by Dana Bate
“So wait,” he says, as he takes a sip of his second beer, a Kasteel Tripel. “Let’s go back to this cigarette spaghetti situation. I’m seriously confused as to how this could have happened.”
I laugh and almost spit my porter back into my glass. “I know. It’s a mystery. But I’m telling you: It tasted like eating a plate full of cigarettes.”
“And this was at band camp?”
“No—not band camp. It was more like a band . . . festival.” Jeremy starts snickering. “Shut up! It was a big deal. Only a few kids from each high school were chosen.”
“Hey, you’re talking to a former tuba player. I’m not judging.”
“You played the tuba?”
He blushes. “It’s an important instrument—and, I’ll have you know, one that’s difficult to play well.”
“Tell me about it. I learned a lot those years at band ca—sorry, band festival.”
“So what did you play?”
“Clarinet.”
He smiles. “That fits.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“All of the clarinet players at my high school were cute girls. And none of them would go on a date with me.”
The waitress returns with our grilled octopus and tuna tartare appetizers, cutting off Jeremy before I can point out that I am on a date with him—the first date I’ve been on in ages, actually. I could blame my dating misfortune on the intensity of working on a daily news show, but that would be an easy excuse, and it wouldn’t be entirely true. I could also blame Zach, and although he started me down this path of mistrust and loneliness, I’m the one who has continued on it for so long.
What happens, if you’re me, is at a young age you let someone know you, totally and completely, and then that person breaks your heart. So you don’t date for a while, and you blame the breakup, which is true but eventually sounds lame as the months pass. So then you blame your job for being too time consuming, which is only partially true but sounds more reasonable to an outsider than blaming an ex-boyfriend you haven’t seen or talked to in a year. And then, even once the early sting of betrayal wears off, it becomes easier not to date. To opt out. To protect yourself from rejection. Publicly you still blame your job, and you hide behind that story, until that hidden space becomes warm and cozy, and you don’t want to come out from behind it. And the more time that passes, the cozier that space becomes, until the dating world seems like a wild jungle, full of traps and hazards and scary things. So what do you do? You burrow deeper into that space and spend your nights alone, fantasizing about an ex-boyfriend who probably doesn’t even think about you anymore.
And then, by some combination of pressure and guilt and decidedly peculiar luck, you end up on a date with a guy named Jeremy, who proves dating isn’t scary after all.
“This octopus is to die for,” he says, cutting into a fat tentacle. “Here, try a bite.”
He cuts off a large hunk and deposits it on my bread plate, and I poke my fork into it and stick the slice into my mouth. The meat is tender and juicy and slightly sweet, with a smoky kick from the charred grilled bits.
“Wow, you’re right,” I say, washing the octopus down with a sip of my beer. “That’s fantastic.”
“I take it you’ve never been here before?”
I shake my head. “I don’t get out a lot.”
“No?”
I consider the best way not to sound socially incompetent. Given my track record, this will not be easy.
“No,” I say, opting for a one-word answer, simple and true.
He grins as he cuts into another piece of octopus. “Then we’ll have to change that, won’t we?”
The alcohol rushes to my cheeks, and I can hear my heart thumping in my ears. “Sure,” I say.
I smile and fix my eyes on his, and then, to dispel any ambiguity in my response, I add, “Yeah. I’d really like that.”
CHAPTER 11
On a good day, an appetizer, entrée, and two beers would put me into a full-fledged food coma, but the warm and gooey chocolate peanut butter tart we share for dessert puts me over the top. I can barely breathe. The button to my pants gave up two courses ago.
But I don’t even care because, wow, I forgot how wonderful it is to dine at a nice restaurant. And I forgot how nice it is to sit across from someone of the opposite sex who is attractive and interesting and engaging and actually seems to like me. That, of course, suggests I knew what such an experience was like with anyone other than Zach, which—let’s face it—I didn’t. So, on all fronts, the evening has been a success.
Jeremy pulls out my chair and helps me into my coat. “You look great, by the way,” he says. “I should have said that earlier. I kind of panicked under the whole fifteen-minute rule. But you really do look terrific.”
I feel myself blush. “Thanks. Although I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’m wearing two different shades of black. And these pants are at least three years old.”
I have no idea why I am sharing this with him. I blame the beer, along with my general social awkwardness.
“Well, I’ll let you in on a little secret,” he says, lowering his voice as he comes in close. “This tie is five years old. And I bought it at the Leesburg outlets.”
I widen my eyes, feigning shock. “You’re a discount shopper?”
He shrugs. “What can I say? I like a good deal.”
It’s about now that I feel an overwhelming urge to lean in and kiss this man, this adorable smooth talker who managed to cajole me into going to dinner with him. But we’re still standing in the middle of the restaurant, and though I may lack the ever-elusive quality of grace, I possess at least a modicum of self-awareness that tells me making out in the middle of a restaurant is trashy.
Jeremy and I make our way toward the exit. As we pass the hostess stand, he touches the small of my back, ever so gently, and sends a thrill shooting through my body like lightning.
