Whether or not I’ll actually apply, we’ll see. I do vow to check the website every single day starting next month, though. Maybe, when the application becomes available, I’ll stare at it and hem and haw about whether I should apply. Maybe I’ll apply, then wait to see if I’m accepted, and hem and haw about the next step. Oh, I don’t know! That crazy itch to travel is really gnawing at me. I’ve been rooted for far too long. I know I’ve said it before, but I really mean it right now.
I love being around my friends and what’s familiar, but the craving for the unknown and the new is unbearable. I have to at least try—apply and see what happens.
I mean, let’s face it. Sophie’s setup with John is not going to go anywhere past date one, if we’ll even be able to call it that. I’m naturally an optimist, but I know from experience that dating gay men doesn’t exactly work out for either party. I’ve been there once before, back in college, and while the “date” made for a few laughs over drinks, it ended as soon as it began.
Claire is still texting me saying she almost has the perfect guy for me. She’s now keener than ever to declare herself the winner of Operation Blind Date, landing me my perfect hunk of dream man or whatever she calls him because she still fervently believes John is gay and the fate of Operation is left in her hands.
We’ll see. Optimism says someone will pan out. The call to Zambia, though, is strong. I have a growing urge and desire to go, and those two forces can knock down any amount of optimism, or pessimism, even.
“Book not any good?” Gatz asks, taking my attention again.
“Oh, this?” I hold up the book in my hand. “Eat, Pray, Love? It’s a great one. I’ve already read it. You?”
He cranes his neck around. “I have, actually. Inspiring memoir. Makes me want to take off. Wine here, dine there, find everlasting love.” He pulls a cheesy face and returns to his rinsing.
I bookmark my place with a bright yellow Post-It and toss the book aside. “I was just thinking about my job,” I say gloomily. “My other job. Feeling kind of blah, I guess.”
“How is the photography going?”
I pick up a damp rag and begin to clean the small mounds of flour covering almost every table’s surface.
“Haven’t done much of it lately, unfortunately. That camera’s usually glued to me.”
I did some work for the magazine of the Hammering Man and the Seattle Art Museum a couple of days ago. I wouldn’t call it creative or freeing work, however.
“Maybe that’s what you need to do then, to get you out of your blah-ness,” Gatz says. “Pick up your camera and shoot. That’s how I am with my poetry.”
A grin plays my lips, and I can’t believe I haven’t even mentioned it after all this time.
“Hey!” I exclaim. “I saw you, down at a reading at a coffeehouse—Greenwich V—a few weeks ago.” I abandon my cleaning duties and lean against a table.
He finishes rinsing the last dish, then slowly drags a drying towel across it. In a low voice he says, “And awkwardness ensues.”
“No, it was really good,” I compliment. “You a regular there? You seemed pretty natural on stage.”
He puts the clean bowl away and begins to whip the towel around. “Erm…thanks.” He looks sheepish. “I read there every now and then. It’s a hobby.” A slight twinge of pink colors the rounds of his cheeks. He runs a hand through his curly hair. “Those are the classes—poetry and writing classes—that I usually like to audit at UDub.”
“Ahhh.” I lean my head back in understanding. “Very cool.” I hop up onto the table underneath the chalkboard.
“It’s fun and relaxing,” he says. “But I don’t have to tell you about the artistic release and all.”
“Definitely.” I cross my legs and rock into a more comfortable seated position on the tabletop. “The release I feel, and the sheer fulfillment—at the same time—that I get when I take a photo.” I take in a deep breath and make dreamy eyes. “Pure heaven.”
“That’s exactly how I am with my poetry.” He leans his weight on one shoulder against the ovens, still lazily whipping the towel in a circle. “You should come to Greenwich V more often, Emily. If you like that sort of stuff, I mean.” He looks down at the floor.
“Yeah,” I say cheerily. “Maybe I will.”
***
“I can’t believe your luck, girly,” Lara says, tucking away her BlackBerry and opening the restaurant menu.
