by Alicia Rades
“Oh, sorry,” he apologizes with a grin as he shakes his hand in the air as if to rid it of electricity. “I’m feeling the sparks fly already,” he teases.
He smiles up at me with beautiful eyes, and the fact that they’re focused on me makes the butterflies follow the initial spark.
5
There are already menus placed in front of each setting. Jacob unlocks our eyes and opens his menu, staring down at it.
“Mmm . . . what sounds good?” he wonders aloud while I open my own menu.
I process the page in a second and realize that the food here isn’t that expensive, although the ambiance is worth coming for. I’m pleased with the quiet conversations, soothing melodic string music, and delicious smells wafting from the kitchen. It calms my nerves considerably.
My eyes drift to the section labeled “Italian Entrees,” and after a moment’s glance at the menu, I already know what I want.
“Gourmet raviolis,” we say together, answering his rhetorical question. Our eyes lock again and we each let out a small giggle.
“Gourmet raviolis it is,” I say as our waitress reaches our table and greets us.
“Hello,” she meets us with a smile. “My name is Alexis and I’ll be your server this evening. Are you ready to order, or do you need more time?”
“I think we’re ready,” Jacob announces, handing her his menu.
“Fabulous. What would you like this evening?” Alexis asks, not taking her eyes off Jacob.
“Two orders of the gourmet raviolis, please,” he says to her, and then he directs his next statement at me. “What would you like to drink?”
I take a moment to scan the beverage page. “A glass of red wine is fine,” I answer, closing my menu and handing it to Alexis.
“I’ll have the same,” Jacob informs her.
“Okay,” she says, jotting down our order. “We’ll have that ready for you shortly. You two have a fantastic evening!” She turns and disappears.
A moment of awkward silence passes, and I’m the first to break it. “So, Juliet didn’t really tell me anything about you. She said you two work together?” The statement comes out sounding like a question.
“Yeah,” he confirms, pressing his vertebra to the back of his chair and resting his entwined fingers on the table top. “I just started working at Watson Galleries about a month ago. I’ve been helping Juliet organize exhibits.”
I briefly wonder why he’s not on a date with Juliet. I mean, she is a lot more attractive than I am, but then again, she’s incredibly controlling, and as her coworker, he’s probably got a good taste of that already. It tends to turn people off once they get to know her. Plus, she said he wasn’t her type. Does that mean he’s too much of a gentleman to put out on the first date?
“So, what did you do before you got a job at Watson’s?” I ask curiously.
“I’ve been working for various small galleries throughout the city after getting my degree, but I found this position through a friend of a friend, and this was just a better offer.” He shrugs. “Plus, it’s closer to my apartment. Before this job, I was also freelance writing on the side to earn a bit of extra income, but Watson’s is paying me pretty well now, so I haven’t been writing recently.”
My face lights up, excited that we have something in common. “That is so awesome,” I say with a bit too much enthusiasm. I tone down my voice. “I’m a freelance web designer.” Not wanting to talk too much about myself, I gear the conversation back toward him. “What do you write about?”
“Tons of things.” He lets out a bit of a laugh. “I’ve written for so many industries: finance, business, relationships, you name it.”
“What type of publications have you written for?” I ask, amazed at how even and confident my voice sounds even though my heart is fluttering on the inside. Is it my nerves, his smile, or my hunger?
“Mostly blogs, but I’ve had a few freelance writing gigs for magazines.”
After a brief silence, I speak again. “Where did you grow up?” I throw my series of inquiries at him, wanting to know more about this mysterious man. If he told me he grew up on a farm in South Dakota, I might believe that he didn’t have a television in the 90s.
“I’m a life-long New Yorker. And you?”
No. Don’t make the conversation about me. “I grew up in L.A.”
“Oh,” he says quizzically. “Why did you move to New York?”
Stop talking about my childhood! I silently beg. I don’t want him judging me for it. “I visited the city when I was young, and I loved it here.” That’s the truth. I don’t have to tell him that I came here to film Taking Reservations. “I just always wanted to come back, so I came here to go to college and never left.”
“You know, Juliet didn’t tell me much about you, either,” he informs me. “Is there anything special I should know?”
My heart skips a beat. Oh God. Does he know? Does he know that I’m trying to hide my childhood so that he won’t judge me? Will he judge me for that?
My eyebrows come together. “I’m not transgender if that’s what you mean,” I joke.
He laughs lightly, and I really enjoy the sound of it. “No, I’m just saying that sometimes dates don’t ask questions that they might want to know the answers to. For example, you didn’t ask me if I’ve traveled.”
I feel relieved.
Jacob sits up straighter in his chair. “After high school, I actually traveled around Europe for two years. I mostly stayed in London, but I visited France, Germany, and a few other countries.”
I subconsciously fist-pump. God, yes. I did land an English man. (Kind of.)
“What about you?” he asks.
“Well, I’ve never been out of the country. There’s not anything special to say about me.” Because it’s the only interesting thing to share, I admit, “I haven’t been on a date in nearly two years.” Oh God, why did I say that? That was embarrassing. He should not have to know how long it’s been since I’ve had sex.
