I stand up from the table and tuck my purse under my arm, taking my coffee to go. He’s not interested in me, so what have I got to lose telling him what I think?
“Saturday night, 6:00 p.m. at James Miu. I hate fish. I’ll meet you there.”
How’s that for assertive?
A Tricky Trick
I wince as I hear the familiar chords blaze from my living room. My sister’s Saturday night plans are once again keeping up with the Kardashians from the comfort of my couch. For a girl who is all about me meeting someone, she sure spends a lot of time here not meeting someone herself.
“You have a date?” My sister turns from studying me to studying the made-up face and high ponytail on the screen. She scoops her hair up, trying to mimic the hairdo. “Is it with Trick?”
“Excuse me?” I was all set to ignore her tonight and walk out without discussing my plans. So much for that. “What are you talking about? Who is Trick?”
“I don’t know. You tell me. I saw it on your laptop.”
T. Rick. Tina Rick. Trick.
Speaking of trick, Jenn never misses one. Why couldn’t Adam be the favorite brother?
“Stay away from my things. What I’m doing tonight and who I am doing it with are none of your concern. Goodnight.” I end the conversation, slipping my arm into my Burberry trench coat. I opt for a black and gray plaid cashmere scarf. January nights in New Jersey can be brutal.
“No flowers,” my sister yells as I exit. I tune her out, shutting the door behind me. Tonight the only advice I want is from the girl with whom I am now beta dating.
The wind whips, stinging my skin on the ten-second walk down the driveway. One of the many perks of a luxury car is how fast it warms up. The interior heats up, and Nirvana fills my car as I watch the ice on the windshield turn to slush and get tossed aside by the wipers. It’s a five-minute drive to the florist and from there it’s another fifteen to the restaurant; just enough time for me to mentally prepare for my date with the research I’ve done on Tina.
I spent the last few nights searching her social media sites just as I would for an actual date. Not a thing has been changed in my normal dating repertoire. If I’m doing something wrong, I want to be told exactly what it is, with details.
Tina is a Sagittarius who turned thirty last month. A bit younger than I am, but nothing too off-putting. Just like me, she’s the oldest of three with two younger siblings. A Rutgers alumna. Works for the Chiming Company, doing what wasn’t quite clear. It wasn’t the most updated website, and I didn’t see her name in the business directory. But I did learn the company specializes in baked goods, and no matter what her position is, I should be able to keep up and have an understanding when discussing.
No mention of television. Turn-on.
She has a cat. Turnoff.
She attended a golf outing last spring. Huge turn-on.
She attended a New Kids on the Block concert over the summer. Huge turnoff.
There was nothing about flowers, but I did notice she tends to wear shades of blue very often, which leads me to believe it’s a favorite color of hers.
“Mr. Henry, welcome.” John Paul greets me the same way each time I enter his shop. He claims I’m his best customer. I believe him. Before my cycle of first dates began, I had countless bouquets sent to my ex, Sasha. She never had a problem with flowers. At least not that I was aware of. I never heard her complain; she never really had any reaction to them.
“Hmm.” I thoughtfully peruse the fresh flowers behind the clear refrigerator doors. I could order ahead or have Jean Paul put together a bouquet, but I like to be part of the process. A hands-on approach. “Would you say these are more purple or blue?” I press my finger against the cool glass.
“I’d say blue.”
“That’s perfect.” I scan for a few other flowers to accompany the blue flowers in the arrangement. I choose six large white blooming peonies. “Can you tie it with a big blue ribbon?” I’m striving to make a big impression as always. If I want genuine answers, I must perform at my usual level for these faux dates.
“For you, I got the biggest blue ribbon there is.” At times John Paul seems almost flirtatious with me. His appreciation toward my business always shows. If only I could find a woman who appreciates me the way he does.
I hand over my credit card, and in turn he presents me with the stunning bouquet. Spectacular white flowers accented with brilliant hues of blue. This has to be one of my most beautiful bouquets yet. Everything about these flowers is perfect.