“Ha!” Robin shouts out. “Lucky? Me? I am not a lucky girl.” She, too, opens her menu. “Well,” she adds, “I’m a lucky girl now, I guess.”
“Perfect fiancé, adorable baby girl, a little boy on the way,” Claire trills. “Yeah, lucky girl.”
It’s the day before Thanksgiving, and before everyone heads off to celebrate with their families, we’re having a group dinner out at Rory and Diane’s. Robin called this morning saying she had big news, and that she was craving a burger, and that us girls needed to do something about both those things. I was all over it like white on rice.
“I still can’t believe it,” Lara says, baffled. “You squeaked out of this one. Good for you!”
“It didn’t turn out exactly how I wanted it,” Robin duly notes. “I wanted to face Brandon. For once, to put this mayhem of random contacts behind us forever.”
Claire makes a long face. “It’s okay,” she says. “Maybe next time.”
“That’s the whole point,” Robin says, exasperated. “I don’t want to keep waiting for a next time. I want this over with, now and forever.”
Lara closes her menu and takes Robin’s hands in hers. “Girlfriend,” she says, “don’t mull over this a second more. If and when Brandon reaches out to you again—”
“The jackass,” Sophie interjects.
“Total douche,” Jackie chimes in.
“If Brandon contacts you again about this, Robin,” Lara continues, “if he says he wants to see Rose and come and barge into your lives like this, pretending to suddenly be Daddy of the Year, then, well, we’ll take it from there. We’re all here to support you.” She pans about the table. “Right, girls?”
A chorus of “you bet!” rings around.
Apparently Brandon was supposed to come by and meet Rose for the first (and only) time today. He and Robin were going to clear the air, finally talk. Robin wanted Brandon to meet Rose. ‘She is his daughter, after all,’ she said. Everything was all planned out. Robin had made a date (today) and a time (right now), and Brandon agreed. Then, this morning he sends her a text out of frickin’ nowhere saying he had a change of plans, and heart. He said he didn’t think meeting Rose and facing Robin was the best idea after all. Go figure. Not there for her from the get-go. Why would things change?
“We will definitely be there for you, Robin,” Sophie says, knocking an emphatic fist on the table.
“See?” Lara says, shaking Robin’s hands in hers. “For now you get to focus on having a fabulous Thanksgiving with your fabulous fiancé and daughter, and forget about this trouble.”
“And you get to focus on having this super awesome girls’ night!” Jackie says loudly. She yells a “yippee!” and pumps a fist in the air. “Let’s celebrate! No Brandon, holidays are here—” She pulls up and sits on her knees in her booth seat. “Andrew and I are going to Jamaica!” she says in a bursting note with a shake of her hips. “Leaving on a private jet tonight, going to get our Jamaican sun and rum on, smoke a little reefer…” She shakes her hips more earnestly.
“Dear God,” Sophie says, tossing her hands up.
“It’s celebrate time!”
Just then the waiter walks up, pen and paper in hand, and asks in a cheeky way, “Will we be imbibing tonight?”
Jackie’s face wrinkles, her hands on hips. “Excuse me?” she says, aghast. “What did you call me?”
I stifle a laugh, hiding my face behind an open menu.
“I asked if we will be imbibing tonight?” the waiter repeats evenly.
“Well I don’t know what
that is, but we’ll have a bottle—” Jackie looks around the table. “Make it two bottles of your finest champagne, please.”
“Very well,” the waiter says, brow creased. “Will Mums do?”
Jackie’s about to open her mouth, no doubt to ask if they’ve got any Veuve or Dom or Cristal, the platinum liquid Andrew keeps well-stocked. I cut in and say, “Mums will do just fine. Thank you.”
“Well,” Jackie says sitting back on her heels, “I don’t know what that was about.” She pries open her menu, heaves a dramatic sigh, and begins to peruse the options.
***
My fourth date in Operation Blind Date is here. Thanksgiving was mild. I Skyped with my parents, watched a nature documentary that was running for hours on end on PBS, and sifted through scads of my photos, trying to nail down the subject of my possible coffee table book. I’d thought about jetting off to Boston to be with my parents for the holiday, but with Sophie’s brother John being in town for such a short while, and given that we have a date today, I figured I’d just wait until Christmas to visit.