“Where to?” he asks.
I hesitate outside the front door. Is this a your-place-or-mine type of question? Or does he actually want to do something, like go to a jazz club or share a nightcap? I have very little experience with this. I don’t know the rules.
“Um, not sure . . .” I look at my watch. “Holy crap—it’s ten thirty already.”
He chuckles. “Is that late for you?”
“Kind of.” I catch myself. “Wow. That sounded even lamer out loud than it did in my head. The thing is, I used to work on a morning news show. My bedtime was nine o’clock. Ten at the latest.”
Only when I say this do I realize how little we discussed our careers—current and former—over the course of our three-and-a-half-hour date. I mentioned wanting to be a food writer, and he talked a little about his job in PR, but mostly we just talked about our lives. We talked about our favorite foods and college memories, where we’ve been in the world, and where we’d still like to go. We talked about what movies and books have shaped our views and what sort of music makes us happy. We talked about what makes us . . . well, us, without any mention of our vocations. In a city where what you do and where you work often defines you, I find this very refreshing.
Jeremy claps his hands together. “Well, I’d hate to keep you up past your bedtime. I’ll walk you home. We can stay out late another time.”
He slips into his coat, and we stroll up Fourteenth Street, past the Studio Theatre and a bunch of closed storefronts, moving in silence through the chilled February air. As we reach the corner of Fourteenth and R, he brushes against my shoulder, and another bolt of lightning shoots through me from head to toe. I can’t deny it: I like this guy.
But, as a general rule, nothing in my life goes smoothly when it has the potential to become excruciatingly awkward, and so as we proceed up Swann Street toward my house, I spot my crazy downstairs neighbor, Simon, standing on our front stoop, up to his usual freaky tricks. Tonight, he is applying duct tape over the doorbell to his unit.
“Is this your place . . . ?
” Jeremy mutters as I turn through the hip-height gate in front of my building.
“Yep.”
He lowers his voice and whispers in my ear. “Who is that guy?”
“My downstairs neighbor,” I whisper back. “He’s a little weird.”
I pull away, and Jeremy raises his eyebrows without replying, as if to say, You think?
“Hi, Simon,” I say as we approach the front steps. “What are you doing?”
He glances over his shoulder and drags his eyes across me and Jeremy. “My doorbell isn’t working. It makes an annoying buzzing sound.”
“Have you told Al?”
He smoothes the sides of the duct tape into place. “Yes. He’ll fix it Monday. But until then, I don’t want to be disturbed.”
Considering I’ve never seen anyone visit Simon, I’m not sure what he’s worried about.
Jeremy casts a sideways glance in my direction, unsure of what to say or do. The three of us are just standing on the front steps together: me, my date, and my supremely bizarre neighbor. I may not have much experience with dating, but I feel comfortable saying this is one of the stranger ways to end an evening.
Simon clutches his roll of duct tape and runs a hand over his buzz cut. “Well, good night,” he finally says. He walks inside and slams the front door behind him.
“Dude, that guy is creepy,” Jeremy says.
“He’s harmless. Just a loner who keeps to himself.”
“If you say so . . .”
We stand next to each other on the top step, grinding our heels in the pavement. I’m not sure what to do next. Every topic for discussion that enters my head is both inane and banal—beer and flowers, neighbors and music, anything to keep him standing here until one of us makes a move.
“Thanks for giving me a shot tonight,” Jeremy says.
I try to smile as naturally as possible, even though my heart is racing. “Thanks for being persistent.”
“Persistence is one of my many fine qualities,” he jokes, fiddling with his tie.
“So . . . do you want to come upstairs for a bit?”
My forwardness catches me by surprise. The words, to me, sound like a canned script from a bad romantic comedy. But the truth is, I want him to come upstairs, and for more than a bit. I want him to spend the night.
Jeremy juts out his jaw and manages a wry smile. “I’m not sure that’s such a good idea.”
My stomach drops. “Oh. Okay.”
“Don’t get me wrong—I would love to come upstairs. But . . . I don’t want to jinx this. I’ve made that mistake before.”
What he doesn’t understand is that I’ve never made that mistake before. I’ve never let someone stay the night at my apartment. Any dalliances over the past four years have involved a drunken kiss in a bar or a random venture to someone else’s apartment (which, admittedly, has only happened twice). I’ve proceeded with caution at every turn—not just with men, but with everything else too. As a child, I was never the first kid to jump in the pool. I was the last, and I would inch my way in, toe first. Recklessness does not come naturally to me.
So why, the one time I want to make a rash decision, won’t this guy play along? Isn’t playing along what men have been biologically programmed to do?
“You’re sure . . . ?” I ask, hoping he’ll change his mind.
He sighs. “Yeah, I’m sure. Though I’ll probably kick myself later.”
I nod, disappointed. “Okay.”
“Hang on—you’re not off the hook that easy. What are you up to next Tuesday?”
“I’m working at a farmers’ market out in Virginia during the day, but otherwise, no plans,” I say.
