Chapter 3
three
I guess trusting my friends with my love life was how I had gotten to this point, sitting at a table and checking my watch again to make sure I had the time right.
Fifteen minutes late.
So far, I was really starting my twelve blind dates before Christmas—when I was set to go home with Gina to where we had grown up—with a bang.
And this one wasn’t even an actual date.
It was a practice date with Gina. Though it wasn’t out of character for her to be running fashionably late, I was feeling more than a little frustrated with her at this point. I could be home right now, being productive.
Or at least, I could be home with a late-night tea, attempting to be productive before turning on another episode of a reality dating television.
There was one show right now about finding a last-minute date before the holidays. It felt a little too pertinent to my own love life, but at least I wasn’t broadcasting it.
It was nicer to make fun of others attempting to find love rather than recognize that you had basically been set up on your own version of embarrassing relationship challenges by somewhat friends, who stood you up.
I sighed, wondering how bad it would be if I checked my email another time.
I had a good feeling about that last job that I’d applied for yesterday.
It was a staff writing position at a small art magazine that usually posted online and through a quarterly publication about local hot spots.
They just had to reach back out to me. Other than the fact that I was new to the area and still hadn’t explored farther than my own neighborhood block, I was perfect for it.
Or I hoped it was.
I opened my phone and texted Gina.
Where are you???
No response.
There wasn’t even a tiny Read check mark that told me she’d glanced at it.
Unlike me, Gina had come alive since we’d moved to the city.
I wasn’t naive enough to think things would go back to the way they had been in high school—when we spent entire summers in each other’s bedroom, daydreaming about living in New York and having grown-up jobs and grown-up apartments.
We’d grown separately for almost half a decade, and now …
well, we were still best friends. But we were trying to figure out how these slightly newer, more independent versions of ourselves fit together again.
Some days, when it was just us in our cramped apartment, eating bodega ramen and laughing about the guy upstairs who rollerbladed at midnight, it was like no time had passed.
But then there were weekends, when she slipped on her slim black gallery dress and left for openings, full of wine and collectors and people who talked in breathy tones about “negative space,” and I felt a little unmoored.
Waiting to be pulled into the current again.
Waiting for Gina to lead, like she used to.
Once, as she’d lined her eyes with a precision I could never match, she’d glanced over at me from the mirror and said, “You should come sometime. To one of the gallery things. Think of the story you could write. Beef up your portfolio a little. You could even meet people. I could help you design a business card even.”
“For what business?” I’d asked.
But she’d had a point.
My portfolio was … fine. Mostly padded with college newspaper clippings and the rare personal essay I had managed to get published on niche online sites that paid in “exposure” and vague compliments. A glittery gallery profile might give it the shine it needed.
Still, instead of getting dressed, I tapped open my email. Again.
Nothing. Not even a polite rejection today—just the usual promotions about going back to school to pursue a new online degree.
What liars.
Been there, done that. And all I had to show for it was an expensive piece of paper, folded neatly into my Important Documents folder, buried beneath expired leases and an emergency contact form from a job I hadn’t even gotten.
I checked the time. I would give Gina two more minutes. Maybe three. Then I was leaving.
The server—some poor guy with boy-band bangs and the awkward energy of someone who felt obligated to care—kept glancing my way like he wasn’t sure if he should offer me water or emotional support.
Eventually, he made his way over. “Hi there.”
I smiled.
“Are you still waiting for someone?”
We both looked at the empty chair across from me, the full glass of untouched water, the ring of condensation slowly bleeding into the red tablecloth.
“I don’t think I am,” I said, offering another tight smile. “But I figured I’d give them another minute.”
“Would you like a drink or anything while you wait?”
I opened my mouth. “No, I’m—”
“I’d love a drink, thank you,” came a voice that wasn’t mine. Deeper. Confident. Familiar.
I blinked.
Across from me, a tall form slid into the chair. It definitely was not Gina’s petite frame. But there was something familiar in the tight curls, the smirk.
Josh.
Gina’s older brother—the walking contradiction of charming grifter and accidental philosopher we thought he’d become over the past few years. He had Gina’s hair, but none of her restraint when it was called for.
The server, unfazed, whipped a small, laminated menu out of his apron like he was used to odd entrances.
Josh’s grin widened like he’d just been handed a prize. “Ah, thanks. Do you guys have any of those ridiculous holiday drinks happening yet?”