If there is a flaw, I’d be shocked to hear it.
A Flowering Trick
“These are for me?” I’m flattered, stunned, and turned off all at once.
I love flowers. I really do. I’ve always dreamed of receiving a bouquet like this but being handed an oversized spray outside of James Miu on our very first date is wacko. Seriously wacko.
A gust of wind blows, whipping the large blue ribbon into my face. I hike my purse up higher on my shoulder in an effort to try and figure out how to hold the gargantuan thing without getting attacked by it.
“Beautiful flowers for a beautiful lady.”
Did he just bow? I try to hide my horrified expression behind the massive arrangement. So what now? Does he expect me to carry these into the restaurant?
I peer through the cellophane at Henry. He looks so proud. I can’t say anything and hurt his…. Wait. I can. This isn’t a real date. Speaking up and telling him my thoughts are the entire purpose of this whatever thing we’re doing. If I offend him—that’s par for the course. Isn’t it?
“I’m sorry, but this is inappropriate for a first date,” I say as nicely as I can.
“Inappropriate? The flowers?” He scoffs. “How?”
“This makes me uncomfortable. I don’t even know you. And”—I motion to the restaurant—“am I supposed to march into the restaurant with this big bouquet like I just won the Miss America pageant? I’ll feel like an idiot.”
“This is a seventy-five-dollar bouquet of flowers.”
What? That’s insane.
“You’re making it worse.” They’re beautiful, sure, but absolutely ridiculous for a first date. “Is this something you actually do regularly when meeting someone new?”
“Yes,” he grits out through clenched teeth. “It’s a romantic gesture. I’m setting the tone. Showing my date that I....” He stops and searches for the next word, but I don’t think he knows what that word is, so I fill it in for him.
“Have money. Are successful. Flashy.” Those are my delicate words. In my head I’m thinking arrogant, show off, someone who wants to put a girl in their place.
“It’s a romantic gesture.” He says the words carefully, as if I may have missed it when he said them the first time.
I hand the flowers back to him.
“Maybe after a few weeks or a month into our relationship, after we’ve gotten to know each other better, it would be a romantic gesture. But this, it’s too much. Too soon.” The cold weather is starting to numb my exposed skin. I cross my arms over my chest for some extra warmth. I should’ve worn a heavier coat. But then again, who would have known we’d be outside so long discussing flowers in freezing temperatures?
“Maybe this wasn’t such a great idea,” he says coolly, his hand dropping to his side, the flowers nearly touching the ground. Geez, for a guy who made this plan up, he sure isn’t handling the first piece of criticism too well. See—this is why I’m not very assertive. Guys don’t react well to it.
“I’m sorry,” I say with a slight shiver. “I’m just trying to do what you told me. Maybe I’m not the right person for this. The flowers really are beautiful and a nice gesture. Other women might respond differently.”
He inhales a huge amount of the cold air and releases a white plume with a heavy sigh.
“They don’t respond differently. And you’re right. This is what you’re here for. Honest, critical feedback. I need to just suck it up and take my pun
ches.” He takes a few steps toward a garbage can on the sidewalk.
“No! Wait! What are you doing?” I click after him in my heels. “You can’t throw those away.” He stops, his brows creasing, his hand hovering over the trash can. “Give them to me.”
“I’m so confused. I thought they were too much.” He hesitates before handing them back over.
“They are, but they’re too pretty to go to waste. I’ll put them in my car.”
“But what about—”
“This isn’t a real date.” Ironically though, it is the first bouquet of flowers I’d ever received aside from corsages at proms and formals, and those hardly count, especially against a bouquet like this. “As long as the advice has been given, there’s no reason to throw them away.”
“So, to be clear.” Henry escorts me over to where I’m parked, and I gently place the bouquet onto the front seat where the cold temp should keep them fresh until I get home. “The flowers are good flowers, it’s just too soon to be giving them. Correct?”
