goodbye, Michael.
◆◆◆
Thursday, 9:25 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: I hope work is going well. I’d still love to take you to breakfast in the morning. If not, let’s do dinner on Saturday.
FRIDAY
Friday, 8:00 a.m.
Michael Ahmed: Good morning, beautiful Lilly. Breakfast?
◆◆◆
Friday, 5:34 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Don’t punish me for being a good guy, Lilly. I like you and want to get to know you. Then I will come… over as many times as you want… as many times as you can handle.
◆◆◆
Friday, 10:42 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: You’re on GTA, but you won’t respond to my text messages? Let’s go out tomorrow.
Friday, 11:47 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: A regular guy would just come… over as many times as I want. And not ask for anything more.
Friday, 11:47 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Beautiful Lilly, you deserve more. You want more. I can give you more. Go to dinner with me. I know you’re interested. You responded.
Friday, 11:48 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Good night, Michael.
SATURDAY
Saturday, 1:23 p.m.
Michael Ahmed: Thank you for agreeing to go out with me tonight. I will pick you up for dinner and bowling at 7. [red heart emoji]
Saturday, 1:25 p.m.
Lilly Shepard: Slick move getting my landlord to book our date for you. I admire your privilege… and persistence. See you tonight. [winking emoji]
CHAPTER 1:
LILLY SHEPARD
This date is hella boring.
It’s a Saturday night. I could be playing GTA or clipping my toenails. Instead, I’m watching Michael pick at his Kobe Beef.
I deduced he does not eat sugar or grains as he was drilling the server about each ingredient in the marinade. He seems so uncomfortable, pretending he’s not on a restricted diet. His behavior is disrupting my meal of Pad See Yew with chicken.
“Why did you pick this restaurant?” I ask, before sipping from my water glass.
(I wish my water had a generous splash of the amazing bourbon he sent earlier this week.)
“Nick suggested it,” Michael says, quietly.
I can barely hear him over the clanking and clacking and dinner conversations in Osha Thai. A Mark Farina downtempo house track plays in the background.
We’re in the tourist center of San Francisco. A tech convention across the street at the Moscone Center has every geeky dude in the Bay Area dining in this restaurant with a lanyard around his neck.
I’m over tech dudes. And I may be over this date.
In the last hour, the seven sentences Michael has said to me have all started with Nick or Lynn. (Yes, I counted.) What happened to the confident man who sent me more text messages in the last week than I’ve received in the last six months? (Yes, I counted.)
Lynn, my chirpy landlord, convinced me to go on this date.
Five days ago, after working my overnight shift, I was awakened by the doorbell at 10:00 a.m.— a delivery of 1001 roses (really) and two dozen vegan donuts from Michael. It took two couriers twenty minutes to bring them into my apartment. Lavish, over-the-top gifts… for Lynn. But she was in L.A… with Nick, her boyfriend.
I received the delivery. Ate the donuts (Lynn didn’t want them or the flowers). Spent the week texting (and kind of flirting) with Michael. And by a twisted sequence of events, I ended up on this date.
A date probably meant for her. But she’s already on a date tonight… with Nick.
There was a moment during our text exchange when I thought Michael might be into me. Just geeky me. But he’s probably subbing one black woman for another. Though I would love for him to really like me.
The facts are what they are— I’m nothing like Lynn.
My skin— light-brown to her medium-brown. My demeanor— stoic to her giddy charm. My physique— tall and “string bean” thin to her short and curvy body. My hair— black with streaks of gray, short and styled in a roller-set bouncy curl to her long black, wavy “good hair.”
“Sorry I’m not Lynn,” I say, staring at him.
“I know. You’re Lilly. Beautiful Lilly. You’re so beautiful, I can’t concentrate.”
His deep amber eyes lock on mine from across the table. Examining his face, I know this man is attracted to me. And I’m attracted to him. I only agreed to this date because he’s fine as fuck. Truly. Fucking. Fine.
