10. Nicole
Chapter ten
Nicole
I hadn’t expected to be dating on this trip, so I did the best I could for my outfit with what I packed. I’m wearing dark wash jeans with a silver tank top under a red cardigan. Olivia scoffs when I come out to the living room in my outfit.
“You look like a librarian,” she says.
“I am a librarian,” I counter. “But what about this outfit says librarian?”
She appraises my clothes for a few minutes, then says, “The sweater.”
I sigh. “Well, it’s too cold to go without it, so you and what’s his name will have to deal.”
Of course, my outfit looks dowdy next to Olivia. Though the youngest, she’s the tallest of the three of us at five feet seven inches, most of that made up of her legs. Her body is athletic and muscular— the kind that looks amazing in any outfit. She’s wearing a black, sparkly romper with a deep V-neck, and a cropped denim jacket over top. Her long, platinum blonde hair is pulled sleekly into a high ponytail. Though she doesn’t often wear heavy makeup, I can tell she had fun with it tonight—her eyes have a shimmery red shadow around them, with lipstick to match. She’s the very definition of glam.
Olivia drives us in her jeep to meet the guys at the restaurant.
“What’s my date’s name again?” I ask.
“Dylan.”
I nod. “And your boyfriend is Brent?”
She laughs. “Brent is not my boyfriend. We’re just dating.”
Got it. “How long have you and Brent been dating?”
She shrugs. “Not very long. I don’t date during the season.” Olivia plays division one soccer at her university, and their season just ended a few weeks ago. She’s a dedicated and talented player —probably one of the only things she takes seriously in her life.
The restaurant is an upscale, trendy place in the heart of downtown Austin. They have valet parking, but between a college student and a librarian, we opt to find our own cheap street parking a block away and walk in.
“Have you been here before?” I ask as we approach the restaurant. The sign on the building reads, “Molecule & Morsel: House of Molecular Gastronomy.” My younger sister definitely tries to stay on trend, but still, this place doesn’t seem to be her style.
“No,” Olivia answers, looking warily at the sign. “Dylan picked it, I think. ”
“Molecule,” I nudge. “Maybe you should have invited Molly instead.”
She cracks a smile as we pass through the front doors. I gaze around at the interior of the restaurant. Against the back wall is a sleek bar with garish gold accents. The walls are wallpapered with a green and white floral pattern, large enough to give the appearance of being inside a jungle. The tables have a simple, rectangular, single pedestal design with white marble tabletops. The chairs are bow back and made of metal painted bright turquoise. The lights are turned low with recessed can lights strategically placed as spotlights on the gold accenting.
We approach the host stand, but before the model-esque hostess can ask us pretentiously whether we have a reservation, we hear an authoritative voice call, “Delaney!”
Olivia lifts a hand in recognition, and we make our way toward our dates. When we reach the table, Brent stands, giving Olivia a kiss on each cheek before pulling out a chair for her. He is tall—well over six feet—with raven hair, beige skin, and eyes so dark, that in the dim lighting of the restaurant, they look almost black. He’s wearing a tailored suit and looks so much like one of those suave city businessmen you see in Hallmark movies that I have to wonder where my baby sister met him. At school? Seems unlikely.
The other man, who I assume is Brent’s cousin and my date, Dylan, stays leaned back in his chair at the table, making no efforts to hide his leering gaze on Olivia’s legs and chest.
“Hi!” I wave. “I’m Nicole. You must be Dylan? ”
Dylan lolls his eyes in my direction, where he proceeds to scan my body up and down for an uncomfortable amount of time before saying, “I dig the hair.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, shaking off the cringey feeling as I sit. Dylan is also wearing a suit, but where Brent’s looks too slick, Dylan’s looks too sloppy. It hangs on his thin frame, the untucked shirt spilling onto his lap like a dinner napkin. He has brown hair, buzzed low against his scalp, and brown, bloodshot eyes.
Olivia and Brent make introductions all around. The guys have already ordered a bottle of wine for the table, and we each have a glass of water as well. I sip mine, grateful to have an excuse not to talk. After twenty awkward minutes of small talk, during which I learn that Brent works for a tech company—“schmoozing” is how he describes it—and Dylan says nothing at all, a server approaches our table.
“Have you been to Molecule & Morsel before?” he asks. Olivia and I shake our heads. “We are a molecular gastronomy restaurant that serves only the most experimental and avant-garde dishes. Our menu changes daily and is limited to three options. Here are tonight’s listings.”