“Yes, the flowers are amazing, they’re just not first-date material.” I slam my door shut, and Henry instantly crooks his arm for me to take his bicep. The soft fabric of his coat warms up my cold hands as he leads the way to the entrance of the restaurant. It’s corny, yet cute. He’s old-fashioned. A gentleman. Something modern girls like me hardly believe truly exists and have no clue what to do with. “Like I said, give it a month, wait until I invite you over for that special date.”
“Well, hypothetically you,” he corrects before grabbing the door and holding it open for me.
“Yes, hypothetically me,” I agree, walking into the grand restaurant, relishing in the warmth.
The reminder and blast of hot air relax me. There’s no pressure here. Yes, I asserted and he got ruffled. But that’s what he wanted, and this isn’t real. There is no potential romance budding. I can finally just relax and be myself without any of the overthinking stress that usually goes hand in hand with a new relationship.
Plus I get dinner and flowers.
A Stalky Trick
“You work for Chiming.” I start the conversation off focusing on her. She can’t find fault in that.
“Actually, it’s Chi Ming.” She raises a brow. “I’ve been there about five years now.”
“They specialize in baked goods. Are you on the corporate side of things or are you down in the kitchen?” I engage in full eye contact just like I would with one of my most important clients. “What is your title? I tried finding it but came up unsuccessful.”
“I’m a writer,” she answers, hesitant and unsure. “Excuse me, what do you mean you looked me up? How did you know I worked for Chi Ming?”
“I googled you. There was only one Tina Rick in the area; you weren’t hard to find. You went to Rutgers, employed at Chi Ming, grew up locally. I also saw your Facebook and Instagram profiles. I want to talk to you about that golfing event last spring that your company held,” I say before I forget.
“Stop.” She holds up a hand. “Red flag.”
“Red flag?” Again? Already?
“You stalked me.”
There’s that word again.
“No, not stalked. Researched.” I shake my head out of frustration. “Why must women always say the word stalk? If I’m taking you out, what’s wrong with wanting to know as much about you as I can?”
“Nope.” She shakes her head, her dark curls brushing against her pink cheeks. “That’s stalking.”
“I honestly don’t understand this. When I’m with a new client and we start off a conversation, they appreciate the things I know about them. The research that I’ve done. They don’t call me a stalker. They applaud me for doing my research. For knowing my stuff.”
“That’s business. This is private. You ask someone out on a date because you want to get to know them organically, not research them ahead of time. Doing that feels like an invasion of privacy.”
“Your accounts are public. If you don’t want people ‘invading your privacy,’ why not set them to private? Why post at all?” Don’t people realize that public accounts can be seen by anyone? You don’t even need to have a profile yourself to view an account.
“Well, I mean….” She pauses before stammering on. “People can look. It’s okay to take a quick peek before going on a date with someone, but—”
“Do you look?”
“Look? Me?” My question flusters her, and she starts fiddling with one of the forks at the table setting in front of her.
“Did you look me up?” I ask, hoping she did. My online presence is stellar. Articles. Awards. A fantastic bio. Flattering photos.
“You’re not even on social media,” she says, and busted. Her skin goes pink. “Besides it’s different for us.”
“How so?”
“Women do it more for protection. We need to do it in order to find out who we’re actually going on a date with. Is he safe? Is there a trail of bad comments from jilted women on his feed? Is he actually employed? Is he married? Is there a secret family he never mentioned?”
“I never thought of it in that way.” Safety had never been a factor in my research.
“I’m sure you didn’t. Men are different, most just care ‘does she actually look like her profile picture?’” she says. “But you’d be surprised how many guys lie about important things when they meet a woman.” She shudders before continuing. “And even if a guy passes phase one, we still need to make sure that a friend has his name in case our severed head turns up after the first date.”
“You need to be careful,” I say with a new understanding. But isn’t she just making my point, that it’s important to do your research?