Michael is tall and toned. Thin without being gangly. His disposition is noble, with kind eyes and thick groomed eyebrows. His trimmed-up stubble beard hugs his copper skin, making him look like a mash up of Jon B. and Fazza, the Crown Prince of Dubai. But
unlike those men, his dark hair is skillfully styled in the classic brush-up cut; voluminous on top with tapered sides.
“Why didn’t you pick a restaurant you’d enjoy? I’m pretty easy…” I say.
Michael cocks his head.
“Dinner is a prelude to afterwards,” I add.
Michael lifts a thick eyebrow and his pupils smolder. A smirk forms across his lips. At least I got a look other than deer-in-headlights out of him.
Why is he so nervous? His face has been strained most of the night. It’s like he’s afraid to talk to me IRL. I hope his confident digital identity isn’t a mask for in-person insecurities.
I suppose, I’m not any better right now. Lately, I spend all my time reading or in the lab. The only sexual healing I’ve had in the last thirty-one months has been self-guided. I can’t articulate a point tonight without sounding like I’m trying to get into this guy’s pants.
(Yes. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do.)
“I’m attempting to say… I like dessert… more than the entrée,” I say in awkward fragments.
(You’d never know I graduated in the top five percent of my class in undergrad and PharmD school.)
“I know the best pastry chef in the City, but…”
Michael starts his sentence with a commanding confidence only to trail off into a tortured timidity. Why is he holding back? He was so “I’m the guy” over text. Sexy. Self-assured. Fun. Even if he was a little too eager, I still found him enticing.
“I imagine that would be better than this…,” I start to say.
Like a chime, I hear my grandma in my head: “Be grateful, sweet pea. You live a life most people from our neighborhood can only dream of.” She’d shake her head in disappointment if she knew I was on a date with a handsome man at a nice restaurant in San Francisco and not enjoying the experience.
I grew up in public housing on the worst block in the worst neighborhood in Detroit. An area of town so bad that if this Persian prince called the OnStar Advisor for directions, they would instruct him to “GET OUT!” Most of my people will only see a restaurant like this on their rent-to-own TV with bootleg cable.
I sit up straight and put on my pleasant face as I stick and twirl my noodles. My food is delicious so at least the night is not a total loss.
“Lynn said…,” Michael starts.
Oh, hell. We’re back to Nick/Lynn sentences. I hold back an eye roll.
Grateful. I need to be grateful.
“I would have arranged a private tasting for you, but it’s probably not something a regular guy would do.”
Michael speaks confidently. His baritone voice, louder and more powerful. My lady parts perk up and applaud.
His withholding is my fault.
I recall my conversation with Lynn this morning. She dropped by to set up this date as I was finishing a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch and pouring my second cup of coffee. Michael wanted to do a double date with her and Nick tonight.
During our talk, she encouraged me to get to know him. Lynn said a double date would “be a distraction.” She also outlined all the reasons why I should go on a date with Michael. A rambling, yet articulate soliloquy about “the Universe connecting you and Michael” and “happily ever after” and “Unicorns.” Lynn made it clear she’s “obsessed with Nick” and her and Michael are old friends from college.
My tiny landlord was so convincing, I found it difficult to say no to the date. Though I did express my concern over Michael not being a regular guy.
I was in a surly mood this morning. I stayed up late the night before creating a formula to aggressively pay off my student loans (and playing way too much GTA). In between calculations, I received a string of text messages from Michael and… Jack.
Jack, the multimillion dollar app developer that owned the duplex before Lynn. Jack, who three years earlier filled my mind with sugary plans and promises of building a life together, only to disappear without a word. Jack, the man who left me shattered in a million pieces of hurt and bitterness.
The Jack break-up occurred during the first year of my grad program. I started my PhD work as a rising star in pharmacology at UCSF only to struggle the entire year over a man.
I’ve since glued and taped myself back together and locked my heart away behind an iron fence with instructions: only open for a regular guy. Maybe another scientist or academic? A guy who earns his privilege with his mind, not his wallet.
The man sitting across from me, in a tucked-in crisp white dress shirt rolled to his elbows, dark tailored jeans and navy Salvatore Ferragamo loafers (without socks) is anything but regular. Wealth and sophistication exude off him.