He hands us each a wrinkled piece of what looks like notebook paper that has been crumpled and then smoothed out again. Handwritten in pencil are three lines: foam-infused risotto, molecular ravioli, and Lancashire hotpot with beer-braised cockles.
A smile pasted to my lips, I slide my eyes to Olivia, who looks every bit as uncomfortable as I feel, but is probably doing a better job hiding it .
She raises her eyebrows but politely orders the risotto. That seems safe, so I do the same. Brent opts for the ravioli, and Dylan asks for the “hotpot” with a smarmy wink.
When the server brings our plates, I look down to see a tablespoon of risotto suspended in what looks like green sea foam with a single kernel of roasted corn perched on top. I look over at Olivia’s plate—same as mine—then back to mine, then back to Olivia’s again.
“Enjoy,” the server warns before walking away.
“Is this food?” I whisper across the table to Olivia.
“Uhhh,” she equivocates, scratching her forehead, “so it would seem.”
Just then, Dylan erupts from beside me. “Of course it’s food, you bumpkin!” he bellows, swaying alarmingly far into my space. “It’s science food!”
People at the tables around us turn to stare. One guy even pulls his phone out and holds it up like he’s preparing to record the scene.
Dylan’s close enough now that I can smell alcohol on his breath. Instinctively, I lean away. Olivia narrows her eyes and hisses, “Brent, is your cousin drunk ?”
Dylan leans toward her across the table, his chest pressing down against his plate, smearing food across the front of his jacket. He whispers loudly, “I was pregaming. Brent said not to say anything and just stay quiet.”
“Dude!” Brent protests. “I told you not to be a cockblock!”
Olivia and I exchange a look and simultaneously stand up from the table .
“Don’t worry, you didn’t need his help.” Olivia’s nostrils flare as she glares at Brent. “Lose my number!” she bites out before storming away.
I hurry to catch up, and we burst through the front doors together, flooding onto the sidewalk outside.
Olivia looks at me, wide-eyed and flushed. “Oh my gosh,” she whispers.
I try to stifle my laugh, but a small burst escapes. Olivia snorts, then quickly covers her mouth. My shoulders shake from the effort of holding it in, my eyes watering. Olivia grabs the arm of my sweater, pulling me out of the doorway and down the sidewalk until we collapse against a brick wall, both wailing with laughter.
Choking on the words, I exclaim in faux offense, “He called me a bumpkin!”
Olivia howls. “I didn’t know people still used that word!”
When we finally compose ourselves, Olivia says, “At least we didn’t have to eat that weird food!”
“Science food!” I shriek and we fall apart again.
Walking back to the car, I bump Olivia’s shoulder. “Sorry about Brent.”
She shrugs. “No big loss.”
“How did you meet him anyway?”
“Dating app. It was only our third date. The first two were decent enough.”
I scrunch my nose. “Really? ”
She shrugs again. “I’m not looking for ‘the one’, Nicole. I’m just having fun. But, hey,” she adds, “I’m sorry for making you come out, and about Dylan. What a Dyl-hole.”
I bark out a laugh. “Don’t worry about it. I’m focused on work right now anyway. I’m not interested in dating.”
She’s quiet for a few steps. “Liv?” I question.
“If you say so,” she acquiesces.
When we reach the car, I grin at her. “In-N-Out on the way home?”
“Yes, definitely. I’m starving.”
Lying in bed later that night, I think, if nothing else, at least this experience got me through the seemingly insurmountable hurdle—and least in my brain—of my first date since Steven. It also reminded me what I definitely don’t want in a date. I text Adam.
Nicole:
Any good memes for bad dates?
Adam:
…
The dots disappear and reappear for a while, before he finally sends me a meme featuring Anna Kendrick with a wide grin on her face. It says:
“ I hadn’t had a date in a while, so I went to the grocery store and bought some.”
I groan.
Nicole:
I can actually hear the rimshot on that one
Nicole:
But I meant the other kind of date
Adam:
I was afraid of that. Are you okay?
Nicole:
Yeah, just need a funny meme to cheer me up?
Adam:
At your service
He sends a second meme, this one is a view of a woman’s face with a man’s shoulder in the foreground, showing that she’s sitting across from somebody. Her eyes are wide. The caption reads:
“When he asks me to repeat the fake phone number that I gave him again.”
Nicole:
[smiley face emoji] Thanks, Adam. Night
Adam:
Good night, Nicole