I have pessimistically low hopes that my date with John will go well, but he is a nice guy, we did get on well enough when Sophie and I stayed at his flat for a week last summer, and, well, he’s here and willing to go on a date. And, hey, maybe he isn’t gay! I mean, he is conceding to the date.
Since John lives in San Francisco and doesn’t know Seattle well, I took charge of the date. I figured an easy, no-pressure lunch would be perfect. We’re meeting at a delicious Middle Eastern, no-fanfare kind of diner over in the old redbrick district of Pioneer Square. I figure if things go well from there, we’ll be in a prime part of town to either walk the piers, trek through downtown, stroll through Pike Place Market, or head over to Occidental Park and Square, maybe duck into a coffeehouse or a thrift store or antique bookshop or something.
“Hey there, Emily,” John greets, stepping out of Sophie’s blue Prius.
Ever the lawyer, he’s right on time, with a minute to spare. I’ve been hanging out on the curb outside the diner, enjoying this unseasonably warm afternoon with a smoke and the last remaining chapters of Eat, Pray, Love.
“Hi,” I greet in a peppy voice. I stamp out my cigarette and slip my book into my hobo bag.
John gives me a light hug and says, “Sophie said this place has amazing shawarma.”
“To die for tabbouleh, too,” I add.
He takes the lead, holding the door to the small diner open for me. “After you.”
“Thank you for participating in this silly game,” I tell John after we take our seats by one of the front windows. “I hope Sophie didn’t have to twist your arm too much.” I flutter my lashes in an exhausted and somewhat apologetic way.
“It’s not a silly game,” he says in that crisp, very lawyer-like voice. “Sophie’s always inquiring about my love life; no surprise she’s created this little game for you.” He chuckles and unfastens his double-buttoned, tan blazer, revealing a very expensive looking and perfectly pressed baby-blue dress shirt underneath.
“All the girls put me up to this, actually,” I say. “Claire was the brains of the operation, guess you could say.”
“Oh, Claire.” He smiles. “Sophie says she’s always trying to play matchmaker.”
Just then our food arrives—a smorgasbord of Middle Eastern delights with all sorts of dips and side dishes. My mouth is watering the moment my eyes alight on the tabbouleh.
“Bon appétit,” John says, unfolding his napkin and setting it on his lap.
John and I chitchat about the usual first date stuff, but also with a bit of catch-up seeing how we’re not complete strangers.
Next year John’s going to take on a big international legal case, and he might be in London for eighteen months, maybe even two years. My eyes went wide and ears were ringing with delight when he said that. Even though London’s not exactly adventurous territory like Nepal or Irian Jaya or somewhere exotic like that, it’s still abroad.
As he regales me of his plans to shift his life, once again, from San Francisco to London, and even suggesting Sophie and I come for another visit, I can’t help but drift back to the thought of Zambia. Of future explorations. Of getting out and about.
“You heading anywhere?” John asks, dabbing his mouth with his napkin.
“Nothing’s set yet.”
“Sophie says you’ve got that look in your eye.” He takes a sip of beer. “When you’re working with her. Sometimes, she says, that she can tell you’re ready to jet off again.”
“I travel a lot,” I say. “I do, yeah. Been some time, actually, since I have.” I shrug and spoon some tabbouleh onto my fork. “We’ll see. I’ve got feelers out, so maybe I’ll be in Africa next spring. Who knows?”
He nods and makes an mmmhmm noise.
“If Operation Blind Date works out,” I say, running the heavy mother-of-pearl, flower-shaped pendant along my necklace chain, “then maybe I won’t. I don’t know.” I look at my Truth tattoo, then drop my pendant and lean in to the table. “Can I be honest with you, John?”
Surprisingly he doesn’t seem taken aback by my directness. He takes another bite after saying, “Attorney-client privilege. What you say is confidential, Emily.”