Tonight, it will be hella fun (and sexy) watching him try to be… a regular guy.
CHAPTER 2:
MICHAEL AHMED
I want this woman.
I want this woman in the best-worst way.
“Michael, I didn’t know you were serious about bowling. I wish I’d brought my ball and shoes,” Lilly says.
“I wouldn’t lie to you. Lynn told me you were into bowling,” I reply.
We stand at the bar at Lucky Strike in Mission Bay, waiting to order a drink. The lane I reserved earlier today won’t be ready for another twenty minutes. It was the first time in years I made a reservation myself. I pay my assistant a generous six-figure salary to make my arrangements. But tonight, I’m trying to be a regular guy who makes his own calls.
My eyes meet Lilly’s deep brown eyes. She’s captivating.
I want to know everything about her. I want her to look at me with appreciation, lust, and respect— the way Lynn looks at Nick. I want to be her everything.
A preppy bartender approaches with a luminous smile to match his blond side-parted hair.
“What can I get you?” he asks.
“Bourbon on the rocks,” Lilly and I say in unison.
A knowing smile passes between us.
“Top shelf,” I add.
“A lime for me,” Lilly says.
“Maker’s Mark?” the bartender asks.
“Fine,” I say briskly.
(There is better bourbon on the bar at home.)
I’m trying not to act as uncomfortable as I feel. Unsteady, on the inside. I want… no, I need for this woman to like me with a deep intensity I’ve never felt before. And I’d win her over, if I could do this date my way. But I gotta “tone down the Rockefeller” as Lynn instructed earlier today.
The bartender steps away. The bar is packed with convention kids. Opening my black leather Gucci wallet and removing my AMEX Black Card, I feel exposed. Like any minute, someone is going to call me out for not being a regular guy.
In reality… I’m as rich as a present-day deity.
“It’s really hot in here,” Lilly says, removing her dark short-waisted denim jacket and draping it over her arm with her vintage black purse.
This weekend has been one of the warmest I’ve experienced in the City. The temp at 85 degrees, the night is muggy. And like everywhere in San Francisco, Lucky Strike doesn’t have air conditioning. My undershirt is damp with perspiration, caused by the heat and nerves.
Underneath Lilly’s jacket— her deep red skater dress falls midthigh. Thin long legs, the color of caramel, give way to narrow ankles partly hidden by black Dolce Vita boots. There’s an edge to her style, but her slightly turned in feet give her a down-to-earth vibe.
Despite my uneasiness, being with her is easy. Even if she looks bored as hell. Lilly makes me want to pull up a barstool, so I can listen to her breathe.
The bartender returns with our drinks and I hand him my AMEX. He gapes at the black plastic and glances back at me. The ultra-exclusive credit card often turns heads.
“Leave it open?” the bartender asks.
“No. Close it.”
He departs to run the card.
“Shall we toast?” Lilly asks.
“To?” I raise an eyebrow.
“To you begging for mercy after this epic g
ame of bowling,” she chuckles, raising her glass before bringing it to her lips.
“Confident?” I ask, tipping my glass to her and taking a sip.
“Yes, but only because I spent many Saturdays playing in Boston. It’s the only thing to do when you’re a sixteen-year-old freshman in a college town.”
“You started college at sixteen?”
“My way out of Detroit. When I was nine I saw an episode of Oprah about kids who started college early and I decided I wanted to be one of them. It’s all I thought about until I got accepted to MIT.”
I can’t imagine being so focused at such a young age. Well actually, I can. But my focus was on trying to stay alive.
“You’re impressive, Lilly.”
“You haven’t seen me bowl yet,” she says with a wide grin.
Over the rim of my glass, my eyes narrow. I want to see more than her bowling skills. The image of her dark, short curly hair and thin body bent over, on her knees, in front of me loops through my mind.
I can’t have sex with this woman tonight. Not on the first date. Even if I’ve spent the last two days thinking about what she would look and sound like when she orgasms. Is she a screamer? Does she part her lips? Will her eyes be open or closed as she calls my name?
