The Undateable

by Sarah Title

  She cleared her throat.

  “So how does this work? I just pick the ones I want to go out with?”

  “No. Pia and I pick.”

  Her face fell a little.

  “Are they all, you know . . .”

  “Basement-dwelling trolls? No. We’ve gotten lots of serious submissions, some from the guys themselves, most from women nominating a brother or friend or coworker. Pia’s going through the submissions as they come in.”

  “That’s nice of her.”

  “That’s her job. She’s the junior writer.”

  He looked a little pained when he said that. Bernie wanted to make a comment about gender inequality and the wage gap, but she took pity on him. Also, she was too nervous to form a coherent argument right now. Even though she thought arguing with Colin would probably make her feel better.

  She didn’t know why she thought that. She had ample evidence to the contrary.

  And now he was staring at her. She must have some kind of look on her face.

  “Okay. So . . . I just wait? I thought we had to strike the hot iron and all that stuff.”

  “We do. Tonight you’re going out with a friend of a friend.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just. Ack. I’m just remembering that I hate getting set up.”

  “It’s a little late for that.”

  “Usually people try to hook me up with their other single friends, even though the only thing we have in common is that we’re both single.”

  “Well . . . that might be the case here. Think of it as a practice date.”

  “Practice.”

  “Yeah. You’ll look nice and make nice conversation, no big deal. It’s the first of many.”

  “Many many.”

  “You’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “But my pride.”

  “If you screw it up, you’ll have twenty-nine more chances to get it right.”

  “Not encouraging.”

  “Makeda wants to know if you have your outfit picked out yet.”

  “Makeda?”

  “Our fashion editor.”

  “Oh, uh. No. Just whatever’s clean.”

  “I’m not going to tell her that. Do you have a friend or someone who can help you pick out some date clothes?” She thought of Marcie. Marcie would probably help her.

  Marcie would probably make her wear a body-hugging jumpsuit, the kind that you had to take completely off when you wanted to go to the bathroom.

  “This is going to be a disaster.”

  “You’ll be fine. Pete’s a nice guy.”

  “Pete.”

  “Your date.”

  “My date.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes. Wait, no. I’m supposed to be honest with you, right?”

  “Please.”

  “I may vomit.”

  Colin laughed and clapped her lightly on the back. “Relax, Bernie. This will be fun.”

  Chapter Twelve

  COLIN WAS SUPPOSED TO MEET HER outside the restaurant. He’d promised. He was supposed to give her moral support. She didn’t even know what her date looked like. She didn’t even know his name. Maybe she shouldn’t have given up on Colin so quickly. But when she didn’t see him, she’d gone inside to wait at the bar, where there was wine.

  Wait. Pete. She remembered. Pete was her date. Good. Now where was her moral support?

  Someone tapped her on the shoulder, and she turned to see . . . a guy. He was cute. Was this her date? Go, Colin.

  No, wait. It was Colin.

  “Nice glasses,” she said, ignoring the skip her heart had done when she’d first seen him.

  He waggled his eyebrows at her. “I’m in disguise.”

  “Why?”

  “So I can blend in and observe, while remaining unobserved.” He waggled his fingers in front of his glasses.

  “You have written a story before, right?”

  “What? You don’t think I look like a beatnik?”

  He looked nothing like a beatnik. He looked like a twenty-first century hipster’s idea of a beatnik.

  But cute.

  “Very far out, man,” she reassured him. “I don’t think North Beach is a beatnik neighborhood anymore.”

  Colin just shrugged. “Your mission, should you choose to accept . . . Scratch that, you already accepted. You’re not backing out now. Your date, Pete, is a software developer. He likes cooking and seeing live music, although he does not play. He’s never been married, but he’s had a few long-term girlfriends, and he’s very nice and boring. I’m sure you’ll love him.”

  “Pete.” She could do this. She could go on a date. She had this.

  As promised, the date would be in public, at a noisy and not-very-trendy Italian restaurant in North Beach. Colin would sit near enough to observe (unrecognized; hence the glasses), but not near enough that he could overhear every little word that was said. If there were words to be said. Bernie suddenly forgot all of the words that humans used for small talk. Her brain was melting into a blob of mangled incoherence. Was she having a stroke?

  “Bernie? Are you okay?”

  “Hmm? Yes, fine, why?” she said, a few decibels louder than she meant to. “Why wouldn’t I be fine?”

  “You look a little nauseous, that’s all.”

  “Nauseated. Nauseous refers to the state of being nauseated.”

  “Good. Get all of your pedantic out before your date gets here.” He gave her a smile that she was pretty sure was meant to reassure her. It did not.

  She turned in her seat at the bar, picked up her wineglass, put it down, brushed her skirt over her knees. Why were her hands in the way of everything?

  “Bernie.”

  She turned to face Colin and his stern voice.

  “Listen to me.” He whipped off his glasses and she almost laughed. But then she thought if she laughed, she might get nauseous all over his black turtleneck. “It will be fine.”

  “I know,” she said, in a voice that was not at all convincing.

  “Pete is very nice,” Colin assured.

