Chapter 7
Olan: Mr. Block, thank you again for understanding about Noelle. Illona was all smiles. I truly appreciate it. And you. Have a great weekend.
Standing outside The Purple Giraffe, waiting for Vincent M., I send up a short prayer; Lord, I hope he at least resembles his profile photo. Not because I am particularly lusting after that picture, but I’ve read horror stories of meeting someone online only to have a completely different person show up to the actual date. Honestly, I’m uncertain how I would handle such an encounter. ‘Um, well, hello, you, um, look nothing like your photo. Let’s have some overpriced food together.’
Of course, who am I to judge? My profile picture looks like it was taken from twenty feet away, in a dark room, with Vaseline spread on the lens. My rationale for allowing Jill to use that horrible picture – after meeting me in person, I’ll present as an upgrade.
Feeling anxious and restless, I fidget with my phone. Rereading that text from Olan Stone and not replying. I’m fairly certain his text doesn’t require an answer, but also not sure if ignoring it would be rude. Being impolite to a handsome man cannot be tolerated. He texts me regularly at this point, at least every few days, which isn’t entirely uncommon at the beginning of the school year or for a new student’s parent. I’m also starting to wonder if he has any friends locally. It’s not my business to know or care, but the amount of communication makes me curious. Does he want to be my friend?
Being friends with parents of students isn’t something I usually entertain, but other teachers do it all the time. Many teachers, especially those with children of their own, often socialize with families in the community outside of school. It isn’t beyond the realm of possibility. But I honestly can’t imagine why Olan Stone would want to be my friend. He knows nothing about me beyond my role as his daughter’s kindergarten teacher.
“Marvin?”
As if on cue to save me from perseverating, Vincent M. strolls up. Thankfully, he looks exactly like his profile photo. With a shiny shaved head, Vincent gives me serious Mr. Clean vibes. It’s actually quite sexy. Scrub away, sir. His green eyes sparkle when he spots me, and I could bounce a nickel off that harsh jawline. A lovely, trimmed beard adds to his handsomeness, and I’m not mad about it. He wears a long, caramel-colored wool coat, fuzzy in a way that makes me want to rub it a little. Would that be awkward? Probably. He bounces up to me with a wide grin and a few solid neck rolls.
“Vincent? Nice to meet you.” I put my hand out for a shake. He takes it and pulls me into a hug. All right, he’s squeezing me, which I’m not upset about either. He smells like a mixture of wood and oil, so come on baby, light my fire. He’s slightly larger than me, probably just over six feet tall, and being wrapped up in the woolly arms of his coat almost melts my icy heart. As I pull away, our faces get close enough for me to catch a whiff of the wintergreen mint he’s sucking on. A slight omen, as wintergreen, much like banana, makes me nauseous.
It may sound strange, but if I were stranded on a desert island and the only way off was to suck on a wintergreen mint, I’d have to consider spending my life alone on the island. Maybe a hunky merman would wash up and rescue me. Or at least sing to be part of my world. Something about the smell, the lilting taste of wintergreen, does not jive with the olfactory neurons in my brain. If Vincent M. hopes for any kissing action, we’ll need to discuss his propensity for wintergreen.
“I’m so sorry about the fake name thing. My friend thought it would be funny,” I say.
“No worries, I get it. It’s a circus out here. Shall we?” He opens the door, and we head in.
A simple place, The Purple Giraffe fuses two of my favorite cuisines: Asian and Mexican. Walking in, I’m hit with a mix of spices I can’t quite put my finger on, but it’s like the best of both cuisines mixing and swirling in the air until they hit your nostrils with a tease of what’s to come. People chat, and a low murmuring permeates, punctuated by clinking silverware. I’m not sure where the name came from. As far as I know, there are no purple giraffes in the wild, but it makes for an interesting logo design. The inside of the restaurant is ample, if not large. There are probably three too many tables smooshed into the space to make room for as many customers as possible, and everything has tones of brown and tan, with purple accents on everything from seat cushions to palm tree wall decals. Vincent chats with the hostess, a woman with jet-black hair and purple highlights (naturally), and I find myself drawn to peek at my phone and the message from Olan Stone. Again.