He smiles. “Well, I’m glad you told me because I haven’t dated for a long time, either. I’ve been focusing on my career, you know?”
My heart rate begins to decrease back to normal, and I’m not so embarrassed anymore knowing that we’re in the same boat. Except that I haven’t dated in two years because in all honesty, I’m afraid of what the men I date will be like. His reason for not dating is completely different, and it makes me feel inferior to him for a moment.
As my mind ponders, I have to wonder why he suddenly started dating now and why he agreed to date me. Is there something he’s hiding?
“Why did you agree to go out with me?” I blurt, and the question is out before I can stop myself.
He doesn’t seem shocked by it. In fact, he seems very obliged to answer. “Well, now that I’m settled in at a great gallery, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to start dating again, and Juliet was really persistent that we’d make a great couple when she heard I was single.” He smiles at me again, and my heart melts. So he wanted to date me because he has his career in check? That seems like a valid reason. “Besides, I couldn’t just say no to Juliet. You know what I mean.”
With his last statement, I realize that we have something huge in common, and I run with it. “I know,” I agree. “I knew I couldn’t get her off my back until I said I would do it.” I look down nervously at my hands. “But I’m glad she persisted. I’m not disappointed.”
My eyes move back to his, my head still down. His hand reaches over to my chin and he gently guides my head up. “I’m not disappointed either,” he smiles, and our eyes stare into each other’s. For a moment, I feel lost. As I consider how I might never escape his eyes, Alexis returns with our meal, startling us. Jacob’s hand recoils from my chin and back toward his body, and the lock that held our gaze suddenly crumbles.
Wow, our food came fast. I’m pleased with the service because I’m starving. I secretly snatch a glance at my cell phone, which reads 7:22. I am impressed by this. Jac
ob officially wins the title of the longest date I’ve been on without the guy recognizing me. The idea makes me even more intrigued by this man.
My heart flutters again, and my hand shakes as I accept my plate from the waitress. Holy crap, this guy is charming, I tell myself, and I silently thank Juliet for setting us up.
Before the waitress even has a chance to turn and leave, I already have my fork in my hand and a ravioli in my mouth. I chew at in furiously. After a moment, I realize how ridiculous I must look, and I slow my body down. I’m not only trying not to make a fool out of myself, but this dish is tasty. I let the ravioli sit in my mouth as I focus on its flavor and let it gratify my taste buds.
Jacob places one of his own raviolis in his mouth and lets out a groan of pleasure. He chews and swallows before announcing, “This food is heavenly.”
Because I’m not sure what else to say to him, I continuously place food in my mouth so that I don’t have to speak. Instead, I watch him as he does the same, his face down, marveling at his entree. Is he purposely doing this so that he doesn’t have to speak to me?
Halfway through my meal, I break the silence, and despite my racing heart that indicates my lack of courage to formulate words, I manage to squeak out another question. The only thing I can think to ask him, aside from all the inappropriate private questions flying through my head, is, “So, do you have any brothers or sisters?”
He finishes chewing and answers. “I have one sister and one brother. You?”
“One sister. Do both of your siblings still live in New York?” I ask only to keep the conversation going.
“No. Well, I mean, my sister just moved back after getting out of a long relationship. She lived in California for a few years. My brother is in Chicago.”
“And your parents?”
“After they retired, they moved to Florida, so my family is kind of spread all over the place.” He takes a bite of his food then continues after he swallows. “What about your family?”
“They’re all still in L.A. It’s just my parents and my sister.”
The conversation is quiet again. Is it really that awkward? I mean, I don’t feel quite as nervous as I thought I would. I’m able to speak coherently without a lump in my throat to inhibit my ability to converse clearly. Is he nervous?
After he’s done with his meal, he answers my unspoken question without knowing it and begins throwing his own series of inquiries at me. It must have just been the food that preoccupied him.
I’m still finishing the last few raviolis on my plate as he speaks.
“Okay, so we’re past the Where Are You From and What Do You Do phase. I suppose it’s time to ask questions about the random things in life. I’ll start.” He straightens in his chair, and I’m somewhat glad that he’s taking the initiative to freely give me information about himself rather than forcing me to ask. “Birthdates?”
“May 12.”
He nods his head. “January 22,” he answers.
“Medical history next.” He seems excited about the topic as he introduces it. “When I was two, I fell out of my high chair and had to get stitches on my nose.” He talks with confidence as he rubs his finger on the bottom of his nose. I’m amused. “When I was seven, I fell off the monkey bars at the park and broke a bone in my wrist. And when I was 19, I foolishly stubbed my toe on the edge of a chair and broke it.”
I give a giggle, my last ravioli in my mouth. “Which one?” I ask when I swallow.
“The second toe on my right foot.”
“Well, Mr. Bishop,” I tease. “It seems that I know everything about you now. Your stubbed toe explains it all.”
He smiles at me, entertained by my humor. “Yet I seem to know nothing about you, Ms. Siobhan Spencer.”
I can’t help but smile at him because of his charm, but a part of me wants to shy away at the same time.
“Did anything exciting happen during your childhood?” he asks me, and my face falls.
Seeing this, his expression mirrors mine. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “Did I say something wrong?”
