With Oliver around I’m able to spend some time testing new recipes, too, including macarons flavored like jasmine and another like licorice, and even a crêpe-flavored cupcake, inspired by all the Parisian influence and memories I’ve been having lately.
I think Jackie’s interior design company, as well, is helping bring in some business. She’s been giving elaborate Thank You gift baskets filled with The Cup and the Cake treats to her clients; I’ve heard on two occasions that satisfied Interiors By Jackie clients couldn’t get enough of their gift basket goodies. They’re spreading the word to their friends about the treats. I think this year is going to be the best yet! Love life or no love life, this could be my year!
I’m on my way back from yoga class, my hamstrings really sore from the deep stretch I pushed myself to do during wind-down time, when my cell phone rings.
I answer with the speaker function turned on as I pull up to a stoplight.
“Sophie?” John’s voice comes on the line.
“Omigod, John!” I mute the volume of the NPR program streaming through the radio. “What’s up? This is unexpected.”
“How’s my little sister?”
“Well-stretched and ready to dive into a Nicholas Sparks book and a glass of Riesling. You?”
He laughs, the distant-sounding line of his Skype call slightly crackling. “Yoga, huh?”
“I keep telling you, John. You’d feel so much less stressed if you got yourself into a sunrise salute each day.”
“Jean used to do that,” he says, referring to his most recent ex-girlfriend. “Was positively religious about going, but it just isn't my thing. I’m not that stressed, anyway.”
“Yeah. I’m the one who got the stressed-out genes in the family.” I cautiously make the left-hand turn at the yield. “So I’ve got yoga and a romantic night with a book and wine planned, what’s up with you?”
“Anna-Sophia…Anna-Sophie… You don’t have a fancy night out planned?”
“Ha ha. Not everyone can wine and dine a date like you, John-Mark,” I tease, using his hyphenated first name, too, for added jocularity.
“Yeah, well, what can I say?”
John’s been through one date and one hot girlfriend after the other. That, paired with my never-ending singleness, is the sole reason for my mother’s impending mid-life crisis as she stresses herself into a coronary over being grandchild-less.
“If a night out isn’t your exciting plan, Sophie,” he says, “then how’s this?”
My curiosity’s piqued, and I have a slight hint at what’s to come as I bring my car to a slow roll at the stop sign. I do a quick, less than three second check from left to right, then left again, and continue my roll on through the clear intersection.
“I’m coming home in three weeks,” he says.
“What?” I cry excitedly. I knew it! I knew this would be the news!
“That’s right. I’m going to Santa Barbara for a couple days,” he says.
“That’s awesome! Then on back to San Fran? Back to work?”
“Actually,” he clears his throat, “after Santa Barbara I’m thinking of coming up to Seattle for a while. Spend some time with my sis before it’s back to the grind at home. I’ve got some wiggle room between cases.”
“Omigod!” I cry so loudly I think I might have burst my own eardrum, to say nothing of John’s.
“I thought you’d be happy.”
“Happy? I’m ecstatic! I thought I’d be finding time in my hectic schedule to come down and visit you and— This is great!”
“So you’re free? Last week of January-ish? Thinking of staying five days or so?”
“As long as you like!” I insist, so caught up in the euphoria I wait a second too long at the green light and receive a honk from behind.
“Okay, great,” he says as I accelerate forward. “Look, I’ve got to run, but I’ll email you with the plans. And don’t feel pressure to take time off of work or anything when I’m there.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just get on over here!”
“Okay, I’m gonna run. Love ya, Sophie. See you soon.”
“Love you, too, John.”
I disconnect and give a yelp. My love life may be a joke, but life with great friends and family? I can hardly complain.
Not one minute passes before my cell phone rings again. I blindly answer it, speakerphone function turned on. “Miss me so much you just had to call back?”
“Uhh,” the confused voice replies.
“Oh!” I say, immediately realizing it isn’t John calling me back. “Sorry, uh… Who is this?” I pull to the second-to-last stop sign on my way home.