“Right this way.” She motions us toward a small table near the window. I fumble quickly to pocket my phone, gently wrapping my fingers around the warm screen in my pants. Vincent hangs his coat on the back of his chair and sits across from me, looking up, hope in his eyes, as I touch my phone. I remove my hand from my pocket, take my jacket off, place it on the back of my chair, and sit. Deep breaths, focus.
“Have you been here? The food is amazing. This is one of my favorite places to get takeout. They have this burrito with bibimbap sauce that I order without fail.” My stomach growls in anticipation.
“This is my first time, but I love trying new foods.”
“Right, you had that listed on your profile.”
“Oh yeah, those are silly, but you know, we can’t all only rely on our cute profile pic to sell us,” he teases. Okay, Vincent, I see you.
I offer him a small smile as my ears turn pink behind my mop of hair. So far, this isn’t a horrible disaster. Vincent is attractive and sweet enough, and my red flag radar isn’t wildly beeping. Wintergreen mints aside, Vincent presents as a lovely man. Of course, the night is young, and there’s a reason I stopped dating. I’ll be friendly but cautious.
The server approaches. She’s young, perhaps a college student, with a crisp white shirt and long purple apron. She’s pulled her hair back into a tight, high ponytail and has a patient face. Can she tell we’re on a first date?
“Hello, welcome. I’m Val. Can I get you any drinks?”
Vincent nods at me to order.
“Thanks, I’d love a ginger ale, please.”
She looks at Vincent.
“Sure, let’s see, I’ll have a glass of the Merlot. That okay?” He looks at me, eyebrows raised.
“Sure.” I smile.
“I’ll grab those and come back for your food order in a minute,” Val says and turns to leave.
“Oh, excuse me,” Vincent says to her.
“Would you mind bringing some extra napkins?”
“Oh, sure thing.” She looks confused. We literally haven’t ordered anything to eat yet. We each have a cloth napkin wrapping our table service. Vincent places his on his lap, and well, why more napkins?
“Tell me about yourself. You’re a teacher, right?”
Here we go. Whenever I report I teach kindergarten, reactions usually vacillate somewhere between, “that’s so cute” and “I could never do that.” For the record, yes the children are extremely precious, but teaching kindergarten is anything but cute. It’s challenging and exhausting. There are days I wonder why I keep coming back. But I also find it extremely rewarding, and the idea of inspiring other teachers with the Teacher of the Year program excites me. My stomach pinches, remembering how much Dr. Knorse and the entire school community need this.
“Yeah, I teach kindergarten.” I brace for his reply.
“Oh wow, that must be rewarding.”
Not cute? I’m almost disappointed.
“Yeah, it is,” I start. Val returns to our table with our drinks and two extra napkins. She places our drinks on the table and hands the napkins to Vincent. He stacks them neatly near the edge of the table. What order requires three napkins? I glance at the menu, not to figure out what I want because I will always order the bibimbap burrito forever and ever amen, but to try and discern what might require such a plethora of napkins.
“What about you? What do you do?” Safe conversation ahead.
“I work for a statistical software company,” he says, and my mind races to find a connection.
“I took a statistics class in college. It was education stats, but, well, it was incredibly hard. It was actually the one class I struggled with.”
“You probably could’ve used our software to help,” he says, his lips curling up slightly. I give him a little chuckle for his effort. He’s cute.
“So, how did you land in kindergarten?”
“When I did my student teaching in college, I was placed in a kindergarten class. At first, I was petrified. They were so tiny! But I had a phenomenal mentor teacher who showed me how much fun they can be. When I graduated, it was my first job offer, and well, nine years later, this is a little embarrassing, but I’ve been nominated for the county’s Teacher of the Year, so I must be doing something right.”
“Oh, Marvin, wow, that’s amazing! Congratulations, you must be incredibly proud.”
“Yeah, it was a surprise. The nomination came from a parent, which means a lot to me. I’ll find out about the county results at the end of the month, so just a few more weeks.”
“That’s amazing. I bet your students adore you.” He smiles in a flirty way, and well, Vincent M. is ticking some boxes for me. I’ve avoided dating for so long, and since “pathetic hermit” is not a title I aspire to, at some point I need to dip my toe back into the germ-filled dating pool.
