Apparently convinced I was going to chop off a finger, David sighed and took the knife, cutting board and lime from my grasp. Without looking up from his task, he asked, “So Bennett, how did it go? Did you meet Prince Charming?”
“Nope. But I did meet his brothers the Duke of Halitosis and the Lord of Bad Hair Plugs.”
“Don't let her kid you, Thornton,” Livvie interjected. “Sarah here got herself a date with a promising young attorney-to-be.”
David didn't comment, and instead handed me a lime to go with my shot glass. The three of us clicked our glasses together and performed the age-old rhythm of lick, salt, lick, shot, lime.
Ew. Our faces grimaced and contorted as one.
“So, that Morgan guy finally asked you out?”
David's assumption shocked me and it must have shown by the look on my face.
“Yeah, I figured.” David poured another finger of tequila and downed it without the benefit of a tangy lime distraction.
“How did you know?”
“I'm a guy. Guys know guys, and I know Morgan.” David replied as he rose and turned his chair over, placing it upside down on the table's surface.
Preparing the floor for a good sweep and mop, I followed my friend's lead as I questioned his odd statement. “You haven't even met Morgan.”
David paused in his actions, pinning me with his gaze. “Doesn't matter. I know him.”
Turning to Livvie he asked, “So, changing the subject, how was the rest of the evening?”
“The highlight was the special guest appearance by Ryan Corruchi.”
Even David was surprised by that piece of news. “Ryan showed up? My, my Sarah, you just had all the boys clamoring over you tonight, didn't you?”
My cheeks burned with a touch of shame that I didn't quite understand and after a few minutes more of idle chatter, excused myself to go upstairs to bed, leaving Livvie and David to clean up. The goal of the evening had been to meet men, and yet my success somehow sounded like an insult when coming from David's mouth.
* * *
The Saturday after the party at the diner arrived despite my every effort to mentally stop time.
In defeat, I'd spent the entire week blocking out everything and everyone outside the looming date circled on my calendar. My uncle called numerous times to discuss the appraisal Caryn had prepared – a very lucrative number – and talk about possible financial arrangements. A realtor colleague of Caryn's had also called to set up dates to go shopping for houses. Livvie kept calling me to ask when I was going to meet her at the gym. David and Eddie had flown back to their respective lives, but even their e-mails to check in went ignored.
The only person I couldn't ignore – as the evil fates would have it – was Morgan. Since making a good impression on my boss included actually showing up for work, Morgan and I spent every moment following the singles party dancing awkwardly around each other. We were professional enough that Frank never picked up on our odd behavior, although in my opinion, anything short of our prior active hostility wouldn't hit his radar. I was suspicious, though, that Gloria might have picked up on the shared hesitant smiles as we watched each other out of the corner of our eyes. If she thought something was going on, though, my friend kept it to herself. Perhaps she had adopted a “don't ask, don't tell” motto as the result of her own budding romance with Jeremy.
Finally, though, the night of the Big Date arrived. Applying a final coat of lipstick in the bathroom, all I hoped was that it would be more successful than my first post-Ryan date two years earlier.
I cringed at the memory that time hadn't begun to dull.
Some people need to contend only with sweaty palms, but that wasn't enough for me. I was forced to wear a turtleneck sweater on the date because I had broken out in full-body hives. Unattractive, rash-like blotches that appeared as a side effect to my nerves. The more blotches appeared, the more anxious I got which caused yet more blotches until I was practically a walking circus freak.
That evening, after the date was finally over and Greg walked me to the door and planted the perfunctory good night kiss, my only two thoughts were “Whew, I survived that hurdle,” and, “Where is the calamine lotion?”
Needless to say, with passionate feelings like that, Greg and I didn't have a second date.
Since that night, as Livvie often pointed out, my dating life had been fairly bleak. On the rare occasion I did meet someone and was asked out, I generally approached the event with mild regret that I would miss a Friends rerun on Channel 12.
