Chapter 6
The Dead Fish Handshake
Andrew
I sit at the candlelit table for two, nerves wrecking my insides over this first date with Ted.
Choosing what to wear had been a nightmare. I eventually settle on a white button-down and my nicest pair of dark jeans. I feel underdressed, but at least this guy will know what he's getting.
Please, please let Ted look like his photos.
The restaurant's heavy oak door groans open, admitting a slice of the evening's cool air and a silhouette against the street's warm glow. The silhouette resolves into a man, and as his eyes sweep the candlelit space, they find and hold mine across the room. Ted.
Relief washes over me, quick and sharp. He's no catfish.
The man approaching my table is exactly as advertised: tall enough that he has to duck slightly under the low-hanging lamp by the entrance, his skin carrying a sun-kissed bronze.
His brown hair is cut short, neat, and his shoulders—broad as the doorframe he just passed through—hint at the solid build beneath the dark button-down shirt.
Every step he takes toward my table seems to eat up the floor, his presence filling the space between us with an undeniable weight.
I'm far from disappointed.
And he's arrived early, which is a huge plus.
"Well, hey there," Ted says, flashing a smile that reveals perfect white teeth. His hair practically gleams in the dim lighting. His jawline looks sharp enough to cut glass.
The relief of seeing Ted exactly as advertised must have short-circuited my brain, because the words tumble out before I can stop them. "It's a relief to see you look like your photos."
His smile doesn't falter as he extends a hand across the table. "Well, I appreciate the honesty."
His fingers close around mine, and the disappointment is immediate, a visceral shock that travels up my arm.
The handshake is a betrayal of everything his confident appearance promised.
His grip is damp and limp, like holding a dead fish.
It's all I can do not to wipe my palm on my jeans when he finally releases me.
My mind drifts unbidden to Vince's handshake—firm, sure, drawing me in with its quiet strength. Ted's is none of those things. His sweaty palm lingers against mine.
"It's nice to meet you in person," Ted says, wiping his hand on his pants before we both sit down.
Wait, are my hands the clammy ones?
No, it's definitely his. A slick, unwelcome moisture that clung to my skin like a second, unwanted layer. He must be nervous.
I slide my palm along the crisp white linen beneath the table, the fabric absorbing the dampness in a desperate gesture. My fingers curl into a fist, the rough texture of the napkin a small anchor against the slick memory of his touch.
"So, Andrew, where are you from?"
"Uh," I say, thrown.
I blink, the question catching me off guard. My profile clearly states I'm from Alaska—right at the top.
I decide to give him the benefit of the doubt. "Alaska."
"Oh!" Ted's thick eyebrows shoot up in pleasant surprise. "For real? That's crazy. What brings you out here?"
Ted hasn't read my profile.
How many dates has he gone on today? Can he not keep everyone straight? I sigh, taking a sip of my water to collect myself.
"I'm so sorry," Ted says quickly, his voice a little too loud in the intimate space. "Did we talk about this already?"
"No, we didn't," I reply, my tone measured. "I came out here in hopes of pursuing yoga as a career."
A subtle shift in Ted's expression, a faint tightening around his eyes, reads as disinterest, a shutter closing just enough to block me out.
"I know, I know. It's already oversaturated," I add, the words tumbling out in a rush to fill the void he's created. "There are a million reasons not to, but it's what I want to do, so I'm doing it."
His gaze drifts, scanning the restaurant's warm, wood-paneled walls as if searching for a conversational life raft. "Does that pay well?"
"I'm not sure," I admit, a knot of discomfort tightening in my stomach. "I imagine not. It's not about that."
His eyebrows draw together, a single line of confusion etched between them. "How are you paying your bills, then?"
The question hangs in the air, intrusive and presumptuous, prying at the carefully constructed walls I've built around myself.
"Quite frankly, that's not really any of your business," I say, my voice cool. "We haven't even ordered drinks yet, Ted."
A beat of silence stretches, thin and brittle, before Ted bursts into laughter, the sound sudden and jarring. "Damn. I came in way too hot, huh?"
A small smile touches my lips, the tension in my shoulders easing just a fraction. "Just a bit."
His grin is boyish, disarmingly so, and for a moment, I see what drew me to his profile. I sigh, crossing my legs beneath the table. Maybe it's just nerves. He's younger than me, a few years shy of my usual type.
"Can I please start over?" he asks, a hopeful note in his voice.
"Yeah, you can start over."
"Should I order us some drinks? What would you like? Wine? Beer? Cocktail? You seem like a cocktail kinda guy."
"I don't drink alcohol," I say simply, the words flat.
That look of disinterest returns, sharp and unmistakable this time, as if I've just admitted to collecting stamps or having a third nipple. "God, you're no fun. Why?"
I lean forward slightly, my voice dropping to a near whisper. "Are you seriously asking me that right now?"
His expression remains blank, a vacant canvas.
I roll my eyes. "Personal reasons," I say, the finality in my tone leaving no room for further inquiry.
Alcohol and my depression don't mix, a fact reinforced by the medication I take. But that's a confession for another day, another person, certainly not for this man across the table.
"Okay, forget I said that. I'm starting over a second time." Ted takes a deep breath, running a frustrated hand through his perfectly styled hair. The raw nerves radiating off him are almost palpable, and I have to bite back a smile.
He tries again. "I'll order myself a wine and get you a tea?"
It's almost funny, in a painful sort of way, that someone so physically perfect could be so socially awkward.
Usually, I'm the one stumbling over words, my mind racing to catch up.
Was I really making this man nervous? The thought is a strange mirror, reflecting back a version of myself I rarely see.
"A tea would be nice. Thank you," I say, deciding to extend a bit of grace.
We talk over dinner, finding common ground in our love for the beach.
Ted is a realtor by day and a surfer whenever he can steal away.
He completely lights up talking about surfing and the best beaches in the area, which becomes the main topic of our date.
I can't help but appreciate his passion for the water. It's something I can relate to.
Ted admits he's never tried yoga, but he listens politely while I talk about it. I mention some of the beaches I've been scoping out for an outdoor group session I want to record. He recognizes a few of them, and is delighted to share his favorite photogenic spots with me.
I try steering the conversation toward running, but the second I mention waking up at six every morning, I lose him.
Ted lives his life without goals or timeframes to worry about. Surfing seems to be the only thing that matters to him.
He is so incredibly carefree. I can't wrap my head around how someone can live like that and survive in this city. I wonder if money is simply not a concern for him.
Despite the disconnects and differences between us, the rest of the dinner goes smoothly. Ted's charm is easy to lean into with a bit of patience and some stepping out of my own boundaries.
By the end of the night, I've secured a second date with someone I've met on a dating app for the first time.
I tell myself relationships take time and effort. It isn't all about instant attraction that blinds you to the other person's faults until infatuation fades.
Ted seems real.
We arrange to meet again next week, dinner on the beach in Malibu.