  “I know,” she convinced.

  “You’ll just make small talk, eat some pasta, and that’s it. No big deal. It’s just a first date.”

  “I know,” she said, like a broken record that was stuck in the comforting groove of a daily routine that did not involve first dates.

  “Don’t order spaghetti,” Colin advised. She nodded.

  “And don’t—”

  “Melissa?”

  Bernie turned to face her date, and away from whatever instruction Colin was about to give her that would prevent her from making a complete ass of herself. She’d already made an ass of herself. That was what all this meme stuff was about. Now she was un-assing.

  Of course, having a contentious inner monologue when she clearly did not possess the will to control her facial features was probably not the way to do it.

  “Pete?” she asked, brightly, and she felt Colin move off the stool behind her and disappear into the crowd.

  “Was that guy bothering you?” Pete asked, and Bernie just knew she made a face in reaction to that comment, because what kind of comment was that? Like she couldn’t take care of herself?

  She took a deep breath. He was just being nice. That was what people did on first dates.

  “Uh.” She wasn’t sure if she was supposed to acknowledge that Colin was there as a reporter and, if necessary, an extraction agent. They’d talked about him being there, but not about whether or not that was to be addressed. Should she address it? Would that fundamentally change the atmosphere of the date? Oh, God, what was she supposed to do with her hands?

  She shook her head. Colin had been bothering her, but suddenly she wanted him back. At least she knew how to talk to Colin. All she had to do was disagree with absolutely everything he said. This guy, this Pete, she wasn’t sure about.

  What was she doing? She thought of the generations of women wh
o went before her, who had managed to have first-date conversations without dying, and still go on to make scientific breakthroughs and artistic masterpieces and generally leave their irreplaceable stamps on the world.

  She took a deep breath. She could do this.

  “Hi, Pete. Thanks for coming.”

  Pete smiled. He had a good smile, this Pete. “It’s an honor, being your first date. This is crazy, right?”

  “Yes,” she agreed, and relaxed. They were going to acknowledge the craziness. She could do this. Lay it all out on the table. It was crazy, and she could do it.

  “Would it be terrible if I told you that you look a lot different from your picture?”

  She laughed. “God, I hope so.”

  “I mean, in your picture you look kind of mean.”

  She laughed again, with a little less enthusiasm.

  The maitre d’ signaled that their table was ready, and she gathered up her wineglass and her date, and prepared to make small talk.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Dear Maria,

  I’ve been out on a few dates with a guy, and he’s great. He’s funny and very sweet and I like the way he dresses. I think we look good together as a couple. We have a lot in common. We’re sort of perfect together. The problem is, I don’t really feel a spark when I see him. I don’t miss him when I don’t see him. But when we’re together, it’s great. What should I do?

  He’s Great, Right? in Cow Hollow

  Dear Great,

  Where there’s no spark, there can be no fire. And, yes, fire is dangerous and it can hurt, but it gets cold and foggy here on the Bay. You need fire. And you need a new boyfriend.

  Kisses,

  Maria

  COLIN WATCHED BERNIE AND PETE stare at their plates and he really wished he was sitting closer so he could hear what Pete was saying to her. Bernie occasionally laughed, but mostly, she just looked like her eggplant parmesan had told her that her dress was unflattering.

  God, it was unflattering. He was sure she had a figure underneath all those pleats, but it was well hidden. He knew Bernie wouldn’t be the type to wear a body-hugging minidress, but she could have left the Amish couture at home. And was she wearing clogs? Nothing said “I’m not interested in carnal knowledge” more than clogs did.

  He stared down at his notebook, trying to think of a way to describe the floral sack she was wearing in a way that would not make her hit him. He rubbed his eyes, or tried to. The fake glasses were, he admitted, a little silly. But he was undercover, dammit. He didn’t want anyone to notice him. Not that he was recognizable—he wasn’t the subject of, say, an unflattering meme—but he wanted to blend in. Be cool. Like a real reporter whose job was not in danger because of a twenty-year-old pixie who had more ambition than he did.

  “Ready?”

  Colin turned from his notebook to find Bernie standing next to his bar stool.

  There was no sign of Pete.

  “Where’s Pete?” he asked, like a good reporter. He hoped Bernie hadn’t eaten poor Pete alive.

  “He has an early meeting at work tomorrow.” She blithely swung her purse onto her shoulder.

  Oh, Bernie. He shook his head at her.

  “What?” she asked.

  “He didn’t have an early meeting.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You got ditched.”

  “No, I didn’t. He had an early . . . oh, I see. Hmm.”

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing! Nothing bad, I don’t think.”

  “What’d you guys talk about?”

  She shrugged. “Work and stuff. It was pretty boring.”

  “Did you find out anything interesting about him?”

  “No. He went to a concert last week, but it was some terrible dude rock band, so we didn’t talk much about it.”

  “Did you share anything interesting about yourself?”

  She looked up at the ceiling, thinking. “Apparently not.”

  Colin sighed. “Bernie. You have to at least try.”

  “I did! Sort of.”