Tonight, though…
I had to admit that my feelings about dating Morgan were slightly different. If I had to put a name to the emotion I was feeling, it might be nervous anticipation. The butterflies in my stomach were definitely not the same ones I felt before arguing a motion I knew I'd probably lose, or those I felt sitting in the dentist office when I knew a lecture on gingivitis was imminent.
Waiting for Morgan, I felt exactly the same as I did on vacation at Disney, sitting on the Tower of Terror just before it plummeted toward the ground. I was unquestionably terrified, but knew in the back of my mind that as scary as the ride might be, it also just might be a hell of a good time.
I checked the clock again. Quarter till six.
“Well,” I said to my reflection, taking a final look in my bathroom mirror. “You don't look horrible.” I was wearing a cute, flippy print skirt and white boat-neck top. The results of my “diet” were still non-existent, but according to the latest issue of Vogue, my choice of a dark skirt and light top should make me look “Ten Pounds Lighter in Ten Minutes!”
I was a little concerned about my hair which might have been a tad too coiffed. Somewhere deep in the heart of this Maine native lived a Jersey girl when it came to big hair and makeup. I fought these instincts on a daily basis, and as a result, my hair contained just enough hairspray so that the look would stay in place, but no so much that I would need medical intervention to remove my fingers from my hair if I touched it at some point during the night.
My cellphone chirped, startling me from my narcissistic view of my reflection. Even more surprising was the name printed on the screen.
“What's wrong?”
“Geez, nothing's wrong, Sarah. I just called to wish you luck tonight.”
David taking time away from his Saturday night to call me before a date was unprecedented. Calling to wish me “good luck” was just downright weird.
“What do you mean, ‘good luck’?”
“Just that. Good luck,” he said, adding absolutely no clarity. “So tell me, do you need any help figuring out your strategy or are you all set?”
“Strategy?” I was now officially confused. I thought for certain I had mentioned my date to David, but he clearly had my plans confused. Maybe he thought I was going to trivia night at one of the local bars?
“Yes, Sarah, I want to know your strategy.” He sighed, slowing down his speech as if I were a small child or particularly simple adult. “I mean, Morgan is your goal, right?”
“My goal?” I moved to the couch and plopped down. The mental stamina it was taking to decipher this conversation had suddenly sapped all of my strength.
“Sure. You want to be in a relationship by your thirtieth birthday. It's been months now, and Morgan has been your only hot prospect. You need to move in for the kill.”
Perhaps David was in the midst of having a medical crisis.
“Move in for the kill?” I asked, my mind wandering to the segment on the Today Show I'd watched that morning about the early warning signs of a stroke. “You don't smell burnt toast by any chance, do you David?”
“Stop repeating after me Sarah. And, no. I'm not having a stroke. I watch the Today show, too, you know.” The sharpness of his tone made me wonder absently if perhaps I was the one experiencing cognitive deficits.
“Well, what am I supposed to think? You're saying ludicrous things, David.”
“What am I saying that you consider lud
icrous? You set a goal for yourself and Morgan is a tool you can use to meet that goal.”
Wow. While I supposed David's statement was technically accurate, the way he'd phrased it sounded so cold and tactical.
My silence must have clued my friend into the fact that he'd really hit a nerve as he started down a different road, “Look, Sarah, there's nothing wrong with putting a plan into effect to meet a goal, right?”
“Yeah…”I hesitated, as any good attorney would, sniffing at the bait of a trap about to be sprung. “I suppose that's true.”
“Okay, then. You have a goal. You have a tool at the ready to help you meet your goal. That brings me back to my original question. What is your strategy in utilizing this tool?”
I brought my hand to my temple, rubbing the headache that was beginning to form. “Look, if I continue with this discussion, will you at least stop referring to Morgan as a tool?”
“Only if you insist.”