The server didn’t blink. Just handed him another slimmer menu with a practiced nod.
Josh scanned the list with exaggerated focus. “Let’s see … we’ve got a Jingle Bell Martini, a Snowy White Russian …” He looked up at me and raised an eyebrow. “Have you ever tried a Cinnamon Sleigh Ride?”
“I don’t think I’m the target audience.”
“That’s exactly why it’s brilliant.”
I stared at him, still trying to figure out what exactly was happening here even though it was clear. Gina had put him up to this, hadn’t she?
“I’ll have the Red-Hot Santa-tini. Or is it Santini?”
“Either works.” The server suppressed a smile before he turned to me, pen still poised. “Would you like anything?”
“Oh, I, uh …”
“Go on. Get something,” encouraged Josh with a sharp nod, pivoting the holiday menu toward me.
God, they really were absurd holiday drinks.
“I’ll have the Pomegranate Spritz,” I ordered. It sounded like the most normal option, listed in swirling font.
“I’ll be right back with those.”
He smiled casually, like showing up in his sister’s place on my first blind-date practice run was a totally normal thing. “Hey.”
“Hi,” I replied.
Without missing a beat, Josh shrugged off his coat and settled into the seat across from me like he did this sort of thing all the time.
“What are you doing?” I asked, blinking at him.
“Taking off my jacket,” he said, glancing down as if to double-check that, yes, that was indeed the action he’d just performed.
“No, I mean, what are you doing here?” I clarified, trying not to sound like I was panicking.
“Gina got caught up.”
My phone buzzed before I could ask what that even meant. I grabbed it like it might hold the answers to the universe.
Sending my bro to meet you. I’m so, SO SORRY. Big work things are happening! I can’t wait to tell you about everything. Don’t be mad.
I looked up slowly from Gina’s message, trying to process the fact that my best friend had officially lost her mind.
Josh sat there like this was the most natural thing in the world, completely unbothered, taking in the mismatched chairs and fairy lights strung across the ceiling. He didn’t even look guilty.
Why Josh? She was supposed to meet me. She knew this was a trial run, a warm-up before the real blind dates began. Why would she send her brother instead?
Not mad. He’s here. But a bit of notice would have been nice.
It’s better anyway. You should practice with a guy before the real thing. Also, you and Josh are making the apartment weird.
Great. So, she’d noticed.
The weirdness between Josh and me had reached observable levels. It looked like she’d decided to fix it in the most chaotic way possible. I hadn’t thought Gina had a passive-aggressive bone in her body. Guess I was wrong.
But Josh was helping with rent.
The rent. The very wonderful, no longer full-priced rent.
If I repeated it enough times, maybe I wouldn’t freak out.
I exhaled, letting go of the text exchange and turning my focus back to the tall, just barely disheveled man across from me. He was inspecting the quirky, over-the-top restaurant decor like it was a museum exhibit. Like he had all the time in the world.
Stop. Stop it.
He noticed me watching and flashed another grin.
Since when did he smile so much?
“So,” he said, “I’m your practice date?”
“Apparently.”
“I figured you’d be out or working tonight,” I said, trying not to sound like I’d spent the day rehearsing real conversations for someone who was not him.
“Nope. Open schedule,” he said, then went on, “Been exploring a bit. Seeing friends. It’s been nice actually—just … staying still for a while.”
I tilted my head. “Since … two years ago?”
His smile faded just slightly, settling into something softer. “About, yeah.”
The server reappeared with our drinks, setting mine—a fruity something in a wide wineglass—in front of me. But Josh’s? His looked like it belonged in a sci-fi cocktail competition.
It arrived in a martini glass with a rim of cinnamon sugar. The server grinned as he pulled out what looked suspiciously like a fancy water gun. With a press of the trigger, a shimmering bubble floated out and landed perfectly atop Josh’s drink.
All the nearby tables turned to stare at the performance we’d ordered.
Josh watched the spectacle with boyish delight. Then, without hesitation, he poked the bubble, and it collapsed in a puff of cranberry-scented smoke.
“Whoa,” he said, grinning at the server. “That’s awesome. Thanks.”
“Enjoy,” the server said, vanishing like a magician after a trick.
I stared at the glass, equal parts impressed and confused. “Wow. That was … something.”