I just don’t want to talk about my childhood, I answer in my head. “No,” I assure him, trying to put on an expression of approval, which I think I succeed at. “I just don’t have any great stories like that to tell.”
“Really?” He seems surprised. “No stitches or broken bones whatsoever?”
“Nope.”
“No trips to the emergency room?”
“Nope.”
“Well, you must have had one boring childhood,” he teases with a smile.
“Yeah,” I agree, and I try to come up with a joke to play along, but my mind can’t seem to muster one, so I simply smile back and take a sip of my wine.
The way he stares back at me tells me that this guy has nothing up his sleeve. Although my paranoia has been toying with me all night, I get the feeling that this is a guy I can trust.
To show him that I’m somewhat interesting, I tilt my head back and chug the rest of my wine quickly. He raises his eyebrows at me.
I raise my brows back at him. “I may have not had an exciting childhood, but no one stays the same forever.”
“Indeed,” he agrees, and he holds his wine glass up as if to toast and then puts his glass to his lips and tilts his own head back as he lets the wine rapidly flow down his throat.
We grin at each other dreamily. God, there’s so much smiling going on tonight. I lose myself in his eyes as we continue talking about things that don’t matter, and because I’m so captivated by him, I can’t seem to process anything he’s saying for more than a few moments.
When our waitress returns and takes our plates, Jacob quickly orders dessert before she leaves. Being a gentleman, he lets me choose my own dessert, and I agree to whatever he is having, although I didn’t hear his order. A piece of me wonders if he ordered desert just so we could talk more since our dinner didn’t seem to last very long. Plus, it was so delicious, we didn’t really talk much.
Despite the small talk and the short time I’ve been with him, I know that Juliet hit this one right on the nose. We share the same type of humor, and we’re getting along very well. I am actually enjoying myself, and I surprisingly no longer feel that first-date awkward nervousness in the air. This is already turning out to be my best blind date, and I credit that to the fact that he doesn’t know who I am.
When the dessert arrives a few minutes later, Alexis places a piece of chocolate French silk pie in front of me. I take a bite, and it melts in my mouth. As I watch Jacob slowly put his own piece of pie to his lips, I wonder if this is what it would taste like to kiss him. Would I melt like this? Would it be sweet? I don’t know. I haven’t kissed a guy in so long that I can’t quite remember what kisses taste like.
We eat our pie slowly, taking longer to consume these small slices than it took to eat our entrees, and we simply talk. What’s my take on politics? Who’s my favorite actor? What’s my favorite color? Who would I rather listen to: Justin Bieber or One Direction?
“Fears,” he states, highlighting our next subject. “Are you afraid of anything? The dark? Heights? Small, enclosed spaces? Spiders?”
"God, no,” I reply. “No, no, no, and no.” I make a checkmark in the air for each item on the list. “I am fearless."
The questions go on, and as much as I’m trying to make my pie last as long as possible, it disappears before I know it, but by the time I reach the last bite, it seems to have a stale, old texture to it.
When the check comes, he grabs it before I get the chance to play the “check dance” with him. Do people not do that anymore? I really don’t expect him to pay for my meal. After all, he agreed to this date without any guarantees that he would enjoy himself.
“I can pay for myself,” I offer.
“No, I insist,” he says, and I’m not sure if I should argue the point farther. Feeling bad about allowing him paying for my meal, I pull out some cash and leave a tip on the table. He doesn’t dispute my gesture.
6
We exit the restaurant and stand awkwardly for a moment.
He glances at his watch, and a shocked expression forms across his face. “Ten o’clock already. I really need to get home,” he says.
Holy crap. I’m stunned as well. Were we really talking that long? The time seemed to fly, and I realize that we were sitting with our pies for quite some time. “I have to get an early start tomorrow morning.”
I don’t want to leave yet. I’m really enjoying my time with him. “Let me walk you home,” I offer, not considering whether he is trying to get away from me or not.
Clearly, he isn’t trying to escape my presence because he doesn’t argue but rather graciously accepts the offer. “I’d love the company,” he consents as the corners of his mouth raise slightly.
I don’t realize it until several blocks later that it may sound like I’m trying to get in bed with him, but his demeanor tells me he’s not getting that vibe, either.
We walk side by side as we continue the series of random questions, agreeing most of the time but arguing about other answers. Although Jacob freely answers my questions and we joke together, I know that there are much deeper, more personal questions I want to ask, but I hold back, fearful of answering personal questions myself.
Why am I so afraid? I ask myself the question silently while Jacob speaks. Not finding an answer, I watch him as we walk, and I realize that my face is beginning to hurt. I haven’t stopped grinning for hours. Taking note of this, I understand that I’m really falling for this guy, but I try to put that thought away.
I don’t even know him, I tell myself. Another voice emerges from the back of my mind and whispers, But you still like him. And just like that, my answer strikes, and I realize why I’m so afraid.
I don’t want to get personal because I want him to like me for me. I want him to like me for the way I act, and I want him to fall in love with my charm, not judge me for any of the details that don’t matter in a relationship because at this point, as I watch him speak, I understand what it’s like to enjoy someone for who they really are, not what their past says about them.
