Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Raya
It’s all going according to plan.
The preliminary interview was above average, his resumé had no typos, and a few well-crafted sentences stood out. Our first meeting for coffee checked the boxes.
So now, I’m halfway through my second trial date with Justin.
After about a half hour, he excuses himself to take a call. On a normal date that would bother me, but because he and I have this understanding—I’m fine with it.
It’s exactly the way I want it. It feels like this could happen here, in the restaurant, or at the office in one of the meeting rooms.
Zero feelings activated. It’s perfect.
I use the time he’s gone to send a few work emails. While this date is semi-important, it is cutting into my Denim and Diamonds work time. With the event coming up next month, there are a ton of details to manage.
I stifle a yawn as I scan an email from Jill with a list of tasks.
In addition to the fundraiser and holiday preparations, our team is also interviewing for three different positions in the HR and PR departments, which means the stack in my inbox is reaching new heights.
Once I get through this season—once we finish just a few of these projects—I’ll be able to breathe again.
Maybe if I keep repeating that to myself, it will become true.
But I thrive on this, right? Stress is my love language.
My last job as a corporate headhunter was a lot more cutthroat than this job. I thought I’d run that company one day. But the thought of seeing Rich every day after his move to the Chicago office was just too much.
When I met Rich, he lived and worked in our Seattle office. He’d fly into Chicago once a month, and we hit it off. I swore I’d never get swept up in romance after my only other serious relationship ended in disaster, but Rich had his charms.
I’m embarrassed to admit I fell for them.
And him. Hard.
We dated for months. I started thinking about words like forever and I do. We looked at engagement rings and dreamed about the day when we weren’t long distance anymore.
And then, one night, we were out to dinner, and a woman walked up to the table, glared at him, and called him by name.
Then, she looked at me and asked who I was. I fumbled a reply, my brain not really computing what was happening.
Rich muttered something like, “I can explain,” but I’m not sure which one of us he was talking to.
Then, she showed me a picture of their children.
They had children.
The crazy thing is she wasn’t mad at me. She felt sorry for me, knowing this man had betrayed us both.
Ugh, the number of times I’ve replayed that moment. The look on her face as her fears were confirmed. I wonder what she saw on my face when I realized the truth.
It was humiliating. And Rich had the nerve to try and talk his way out of it.
How could he do that? How could he turn me into a cheater?
Me.
Someone who never even used the answer key for the even-numbered questions in the back of the math book.
I’ve never told anyone about that day. Not even when Eloise fell for her boss, who was dating one of my friends. I should’ve been more understanding, but I couldn’t say any of it out loud. I was too embarrassed.
Or too proud.
I reported him to HR, and as these things sometimes go in male-dominated businesses, all he got was a slap on the wrist and a “write-up” in his file, whatever that meant.
And later, a promotion.
Which is one of the myriad reasons I’m not working there anymore.
Just thinking about it makes me break out in hives, so I force myself to think of something—anything—else.
I glance down at my text messages and see I’ve missed on from Poppy:
Poppy
Hey! Come over! Impromptu game night! I’m making those little meatballs you love so much!
Ray, you coming?
RAYA! PLEASE CONFIRM RECEIPT!
I don’t know why I think all caps would be louder over a text.
I smile. I can see her and Eloise in the kitchen, bantering back and forth.
Raya
So sorry, just seeing this. I won’t be able to make it because I’m on a date.
I quickly turn off my phone and put it in my bag because I know the barrage of incoming texts that are coming my way.
In the past, new relationships have always garnered the same reactions from my sisters. Excitement. Giggling. Then, the questions. Assumptions. Googling. Date ideas.
I have a theory that it’s this exact kind of reaction that contributes to heartache.
Because if I buy into it, everything is heightened.
The relationship is made into a bigger deal than it actually is.
The only approach worth taking is a level-headed one.
Clean, clinical, and planned. Unfortunately, it’s going to take some time to convince my sisters of that.
Justin returns to the table and takes his seat. “I’m so sorry—that was work.”
“You have to go?”
He nods. “Unfortunately, yes. It’s not how I wanted our second date—
I think —meeting—
“—to go. But I can make it up to you. Maybe an extra date next week. I can have my—”
“Assistant reach out,” I say, finishing the sentence at the same time he does. I smile. “That’s fine with me, but it’s okay if it doesn’t happen next week. I’m buried at work too.”
He smiles. He has a nice smile, but something about it doesn’t quite feel genuine.
My first trial date at the coffee shop with Justin had gone well. I’d give it a solid B.
We talked about work and our frustrations with dating.
I explained that I’m not looking for anything out of the ordinary.
I just want someone to make functions more bearable—but also, it’s more than that.
More than just a perpetual plus-one. I’m looking for someone to share my life with—just not romantically.
It felt risky to say it out loud, but Justin seemed to understand.
Tonight, we met at the restaurant after work for our second “date” this week.
The plan is to spend this trial period getting to know each other, to see if our goals align.
But regardless, he’s agreed to come to Thanksgiving dinner with me, which is maybe more of a relief than it should be—it gets really old showing up to all these holiday events by myself.
So far, we seem like we could work together.
It’s not the “wrong way” to date, I tell myself. It’s just a different way. A new way. Or maybe a really old way.
“We’ll get something on the books, I’m sure.” He waves to the waiter and makes a writing motion to indicate we’re ready for the check. Then, he turns his attention back to me. “One more thing, Raya, if you don’t mind me asking—”
I lean back. “Of course.”
“What happens—” He seems to be considering something— “if you fall in love with someone for real?”
“Or if you do,” I say, reminding him that if we do this, we’re in it together.
“Oh, I don’t think I’m made for romantic love,” he says, flatly.
“I’ve tried it a few times. It doesn’t work for me.
I like your approach much better. No feelings, just clear expectations.
I don’t want to be put upon to fabricate emotions when, frankly, I don’t have many, and the ones I do have I’m not sure what to do with. ”
“I have emotions,” I say. “I just—have distracting ones.” And ones I don’t want to have.
He nods, thoughtfully. “Hmm. So, there is a chance you’ll fall in love. It’s not that you’re incapable.”
“I’m choosing not to,” I correct. “I don’t want to fall in love. It never ends well.”
I think about Rich. I have no interest in going through that again.
A cordial, respectful partnership can bring me all the things I want and need. And I can’t be certain, but Justin might be the perfect person to fill that role.
“I think we need to have an out clause,” he says. “Because even though I don’t have the need for love and romance, you might.”
I start to argue, but he holds up a silencing hand.
“I know, I know, you’re choosing not to. But if this is going to have any chance of working the way you want, we need to put it on the table,” he says, addressing all of our expectations.
At that, I nod because it makes sense. “You’re right.”
“So, if in the future you decide that maybe this isn’t what you want after all, we’ll part ways with no hard feelings.”
“And the same goes for you,” I say.
He drums his fingers on the table. “I like you, Raya.”
I check my stomach for butterflies and again, nope. All cocooned.
“I think you’re smart and beautiful, and I could see this working out very nicely.” He tilts his head and looks at me. “But I don’t think you’re quite as emotionally closed-off as you want to be.”
“I am,” I say, firmly. “You’ll see.”
The waiter returns with our check. Justin hands over his credit card and I Venmo him the money for my half. That’s the deal. Fifty-fifty across the board.
I’m not in this for chivalry, either.
After we square the bill, he walks me outside and waits until my Uber shows up to drive me back to the stadium, where my car is still parked. There’s no awkward goodnight kiss. Just a reminder for me to send him my schedule, a polite handshake, and I’m on my way back to work.
It’s all going according to plan.