I laugh and begin to push about the tiny beads of couscous that cover my plate. “Please correct me if I’m wrong, and please don’t be offended.” He nods. “I have a pretty good feeling that this date is nothing more than a favor to Sophie.”
Unable to read John’s blank face, I continue. “She says her little black book is, well, more like a pamphlet than a book, I guess, and she wanted to set me up. And she obviously enjoys poking about in your love life.”
He cracks a smile. “Yeah, true, true.”
“I don’t want you to feel any pressure.” I set down my fork and fold my hands. “My friends are sweet, trying to set me up and get me settled down and all—by whatever means necessary.”
I look down for a brief moment at my torn jeans. Evidently I didn’t take this “date” that seriously. I’m wearing the most relaxed but not the most flattering clothes: torn jeans, boring black v-neck t-shirt, and my favorite pair of Converse sneakers, the whole getup spiced up a tad with some jewelry.
“Emily,” John says, but I want to finish what’s on my mind.
I look at him. He’s wearing that warm Wharton-family smile.
“I don’t think either of us are taking this date seriously,” I tell him. “I mean—” Gosh, I sound so rude and cynical. “I meant to say, I don’t think either of us are really interested in the other romantically, or interested in trying to see if this date goes somewhere…”
He raises a hand in an effort to say his piece, and I concede, slumping back a tad in my chair.
“Emily.” His voice is calm and rational. “I understand. We both know I’m not interested in getting into a relationship right now, what with my career taking me abroad again and all.” I nod sharply. “I just got out of a relationship not long ago.” More nodding. “You obviously have travel on your mind.” And more nodding. “Let’s enjoy our lunch, as friends, break the news gently to Sophie, and we can look back at this years from now and laugh.”
I simper and pick up my fork. “God, honesty is the best policy, isn’t it?”
“Depends on what story the client gives you and what story you need to tell,” he kids.
“So that means,” I say in an equally joking tone, “I tell you I’m enjoying my lunch with a friend, am slightly terrified of what Claire will bring up for her blind date offer, and I am very inspired by your London plans to make some jet-setting ones of my own.”
He laughs, wiping his hands on his napkin.
“The story you tell,” I conclude, “is that I have one more Operation Blind Date setup, and this one will undoubtedly be my handsome dream man, and I’ll fall madly in love, settle down, and that’ll be my happy love story, right?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
It’s not a prob, I
text back to Sophie. Let it go. No big deal.
I wag my head and slip my phone into my back pocket. It’s been a few days since John and I went on our so-called date. Sophie feels awful for setting us up on a date that probably wouldn’t have panned out so well anyhow, a touch bummed that she failed to find me a potential longtime kind of guy, and simply frustrated that she is now super unsure about her brother’s sexuality.
“Who cares?” I told her when she asked me after the date, “So, do you think he’s gay, then?”
My phone vibrates against my rear, and I snag it back.
So sorry Em. U no closer to luv…John gay… ?? He is, huh? the text reads.
I immediately type back, No need 4 sorry. No idea about John. What gives?
Seriously, Sophie’s a crack up. She’s so obsessed with getting John to settle down with a woman so he can bear the first Wharton family grandchild. She said she’s far from the baby carriage, and with the pestering from her mom, she’s loaded up her fertile eggs in John’s basket. Uh, that didn’t come out right…
My phone vibrates with immediacy again. Whatever, it reads. Good news—Claire will be happy to know the ball’s in her court.
So true. Operation Blind Date rests entirely in Claire’s hands now. She really did nearly have a coronary when I told her that John and I didn’t work out, not that she would have expected anything else. “I’m so excited!” Claire had said. “Not that it was a bust of a date, but that now I get to choose the dream man for you! And! Maybe, like I’m pretty sure, John is gay and I can work on setting him up, too.”
I text Sophie back a brief reply of, Dear God. Adventure, for sure.
I tuck the phone away and take my camera into my hands, adjusting the thick strap across my chest.
When Girlfriends Take Chances Page 24