“This is Dean. Sophie?”
Dean, I think with wide eyes. I crinkle my nose, but when I think about how great the new year’s going so far, I decide to perk up.
“Hi, Dean,” I say, forcing myself to sound merry.
“How were your holidays?”
“Oh, good. Yours?”
“Good.”
I suppress the urge to sigh at the small talk we seem to have a difficult time at for the first few minutes of conversation.
“So,” he says, upbeat, “I was calling to see about that date you promised me. After the holidays?”
He wastes no time, I can’t help but think.
“How does this Friday night sound?” he offers eagerly.
I mentally search through my calendar, but I can’t think of anything other than regular work at the café that night. Evelyn will be back day after tomorrow, and with two hands on board (and two fully functioning ovens) I am definitely shy an excuse to bail on a Friday-night date.
I tell him Friday will work out just fine. We decide on a low-key, stereotypical kind of date: dinner and a movie.
Normally I’d protest the movie so early on in a “relationship” since it’s the world’s worst way to get to know someone. But seeing how the date is with Dean I wouldn’t mind some respite after a dinner that I’m sure will be periodically silent and awkward.
“Sounds great,” he says in his usual kind, slightly sugary tone. It makes me feel a touch guilty for thinking so negatively, so I smile and tell him that it does sound great, and I add in that I’m looking forward to it.
You never know, I tell myself. This is turning out to be a fine year so far; maybe the date will be great.
Chapter Thirty-Two
“So, I’m right, aren’t I?” Dean asks. He dabs at his lips with his napkin. “Best hot pots in the ID? And their dim sum? To die for, isn’t it?”
I briefly pan around the packed Chinese restaurant, the Green Garden. Dean insisted it was the best Chinese dive in the International District, and Jackie seconded his high-scoring review when I immediately texted her to get some pre-date advice—is the Green Garden kind of ostentatious, requiring those high heels? Or is it a place a girl could easily go to in a pair of pumps? Turns out the dim sum is delicious, the mojitos are helping me get through the lengthy dinner, and it’s definitely a flats joint, borderline pumps. Perfect!
I cross my legs in the other direction and lightly bounce my foot (yes, it’s clad in a pair of flats). “Very good Chinese,” I reply, bringing the steamed prawn and vegetable pocket to my mouth.
That’s one thing that’s good tonight, I think as I chew the succulent bite.
“I love good ethnic food,” Dean says in between bites. “Especially Chinese food. Asian-fusion, too. Japanese. Sushi! Have you tried the little Vietnamese place around the corner? Pho-Nahm or something like that?”
I shake my head, poking about my meal with my chopsticks, thinking, When will this end?
Dean can’t be having a good time. We have nothing to talk about, not much in common, lots of awkward silence. We really just should have kept our “relationship” to loyal customer and friendly baker at The Cup and the Cake.
“I’m so glad we could do this date before school really starts to hammer down the work,” Dean runs on as I eat in silence. “I think this semester is going to be a
heavy one.” He sighs deeply. “I’m enrolled in this course with Dr. Levitt. Rumor has it he’s a ball-buster.”
The date hasn’t been a total bore forty-five minutes in, I should credit, but it hasn’t been an exciting one.
As is always the case, the small talk with Dean takes a painfully long time to get into a casual rapport, which is really troubling, because before we started dating chit-chat seemed as easy as whipping up a batch of classic chocolate chip cookies. I could do it blindfolded, with little to no preparation; and Dean seemed relaxed enough, too. I suppose the dating sheet that was thrown atop the casual café small talk put the kibosh on that. Now there’s nothing here but awkwardness and silent wishes coming from my side of the table that the date would end before I’d die of boredom.
I talked to Claire this morning about Dean, our early-morning talks becoming less routine and more spur-of-the-moment, which is just a healthy sign Claire’s finding her place in her new home. I used a large chunk of our morning chat time to whine about how Dean and I had a date planned and how I really didn’t feel like going, but that I said I would, mostly because all the girls, including Claire, have been putting so much pressure on me to suck it up.