  “You did? Then why are you dressed like you’re going to a barn raising?”

  “What’s wrong with my dress?”

  “And what the hell are those shoes?”

  “They’re comfortable!”

  “Bernie.”

  “See? This is the problem. Why should I wear shoes that kill my feet and a dress that squeezes me like a sausage? Pete was wearing a T-shirt!”

  “No, Pete was wearing a very nice, very expensive Oxford shirt that was ironed and tucked in.”

  “Well, good for him. It shouldn’t matter what he wears. Just like it shouldn’t matter if I show up in a sack.”

  “Which you did. Okay, look, don’t hit me. Clothing aside, you really couldn’t find anything to talk about?”

  “He doesn’t read.”

  “So? A lot of people don’t read. There are other things to talk about.”

  “He was proud of the fact that he doesn’t read.”

  Colin pulled off his glasses and ran a hand down his face. He was going to need some help with this one.

  “We’re not a good match.” Bernie shrugged.

  “How will you know when you are a good match?”

  “When he’s not proudly illiterate.”

  “But then what? Then conversation will just magically flow and he won’t be insulted that you came to the date wearing a sack?”

  “Hey, this is vintage, I’m pretty sure.”

  “Fine, a vintage sack.”

  “So, by your logic, if I dress with my boobies out, I’ll find my intellectual soul mate.”

  “Boobies? Maybe.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’m just saying if you try something new, this might actually be fun.”

  “No, you’re saying if I dress myself to please a man’s gaze, he’ll deign to inquire if I’ve got anything in my brain.”

  Colin thought about his job, and how he wanted to keep his job, and how Clea was worried that readers wouldn’t connect with Bernie because she was nothing like them. Which she wasn’t. Bernie wasn’t like anybody. But that didn’t mean people couldn’t get to like her. “Look,” he said. “Your way is not working.”

  “After one date.”

  “Just try my way, with the makeover, and if that doesn’t work, I’ll buy you a new pair of clogs.”

  “The clogs are expensive.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  She stopped talking—finally—and Colin watched her take in the scene around the restaurant. Nothing but couples, crammed around tiny tables, sharing intimate looks over candlelight. It was a really freakin’ romantic spot.

  “Fine,” she said, still turned toward the romance surrounding them. “We’ll try it your way.”

  “Thank you.”

  “This date still totally counts.”

  “Okay.”

  “Only twenty-nine more to go.”

  He sighed. Only twenty-nine more.

  Chapter Fourteen

  DISAPPROVING LIBRARIAN IS UNDATEABLE

  ____________________

  By Colin Rodriguez, Staff Writer

  This was the first date of many first dates for San Francisco’s most eligible spinster librarian. She had an image to repair. After breaking the Internet with her look of stern unhappiness, Melissa Bernard had to prove to her profession, her city, and herself that there was no such thing as a walking stereotype.

  Disapproving Librarian disapproves of stereotypes.

  So does Glaze.com, despite what many—Disapproving Librarian included—think about fashion sites. Women’s lifestyle is what we do, and we know that women want to look good doing it. But what about the woman who doesn’t care if she looks good? What about the woman who wears her lack of grooming like a badge of honor? What about the woman who says what’s the point of dressing up when you’re perpetually single? What about the woman who has branded herself undateable, and finds evidence to support that
?

  This woman will have many bad first dates.

  My colleagues and I are here to help.

  AS BERNIE ENTERED the Glaze.com offices way too early the next morning, she was struck by how very new everything looked. It was the future! And the future was all glossy white work spaces and sleek laptops and pops of color in the form of racks of clothes artfully cluttering the office.

  So this was what it was like to work in a place that had money.

  She thought about her dull, crowded office in the library, and her small, crowded apartment. This was the other side of San Francisco, the new side, although it hadn’t been new for a while. This was the future of the city, and there was less and less room for people like her, people who cared about education and art and who only cared about money as a means to create resources that made the world more equitable. She’d been a dying breed when she moved to San Francisco; now she was nearly extinct.

  And she was here to get a makeover. Willingly. Because of Colin.

  As if her thoughts had conjured him, Colin walked up behind her, startling her nearly out of her sensible shoes. “You’re on time,” he said, acting surprised. Of course she was on time. She had actually been twenty minutes early, because the bus was miraculously waiting for her on the corner, unlike the mornings when she had an early meeting and was running late and it was nothing but Google buses as far as the eye could see. Colin probably had something to do with that, too. He made the buses run on time.

  “Let me introduce you to everyone,” he said, holding the glass door open to her. She said hello to the receptionist, a young guy in an unprofessionally tight T-shirt, and to a few painfully fashionable young women who looked at Colin like they wanted to eat him up. She supposed she couldn’t blame them; he looked good in his slim-fit pants and crisp button-down shirt. Of course, once he opened his mouth, they should have been disabused of any romantic notions. Probably their oversized scarves were cutting off oxygen to their brains. His boss, he told her, was at a business meeting. The way he said it was with a mixture of disgust and relief, which made Bernie even more curious about what Clea Summers was like. If Colin didn’t like her, she was probably great.