“We do.” She moves from the salad fork to the dinner fork. “However,” she hems, “as important as it is for us to know what we can before going on a date, we still know to keep our stalking to ourselves.”
Interesting. So, it’s not the actual research part that’s the turnoff, it’s the sharing of the research that makes women uneasy. As vexing as this information is, it is proving to be helpful. Apparently, it’s okay to look but not okay to discuss until those things are brought up “organically,” and I can get flowers but not right away. Technically, I’m not doing the wrong things, I’m just doing things… wrong.
“Okay, so you said you’re a writer.” I take it this is okay to discuss because she said it. “Tell me how an Asian company specializing in baked goods needs a full-time writer.”
She releases her tight grip on the silverware and her shoulders ease back down to a natural place. This is good. I had almost forgotten what a relaxed woman looks like while on a date with me.
“I write the descriptions for the brochures and online sales. I also work with HR to proof and edit all of their documents. I do the same with the marketing department. And, don’t laugh”—she covers her face—“but I also write all the fortunes for the fortune cookies.”
“That’s fascinating.” It really is. I’m intrigued. “Can you give me a fortune?”
“Oh gee, um.” She stares up at the ceiling. “You will live a long and happy life.”
“That’s all?” I tease.
“Lucky numbers 7, 19, 27, and 45,” she teases back with a wide grin.
I can’t help but chuckle. Not a forced laugh, an organic one.
Okay, I’m starting to get it.
“Ma’am, again we apologize.” The waiter places down a brand-new filet in front of me. A hundred dollars say my heated face is likely the shade of pink the meat wasn’t.
When I had cut into my steak and the inside was a bit more cooked than I’d like, Henry forced me to speak up. I protested, assuring him it was fine, but he insisted. I needed to assert. It sucked. The plate of food was so beautiful. I felt horrible asking the waiter to take it back. I looked to Henry several times for some help as I struggled with my request, but he never jumped in. I guess if he has to take his lumps throughout this process, so do I.
My knife g
lides through the new tender meat and juice pools on my plate. The first bite all but melts in my mouth. After swallowing, a satisfied hum escapes my lips.
“See? You spoke up and now you have exactly what you want.” He’s smug but with good reason. He’s so right. Every ounce of this meat is worth every ounce of the embarrassment I suffered asking for it to be redone. Suffered. Really? Maybe I’m being a little overdramatic. I spoke up, the waiter accommodated. Not that big of a deal.
“It’s delicious.”
“That’s good. Sasha was always more of a seafood person.” He lifts his wineglass and gazes into the liquid with a far-off look. “White wine and fresh-herb salmon with jasmine rice. That was her favorite.”
“Oh, I’ve never had jasmine rice,” I say while wondering who Sasha is and why I would care what she eats.
“If there is one thing Sasha knows, it’s wine.” He chuckles before taking a sip. “Sasha would probably keel over if she saw me drinking a merlot with filet. She says red meat with red wine is an unworldly combination.”
“Who’s Sasha?” I ask, taking a sip of my unworldly wine.
“Oh, sorry.” He snaps out of his trance. “Sasha is my girlfriend. My ex-girlfriend.”
“Okay, flaw alert,” I sing. “Never talk about the ex on a first date. Or any other date, for that matter.”
“I wasn’t really talking about her. I was just mentioning something regarding her that seemed relevant to the conversation.”
“Nothing about your ex’s likes or dislikes is relevant to our conversation,” I say, and his brows crease. “Especially when your ex believes red meat and red wine are an unworldly combination. Look at what I’m eating and drinking. How is that ‘relevant conversation’ supposed to make me feel?” Wow, had this been a real date I never would have had the courage to say those things to him. I would have just silently nodded and played guessing games about this Sasha chick the entire time. But not tonight. “How long ago did you and Sasha break up? Are you not over her?” There’s no beating around the bush in the land of make-believe. I want to know, so I ask.
Whiskey Trick Page 3