Val comes back to take our order. I order the bibimbap burrito because, if nothing else, I’m reliable, and Vincent orders a bulgogi taco salad… and more napkins. I start to worry about the number of napkins he’s hoarding. Val makes a face like she’s having the same fear and goes to put our order in and presumably jokes with the rest of the staff about the guy stockpiling every napkin in the restaurant.
The temptation to ask him about the extra napkins festers, and I spy my first clue. At the conclusion of each sip of his wine, Vincent takes the napkin from the top of his fresh pile, wipes his face with it, folds it neatly, and discards it to a new stack he’s started on the opposite side of the table. He takes another sip a few moments later and uses a fresh napkin to wipe his mouth and discards the napkin to the “used” pile. He’s very organized, I’ll give him that.
“Well, yes, I like to think they enjoy having me as their teacher.”
“And what about your family?” he asks. My job discussed, it was either going to be family or past relationships, and honestly, I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
“Well, it’s really just my mom. She’s in Phoenix, so we don’t see each other too often, which I’m okay with. Our relationship falls into the complicated category.” I lift my ginger ale to toast.
Picture the stereotypical overbearing Jewish mother. Falling over herself to spoil and dote on her children. My mother threw that idea out with her sobriety when my father left. Twenty minutes after meeting him, I’m not ready to out her as a recovering alcoholic to Vincent.
“Are you okay if I order another?” Vincent raises his empty glass.
“Oh yeah, it’s fine. I mean, as long as you don’t get hammered.”
“No worries there.” He picks his glass up, finishes the remnants, sets it down, and, for god’s sake, takes a fresh napkin to wipe his mouth. At this point, it’s clear that Vincent will not reuse a napkin once it’s touched his face, and I can’t fathom why. The napkins are large and soft, and I’m confident the single napkin lying in my lap will get me through a rather messy bibimbap burrito.
“I’ll take another.” He lifts his empty glass.
On cue, my phone begins to vibrate. I didn’t ask Jill to call and bail me out with an intricated lie about some horrible tragic emergency demanding my immediate attention, so I quickly yank my phone out.
“Everything okay?”
I glance at the screen and see my mother’s face staring up at me.
“Yeah, just my mom. I’ll call her back later. She gets confused with the time difference and tends to call late.”
Val delivers Vincent’s drink and our food, and anticipating Vincent’s request, she places a stack of napkins on the table before he can ask. At this point, he must have seven or eight on his clean pile, which, if his one sip or bite per wipe holds, will probably not be enough for the meal. Watching him take the first sips of his new glass of wine, a whirling sensation kicks up in my stomach. My mother’s drink of choice was red wine. Any red wine. The deep smell of fermented grapes sneaks into my nose, making my head dizzy. As Vincent manages his napkins, the precision and clarity with which he uses, folds, and stacks them might provide some curious entertainment for some but sparks my already festering anxiety. I’m sensing the acceleration of my heart rate and slight lightheadedness coming on. Dismissing myself to regroup seems like my best course of action.
“Excuse me, I need to hit the restroom,” I say and quickly make a beeline for the bathroom, leaving Vincent to straighten his clean pile of napkins.
Once I lock the bathroom door, I sit on the closed toilet seat and put my head between my legs to get the blood flowing to my brain. Investigating the cleanliness of the bathroom floor, I close my eyes and begin taking deep breaths. This almost always works within a few minutes. As I’m parked on the toilet, trying to center myself, the Caribbean beats of Rihanna’s early bop “SOS” blare in my head, and I nod slowly between my knees. The music carries me away to the islands, swaying palm trees, white sandy beaches, cool salty breezes, and, oh look, a shirtless cabana boy bringing me chips and guacamole.
A few moments of Rihanna’s rich, unique voice soothing me and I’m almost ready to return. How long have I been sitting here? It could have been two minutes or twenty, I’m not certain. Surely, Vincent M. has used every available napkin in the place by now. He also probably thinks I have explosive diarrhea. Lovely.
With that thought, I shake my head to halt Rihanna, splash some cool water on my face, and glance at the last text from Olan.
Trying not to overthink, I tap out a reply.
Marvin: You’re welcome. Honestly, it’s my pleasure. Illona is a complete delight. And please call me Marvin.