“Great. Maybe we can try a place in Penn Quarter. I’ll give you a call Sunday or Monday, and we can work out the details. Which reminds me—what’s your number?”
He pulls out his phone and punches in my number, and as he does, he reaches into his jacket pocket with his other hand and offers me two business cards. “Here’s my info,” he says.
I glance quickly at the card. “A business card? Seriously?”
“Two business cards, actually, in case you lose one. My e-mail is on there too. I know it seems formal but—”
I grab him by the tie and pull him in for a kiss. I don’t know what possesses me to do that, but I can’t help myself. The action is instinctual, impulsive, and unlike me in every way.
We kiss for a few minutes on the front steps, and eventually Jeremy pulls away and smiles.
“There’s still time to change your mind about coming upstairs,” I say.
“Nah, one step at a time.” He tucks a lock of my hair behind my ear and kisses my forehead. “I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
I nod.
He kisses me once more on the lips and squeezes my hand. Then he hustles down the front steps and looks over his shoulder twice before disappearing down Swann Street.
I’m smitten.
I race up my steps, throw myself onto my couch, and let out a contented sigh. My heart flutters with excitement, and I cannot stop smiling. My whole body feels light and tingly, as if I could float up off the couch. I haven’t felt like this since—No. I’m not going to think about that now. I’m not going to ruin the moment.
I throw myself upright and glance down at the business cards I’m still holding: JEREMY BRAUER, ACCOUNT EXECUTIVE, CARPER MASON. Looking at his name like that, something stirs in my gut. Jeremy Brauer. He couldn’t be the same Jeremy Brauer as . . . No. Couldn’t be.
I rush over to my laptop, flip it open, and punch “Jeremy Brauer” into Google.
And then I want to throw up.
Disgraced food writer Jeremy Brauer, best known for his involvement in the “cash for comment” scandal at the Washington Chronicle . . .
Jeremy Brauer, a former writer for the Washington Chronicle’s food section, whose reputation as the paper’s young and promising talent was sullied by accusations of ethics violations . . .
Jeremy Brauer . . . forced to resign from the paper . . . questions of integrity . . .
Jeremy Brauer . . . journalist hack . . . rocked the Chronicle’s credibility.... no comment, no comment, no comment . . .
Great. I’m smitten with a scumbag.
CHAPTER 12
I should have known. I should have known. Not only because I thought he looked familiar, and not only because he seemed a little too smooth, but also because the laws of the universe demand that my love life be an utter shambles. Of course Jeremy couldn’t wind up being a normal, nice guy who liked me. Of course not.
I first heard Jeremy’s story about six years ago, when the food blogosphere was all a-titter over the Chronicle’s bright young talent and his fall from grace. The scandal surrounded a series of columns he’d written for the paper’s food section, in which he reviewed a bunch of products and eateries at the behest of some PR firm that paid him for his reviews. When it came out that he’d received “cash for comment,” food writers—and the journalism community more generally—went nuts, and there was an uproar calling for his dismissal. He was fired from the paper, and I never heard about him again.
Until he conned me into going on a date with him.
If I’d known who he was, I never would have agreed to that date. But the scandal had broken while I was in college, so my memory of the incident was a little hazy, and he never told me his last name anyway. I’d had no idea my Jeremy—the man I kissed tonight and with whom I was momentarily smitten—was the infamous Jeremy Brauer.
I’m pissed I didn’t make the connection sooner, but what grates most of all, what really burns, is how much I liked him. How could my instincts have been so wrong? And why did the one person I finally let peek behind the curtain have to be even less trustworthy than Zach?
I drift in and out of sleep that night, my mind a whirring mess of anxiety and disappointment, until my alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, rousing me for my shift at the West End farmers’ market. After last night, I have nei
ther the interest nor the patience to deal with Rick and a bunch of cranky customers, but if this latest romantic debacle is any indication, my wants don’t exactly rank high on the universe’s “To Do” list.
“There she is,” Heidi says as I approach the tent, which she and Rick have already pitched. She tugs at her green-and-white knit hat. “You look terrible.”
“Thanks.”
“Sorry. You just look . . . tired.”
“That’s probably because I didn’t get any sleep last night.”
“No?”
I wave her off. “Long story. Do you need help with that crate of rye?”
“Nah.” Heidi manhandles the big, black crate, then thinks better of it. “Yeah, actually. Could you grab the other side?”
I help Heidi and Rick unload the bread off the truck, noticing that Rick is in a particularly quiet mood this morning, which feels like a gift from the Almighty. As we arrange the bread and pastries in baskets, Heidi casts sideways glances in my direction, as if she knows there is a juicy story behind my intense under-eye circles and ratty hair.
“So . . . what did you do last night?” she asks.
I heave a sigh. “I had a date. Okay?”
“Seriously?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“It’s hard not to, given your track record. You wouldn’t even go for a drink with Drew. Who’s the lucky guy?”
I stack a pile of pumpkin muffins inside a deep wicker basket. “Do you remember the guy we ran into the night I lost my job back in December? The one at Bar Pilar?”