Her response to my complaining this morning actually threw me for a loop. Claire, usually eager as a beaver to jump into matchmaking mode, told me that after tonight’s date, if I still wasn’t feeling so keen on seeing Dean, I should definitely break it off. She’d said there was no sense in dragging him along if he was interested and I clearly didn’t see it going anywhere. It’d be unfair…to both of us.
I had, to my surprise, defended the stance I’d been coerced into taking for months. “What about getting out there?” I’d asked. “Being active in my dating life? Giving him a chance?” Claire had simply said that after so many chances isn’t the proof in the pudding?
Turns out the proof’s in the hot pots, the dim sum, and the mojito—the liquid courage that’s going to have to help me get through the closing line tonight. I’ve given this a second go, but it’s just not panning out. I’m simply not interested in Dean.
As soon as the date’s through and Dean drives me back to my car at the café I’ll say “Thanks, but no thanks” to that offer of a third date I just know is going to happen. All I have to do is sit here, enjoy my food, which really is quite tasty, and get through to the end. Homestretch is so close I can taste it.
***
“Here’s fine,” I say, pointing in a vague direction in the dark and nearly empty parking lot in front of The Cup and the Cake. I hurriedly reach for my keys, ready to make a dash from Dean’s car.
Calm down, Sophie, I tell myself as the car slows to a stop and idles. You can’t just run off. You still have to say thanks, good night, and, uh, yeah…mention that there won’t be a next time.
“I enjoyed tonight,” Dean says as I open the passenger’s door.
“Thanks for dinner,” I say, purposely avoiding the lie of a matched response.
He shuts off the engine and moves at a snail’s pace as he steps out of his car and walks halfway around it to meet me.
I glance at the café. The front lights are dimmed, and I can see a figure darting about the front. Probably Oliver. I notice his VW bug, and I notice Chad’s truck in the lot, too, parked diagonally, hogging three spaces. I can’t suppress my usual eye roll at his sloppy parking job.
“I wish the movie could have worked out,” Dean says, stepping closer to me.
Immediately nervous that Dean is going to reach for my hand or move in for a kiss, I lead the way to the café. I grip my keys tightly, counting the steps I have until I’m back on home turf safe and sound, ready to tell Dean the bus ends here.
“Yeah, well,” I say in a daze-like way, wondering where that second mojito’s sloshy effects have gone. I swear not fifteen minutes ago I was feeling that liquid courage. Now—I touch my stomach—nothing. Damn.
“You know,” I say with a weak smile, not stopping my stride to the café for a second. “I’ve got an early morning tomorrow,” I tell a half-lie. “Staying out late for a movie would screw me up, and I’d be sleepy all day and…”
Okay, the truth is, Oliver and Evelyn are coming in tomorrow morning, so my needing to be in at five o’clock, as I sometimes am on a Saturday morning isn’t entirely necessary. I’ve got enough help to deal with the busy weekend and, if I really needed to, I’m sure I could hit the snooze button a couple times.
But when you’re at the end of Bad Date Dock and you actually find an alibi, half-lie, or complete fib, you cling to it. Stick to the story. Just stick to the story.
We arrive at the door, my keys at the ready—the café’s key firmly gripped between my thumb and index finger.
“Maybe next time,” Dean says the dreaded words.
I slip the key into the lock and turn it round and round, slowly, stalling as I think of how to let him down easily.
“You know there’s an old movie—Turner Classics kind of thing—going on at the Classic Cinema Circle. If you’re interested?” He drags the word “interested” out, waiting for me to jump on the convo wagon.
“Oh, yeah,” I say, instantly thinking of the kindest stalling response. “My friend Jackie, she went there the other night. Saw some Clark Gable film. Or was it Cary Grant?” I give a false laugh. “I don’t know. One of the oldies but goodies. She said the theater was packed.”
“Then we best get tickets.”
Damn, I curse to myself, pushing the door wide open. Stepped right into that one, now didn’t you, Sophie?