“I insist.” I then collapsed bonelessly against the back of the couch, deciding to humor my friend. “Let's just pretend for a minute that I should have a strategy. To meet my goal. What do you think it should be?”
“Well,” I heard the creaking of David's expensive leather armchair through the phone line, signaling his shift of position as he considered my question. “Here's the thing, Sarah. You're a pretty straightforward girl. I think you should be honest with Morgan.”
I hadn't realized I'd been dishonest with Morgan up to this point. “What exactly am I supposed to be honest about?”
“I think you should tell Morgan about your goal to have a boyfriend by the fall, and that you'd like it to be him.”
“Jesus, David! You can't be serious.” My friend had clearly lost his flipping mind.
“I'm very serious. Why shouldn't you tell Morgan what your intentions are?”
“Tonight is our first date.” I responded, shocked that I actually had to spell it out. “First dates are for getting to know someone. Finding out if you have anything in common. Seeing if you're compatible. Getting serious about future plans on the first date goes against every rule of dating I've ever heard.”
“And these dating rules have served you well up to now?”
Ouch. That kind of hurt.
Of course, it was also kind of true.
“Sarah, you already know Morgan. You know you have things in common and are compatible.” David paused, giving my brain a moment to catch up with his logic. Forging ahead. “He asked you out, right? You didn't pursue him or even show any interest the night of the singles party. It's not like he doesn't want you to take an interest in him.
“Maybe so, but there's a big difference between being interested in someone and asking that person to be your boyfriend,” I countered.
“I know I'd be thrilled to find out a girl I liked wanted to be my girlfriend,” David said, perhaps a bit wistfully.
“Really? Even on the first date?” I tapped my finger on the edge of the arm rest, considering.
David's confident tone left little room for doubt. “Absolutely. The sooner the better.”
“I just don't know…”
“Think about it, Sarah. I'm a guy and therefore can speak to you as a member of your target audience. Besides,” he lowered his voice and went for the jugular, “have I ever steered you wrong?”
“No,” I admitted. David's advice was the gold standard.
“Then go for it. Be aggressive. Tell Morgan what you want.”
“Okay.” While still unsure, I had to admit to David's point that following my old dating rules hadn't worked out so well in the past. What was the saying about insanity? Doing the same thing and expecting a different result was insane? Maybe David was right and I should change my tactics to tell Morgan what I really wanted.
Happy to have gotten his way, David abruptly changed the subject. “So, is Livvie there to supervise the wardrobe?”
“Nope. She's been banished to her own home tonight. She's devastated that I wouldn't agree to let her come over here and tart me up properly.”
“Why did you banish her?”
“It was just a little creepy. Morgan's picking me up here and if Livvie was here, it would have felt too much like Ma Ingalls sending Laura and Almonzo off to their first barn dance.”
The silence spanning the phone line reminded me that most straight men didn't understand my frequent Little House on the Prairie references. I noted to keep Laura back in the big woods for the rest of the evening and translated. “I thought it would be awkward to have Livvie here acting like my chaperone when Morgan arrived.”
“Gotcha.” I barely heard the word over the sound of the doorbell, marking Morgan's arrival.
I leapt up and brushed the wrinkles from my skirt. “Gotta go. He's here. I'll talk to you soon.”
“Let me know how it goes.”
“I'll give you all the details.” I assured my friend.
“Um…” David hesitated. “Maybe not all the details.”
I laughed, realizing there were some things that even honorary big brothers probably didn't want to know. I said one final goodbye, returned the phone handset to its cradle and passed the mirror for one final inspection.
As ready as I would ever be, I crossed the room and pressed the button that would allow access to the downstairs entrance. “Come on up!” I yelled, having told Morgan – as I told all of my guests – to come by way of the building's side door which had a buzzer access. As the only other entrance to my apartment was through the diner and up the pantry stairs, when on a date I tried to avoid traipsing guests through the grease pits of the diner.