His text was unnecessary. Sure, it was nice to let me know Illona was happy, but I could have surmised that. And he appreciates me. No, truly appreciates me. Olan’s face. His smile. That gap between his two front teeth. His low, rich voice. It all floods into my mind. Why am I allowing Olan Stone to hijack my date with Mr. Extra Napkins?
I tuck my phone into my pants and swiftly head back to the table.
“Everything okay?” Vincent asks as I sit. He’s clearly asked for and received more napkins in my absence. Val must be mortified but having just dealt with my own struggle in the bathroom, I see Vincent and his growing pile of napkins in a new light.
“When my mom called earlier, she was having a crisis. And by crisis, she couldn’t figure out how to record a show. I was trying to help her. I’m sorry,” I fib.
“No worries.” He smiles, but I’m not sure he means it. He finishes his bite and, yup, another napkin.
“So, I hope you don’t mind me asking, but I’ve gotta know, why all the extra napkins?” At this point, my curiosity gnaws at me like a bunny going to town on a carrot. Clearly, I have my own mental health issues, but I’m curious about how his brain works. Maybe we have more in common than I thought.
“I was wondering when you were going to ask me about that. Honestly, I just like to be clean, and well, fresh napkins help,” he explains like it makes perfect sense for him to stockpile napkins like a squirrel saving nuts for winter. His honesty endears me.
“Oh, got it, cleanliness is next to godliness after all.”
He smiles and it prompts me to confess.
“You know, just now, in the bathroom, I didn’t need to go and wasn’t talking to my mother. I just, well, sometimes I get anxious. Really anxious. I needed a second to catch my breath.”
“Anxious? Because of me?” His eyes widen, and I rush to ameliorate his feelings.
“Gosh, no, not you. More this…” I motion to him, the table, the restaurant. “Being on a date. I haven’t really dated much lately, and our date, combined with my anxiety and ADHD, started to overwhelm me.”
“Wait, you thought this was a date? Kidding. No, I get that. Dating is hard on its own. Guys are, well, confusing. But hey, I appreciate you telling me.”
He offers a sweet smile.
“You know, we’re all dealing with our own stuff, and sometimes I think we try to push it down and hide it.”
Vincent wipes his face, seemingly at nothing, and even with his sexy bald head, angular face and jaw, and that beard, right now he feels more like a friend than a prospective romantic partner. I realize we’re definitely not going to have a repeat date, but he’s a nice guy. He’s been nothing but kind. Maybe the combination of his issues and mine feels like too many damn issues. Doesn’t one of us need to be issue-free or at least with minimal relationship-impacting issues? I’m ready to go home to my sweet Gonzo.
As Val grabs our empty plates and Vincent’s enormous pile of napkins, she asks, “Would you like to see the dessert menu?”
“No, I think we’re all set,” I say.
“Just the check, please,” Vincent adds.
Val brings the check, and before we can discuss it, Vincent grabs the bill.
“Please, my treat, I insist.”
“You’re a sweet man, Vincent. Why don’t you let me get the tip?”
He slides the tray over to me and I leave Val 30 percent because she’s spent the last hour scouring the place for every clean napkin.
Standing outside the restaurant, I’m fairly certain Vincent starts to agree with my better-off-as-friends assessment.
“Well, it was great meeting you. And this place, I’m definitely coming back. Did you drive? Where’d you park?” he asks.
“No, I actually walked. It’s just a ten-minute walk to my place.”
“Can I give you a ride?”
“Oh, thanks, but I actually prefer walking after a meal, but thank you again. It really was nice meeting you.”
“Are you okay with walking alone?”
“Vincent, you are a gentleman. Thank you, but yeah, I’m good. Let’s keep in touch. I can always use a thoughtful friend.”
I lean in for a hug, and there’s an awkward moment when our faces get close, and it confirms – what I think we both feel – there’s just no heat. Down there. A peck on the cheek feels right because even if Vincent isn’t the right guy for me, I’m sure someone will appreciate him. All of him. Even the extra napkins.
“Goodnight,” I say and give him a little wave and turn to walk away.
As I begin my stroll home, I pull my phone out. My heart skips a beat seeing Olan has replied to my text.
Olan: Okay. Marvin. I hope your weekend is off to a good start.
Marvin: Yes, heading home from dinner now. And you too. Hopefully I’ll see you at pickup Monday.