“Tomorrow night?” Dean says, his voice so near I know he’s following me into the café.
I’m about to turn on my heels to face Dean, inhaling deeply—beckoning that lost liquid courage—when I see Chad emerge from the café’s kitchen. He’s wheeling the mop and bucket across the floor. “Hey, Sophie,” he says with a quick nod of the head.
“Hey.” I suddenly feel a new wave of awkwardness wash over.
Dean peers around me as Chad begins to squeeze the water from the mop head. He catches my gaze and says, with a smile, “So, tomorrow night? Sunday afternoon? Sunday night?”
Still stalling, I place my handbag on a nearby table. I take a look at Chad, who seems to be focused on his mopping, but I know he’s all-ears to the conversation.
“You know,” I say to Dean, fiddling with the zipper on my bag.
“How’s this?” Dean walks up behind me, resting a hand on my shoulder. “You name the time that works best for you. The semester’s not started yet, so I’ve got free time until it does.”
Crap, I think, my mind racing for an excuse to delay the date instead of saying what I’d set out to do. No! I tell myself quickly. No, Sophie. You said you’d break it off, so break it off. Of course, that was before I knew I’d have an audience…and teasing Chad of all people!
I look into Dean’s eyes, his hand slowly wandering from my shoulder to the small of my back. “When would you say is best?” he presses.
I can see, from the corner of my eye, Chad watching us. I shouldn’t be surprised, but seriously? Is he kidding?
I feel Dean’s hand wander from my back to my hip. His touch is gentle, almost nonexistent, but it still sends a rush of tingles up my spine. Not the excited, end-of-date, curious tingles—rather the can-this-situation-be-any-more-awkward tingles.
Suddenly, a cell phone rings, saving me or at least buying me some free time from the situation. I know it’s not my phone, the ringer unrecognizable, but I turn to my handbag just the same.
“One sec,” Dean says, fishing his phone out of his pocket. He glances at the screen. “Been playing phone tag with this guy. I’ll be quick.” He moves to the far corner of the café and answers the call.
As relieved as I am for the break in the uncomfortable situation, I know that the end is inevitable. Once that call is concluded we’ll be right back where we were, and I’ll still be lacking any courage to do what I know is the right thing.
I to
y with my bag’s zipper some more and glance over at Chad. He’s shamelessly staring on, a smug look covering his face.
“What?” I say in a low, childlike way, as if saying, “Duuuhhh” on the playground when a kid tells you something you didn’t know, but pretend is so obvious—of course you knew that.
“Nothing,” he says casually, almost cavalierly. The smug look is still apparent.
“It’s not nothing.” I keep my tone down as Dean takes his call. “What? What is it?”
Chad chuckles, pushing the mop in the same soaked spot over and again. “The date’s that bad, huh?”
“The date’s not bad,” I lie.
“If it’s so good then why aren’t you jumping for a chance to go to the movies?”
“Shut up,” I hiss quietly. “And keep your voice down. God.”
“Come on, Sophie,” he groans lowly. “You’re seriously interested in this dork?”
“Dork?” I’m aghast. I gesture to Dean and put my finger to my lips, silently telling Chad to hush.
“Sorry, but just let the guy down already. Put him out of his misery.” Chad flips his head back, moving his hair from his eyes.
“Be quiet.” I glance at Dean again. He’s still wrapped up in his call.
“Admit it, Sophie. He doesn’t light your fire.” He snickers to himself.
“My fire is none of your business.”
He snickers some more as he takes a step forward, mop still in hand. He looks over his shoulder at Dean and whispers to me, “You’re honestly telling me you see something in this guy?”
“Stop it.” I scratch between my eyebrows, breaking our gaze. “You’re being rude. He could hear you.”
“Good. Then at least he’ll hear the truth from one of us.” He rests the mop handle against a chair back and sticks one hand in his paint-splattered jeans pocket. “Come on. Get real. You’re not into him.” He takes two steps closer, leans forward a touch, and whispers, “And you know it.”
When Girlfriends Find Love Page 24
