8 Blast from the Past #2
A Saturday night study of my past chats revealed what I already knew – I wrote nice guys off too soon.
For example, I had stopped replying to a perfectly sweet guy because he insisted on having a phone conversation instead of texting.
I couldn’t remember why, but I guessed it must’ve seemed like too much trouble at the time.
Another chat had been abandoned after the guy had responded to my courtesy ‘How’s it going?
’ with a 200-word long essay about his current well-being.
It’s not that I dated assholes – I stopped doing that after Mr You-Know-Who. But I didn’t pick the good ones either, believing them to be too vanilla for my taste. In fact, I couldn’t have gone on a date with more than five nice guys in the last three years. Today, I was meeting one of them.
Ajay and I had met about a year ago over a lunch date, and I had decided within the first thirty minutes that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
There was nothing wrong with him, other than the fact that he was too nice.
He was a perfect gentleman who brought me flowers, opened doors for me and insisted on dropping me home later.
Even when I continuously bailed on him after our first date, he didn’t show an ounce of disrespect or bitterness towards me.
He resorted to silently liking every new post I put up on Instagram and occasionally responding to my stories.
If anyone deserved a second chance, it was him.
‘So, first date 2.0, huh?’ I said, greeting him with a light hug.
He had picked a quaint Italian restaurant in Champa Gali, one that V and I had been meaning to visit for a few months.
‘I hope this one leads to a second,’ he said, returning my hug warmly.
The first thing I noticed when I sat down were the customised menu cards, napkins and coasters on the marble-top table. Mine had A.K. meticulously calligraphed in black ink.
I opened my mouth to say something but couldn’t find the right words. My fingers drew circles over my engraved initials on the cloth napkin.
‘Wow,’ I finally said, ‘this is …’
‘I just wanted to do something nice for you,’ he said when I didn’t complete my sentence.
He looked nervous, like he was trying to assess if he’d gone overboard. I forced myself to give him my sweetest smile, and he visibly brightened.
‘It’s amazing. No one’s ever done something like this for me,’ I said, then added, ‘especially on a first date.’
‘Well, you’re worth it. I would know, I spent weeks thinking about you after our date last time,’ he said, his dark cheeks flushing at the divulgence.
Ajay was a textbook good-looking guy. He was tall (not as tall as the giants from the Chauhan family though), dark and really quite handsome.
He’d had a thick, well-groomed beard the last time we met, which he had now shaved off to reveal a dimpled right cheek.
He wore a printed white and blue shirt with black chinos and leather loafers.
‘Welcome, Ms Ananya and Mr Ajay. You are our special guests for the evening,’ a well-spoken waiter addressed us at our table.
That’s when I noticed the restaurant looked awfully devoid of customers. Besides the staff, we were the only two people I could spot.
Had he booked the entire place just for the two of us?
I pushed the idea out of my head, deciding that it was better if I presumed otherwise.
We placed our respective orders from our personalised menus and resumed chatting after the man had left.
‘So, still with that men’s magazine?’ he asked.
‘Website,’ I corrected, nodding at the same time.
‘How’s it going? Any exciting projects coming up?’ he asked, looking genuinely interested.
I told him about the Best Man idea and how I hoped it would shape up over the coming month. He asked me question after question, leaving no opportunity for a lull in conversation to arise.
‘What’s going on with your work?’ I asked, trying hard to remember what he did.
‘Ah, it’s the same. Markets crash, markets rise … no big deal,’ he said and shrugged.
No wonder I’d forgotten. Stock markets vehemently bored me.
Nevertheless, I let him tell me more about his office and the kind of work culture he hailed from, which was poles apart from mine.
We talked all the way through the main course, without pausing to appreciate the spectacular presentation of the dishes we’d ordered.
The waiter appeared at our side to clear our dishes. He was followed by another guy who set down a gorgeous two-tier strawberry cheesecake on our table.
‘Oh, I don’t think we ordered this,’ I said, ignoring the sugary goodness that was already exploding on my taste buds.
‘I got it made for you,’ Ajay said shyly, ‘since you couldn’t find your favourite dessert on the menu last time.’
Wow, I thought, this guy has really gone all out.
The waiter served us a slice each of the wiggly delight, before bowing out.
‘How is it?’ he asked me as I took a bite, his eyes sparkling with eagerness.
‘It’s … unbelievable,’ I said, not knowing if I was referring to the dessert or the gesture.
Don’t freak out, Annie. It’s just cake.
‘I hope you don’t mind me asking … but why didn’t we meet again after …?’ he trailed off, uncertain how to broach the subject of his previous rejection.
I cleared my throat to buy myself an extra moment. ‘I think I just wasn’t looking for something substantial at the time … and you seemed like you were.’
‘And now?’ he asked.
I couldn’t get myself to commit to a yes, but I bobbed my head in response. His face lit up.
‘You didn’t have to go to all this trouble … I mean, this cake is big enough to feed a whole wedding,’ I exclaimed.
‘You’re worth it,’ he said for the second time that evening.
Don’t freak out. He’s just extra nice.
I shifted in my seat, unsure how to respond. I must’ve had an odd expression on my face because he threw his head back in a soft laugh.
‘Okay, okay. No more grand gestures,’ he said. ‘I promise.’
I sighed internally and managed a small smile before excusing myself to go to the washroom. When I returned, he was standing in front of the table, talking to a bunch of men dressed in red and gold band uniforms.
‘… leave it,’ I heard him say as I approached.
His smile faltered when he saw I was back.
‘What’s going on?’ I asked, looking from him to the five young musicians.
At that, one of the men strummed his guitar, and the other four began to count down from three.
Before I knew what was happening, they brok into an a cappella number I was too stunned to identify.
I shifted my gaze to Ajay, who was cupping his forehead with one hand and was too embarrassed to look at me.
The group remained unfazed by the lack of enthusiasm their audience displayed.
After what seemed like a few years, the song dissolved into silence.
The man with the guitar waited a few seconds for applause, and after realising there wouldn’t be any, asked me if I had any other special requests.
It was official. I had freaked out.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said to Ajay, bending down to pick up my cross-body bag from the couch. ‘This just … isn’t going to work.’
‘Ananya, this is all a misunderstanding,’ he said, lunging forward to take my hand in his. ‘I swear, I was trying to cancel this whole thing.’
From the corner of my eye, I could see the musicians looking at each other in confusion, trying to communicate telepathically. Should they stay? Should they leave? Or … should they just sing?
I withdrew my hand quickly and hit him with my least favourite cliché. ‘It’s not you, it’s me.’
I knew that was a lie, of course. It was definitely him.