“Hi. Come on in.” I opened the door to the apartment and ushered him across the threshold. Morgan was wearing his generic office attire – khaki pants and a button down oxford. While he looked very nice, I somehow found myself disappointed that he hadn't chosen a more casual outfit – like the one I'd seen him in at the singles party. Ever since that night, I had been having very inappropriate thoughts about every man I passed that just happened to be wearing a grey Henley.
It was most disconcerting, and beginning to be quite awkward.
“That's the first buzzer I've seen in Portland,” he commented. “I felt like I was on an episode of Seinfeld for a minute.”
“There aren't that many large apartment buildings in Portland, so there's not much of a need for them. This building has one for deliveries to the diner.” I explained, and then we both fell silent and simply smiled at each other.
God, the first few moments of a first date were always so awkward. It didn't help that I had David's advice swirling in my head, making me wonder when I should put my ‘strategy’ into action.
“You have a nice place here.” Morgan's voice rescued me from my musings only to find that once again in time of stress my manners had failed me. I should have offered to show him around.
“Would you like to take the ten cent tour?” I offered belatedly, desperately trying to remember whether I'd put my wet towels in the hamper, rather than hanging them on a convenient doorknob as was my usual habit.
“Sure. I'd love to see the place.”
“Well, it shouldn't take long. This is the living room and kitchen.” I gestured to the small counter jutting out from the wall, separating my couch from the small nook that held my refrigerator, sink, and two-burner stove. Two barstools were tucked underneath the counter which doubled as my kitchen table. If I planned to entertain more than a few guests at a time, a need for elbow room meant asking Jeremy permission to use the diner downstairs.
And then I saw it.
Lighting up the room like a lavender beacon.
I wouldn't have to tell Morgan about the list of things I wanted to do before I hit thirty. The list, which I'd forgotten to remove from its pretty perch on the refrigerator would be able to tell him, itself.
Leaping across the room, I grabbed the offensive item, flinging refrigerator magnets in every direction, and shoved it in the freezer. Draping my
body against the door, I asked casually, “Would you like something to drink?”
“Um, no. Problem?”
“What? That? Oh, no, no. That was nothing.”
“Ooookay.” Morgan dragged the word out, making the point that he hadn't been fooled, but was willing to let it go.
For now.
As he walked around the couch, taking time to peruse my book, DVD and music library, I was hit by another wave of insecurity. My music wasn't edgy enough. My books too bourgeoisie. And I knew, as the tour led to my bedroom, that he secretly judged me for my “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” box sets.
“This is nice.” He commented, walking into the room and peering through the doorway and into the bathroom beyond. I followed him, relaxing slightly as I noted the fresh towels hanging neatly next to the sink.
Morgan crossed to my dresser and looked at the three framed photographs I kept there. “I love looking at pictures.” He sheepishly admitted, picking up the largest of the frames.
“Those are my folks.” I explained, although the resemblances probably made it unnecessary. Mom was the picture of elegance on her wedding day in a white halter top gown, and small puff of tulle atop of her Jackie O-inspired bouffant. I was sure that my father had never looked more handsome than he did that day standing in his blue wool police uniform, beaming with pride at his young bride.
“They made a very attractive couple,” Morgan said, reverently putting the frame back in its place. “And they have a very attractive daughter.”
Oh my. I prayed that my nervous blotching problem had resolved itself in the last few years.
“That's a picture of Jeremy and my father at their retirement party.” I blurted, rushing past the compliment and pointing to the second, 5×7 photograph. “And there's David, Eddie, Livvie and me at my law school graduation.” Morgan picked up the third picture frame and studied it carefully.
“You mention David quite a bit, but I haven't heard much about Eddie. What is he like?”
I took a moment, considering a way to describe the Thornton brothers. “Let's just say that when I wanted a fake ID in college, Eddie's the person I called and he came through. When I got caught with it, I called David.”
Next Year I'll be Perfect Page 12
