Chapter 10
I’m on a date.
Well, technically not yet, because he’s not here, but still.
It’s hours after my walk with Miles, and I’m on a date.
The thought sits sideways in my mind, and I try not to linger there. It’s the kind of thing that’s better if I just do it,
like jumping into a cold lake. If you think too much about it, you’re bound to chicken out.
I’m wearing ankle-length, slightly flared jeans, my favorite neutral Nike tennis shoes, a simple black top, and a khaki-colored
trench coat, and I’m standing on the Ogden Slip dock on the Chicago River near Robert’s Pizza waiting to meet a man named
Roger.
Who I’m hoping won’t be a kerplunk.
I’m not pre-judging him, but when I got home from my walk, I read the messages between Roger and Miles/Minnie-pretending-to-be-me.
I wondered if this counted as some twisted version of catfishing but decided that since I’d signed off on the communication,
it’s okay.
Mostly because the entire exchange started with Miles/Minnie writing: I prefer to get to know each other in real life rather than over text messaging. Would you like to get together Saturday?
Forward, but hey, it worked.
It meant that Roger didn’t get any false information about me. It also meant that I know almost nothing about Roger except
that he’s recently divorced, has two daughters, and included in his profile lots of pictures of himself with different hockey
players that might be impressive if I had any idea who they were.
Now, as I shift my weight back and forth on the riverwalk, stopped near a sandwich board sign with the menu for Robert’s Pizza handwritten on it, I pull out my phone to look at the photo one more time.
Roger isn’t the kind of guy who would turn a woman’s head.
But in my experience, sometimes those are the men most worth knowing.
Like Miles said—this is just practice.
I blow out a held breath and look around the riverwalk. There are boats in the water and a few diners willing to brave the
chilly spring weather scattered around the tables and chairs on the restaurant’s outdoor patio.
I glance at my watch. The tour starts at 1:30 p.m. and it’s 1:29. I scan the area again, wondering if maybe I got stood up.
I pull out my phone and see a text from Minnie:
Minnie: Date day!! Let me know how it goes.
I text back:
Claire: If he doesn’t show up in the next sixty seconds, he’s late, and you know how I feel about people who are late.
“Claire?”
I look up and find Roger standing in front of me. He’s wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian print shirt, khaki pants, and white
tennis shoes with the thickest soles I’ve ever seen.
“Uh, yes, I’m Claire,” I say. “Roger?”
He gives me a little bow. “At your service.”
My eyes dart around the riverwalk, and I laugh to myself, but when Roger stands up from his bow he stumbles, and I reach out
a hand to steady him.
“Oopsie,” he says. “Lost my footing there.”
Oopsie?
“I think the tour is about to start,” I say. “Should we go in?”
“Yes. I’m starving!” He starts walking, and I have to jog a few steps to catch up. When we reach the door, he opens it and
walks in, letting it shut halfway on me.
It’s fine. Maybe he’s not into stereotypical gender roles. I’m perfectly capable of opening my own door.
Inside, I pause in the doorway to look around. The brick walls and wood-planked ceiling are a modern industrial style. Small
tables line the window looking out over the river, and there’s a long bar with tall, wood-backed chairs running parallel to
them.
Roger is standing near the hostess stand. He looks flushed and a little sweaty, and he doesn’t say anything to the young woman
at the stand.
I frown. “Are you okay?”
He scrunches his face. “I might’ve had a little too much to drink before I left,” he says through gritted teeth, holding up
his thumb and forefinger on the word little.
I lean in closer. “Are you . . . drunk?”
He shakes his head. “No. Pssh. What? Noooo, not drunk. Just needed a tiny bit of liquid courage.” He reaches out and his beefy hand lands on my shoulder.
“I haven’t done this in a really long time, and you’re just so pretty.”
My eyes dart over to the hostess, who gives me a stunned but sympathetic look.
I glance back at him. I guess I understand where he’s coming from. Sort of. But this was an ill-advised way to handle the
nerves.
“I’m fine.” Roger waves me—and what I assume is the double of me that he’s seeing right now—off. “Cup of coffee, and I’ll
be fine.”
“Are you sure?” I ask. “We can reschedule this.” Or not.
“No! No, no, no, we already got the tickets, and you look hungry, so—” He slams a hand down on the hostess stand, and I flinch.
“We’re here for the tour!” he says, much louder than necessary. He gives a thumbs-up to the woman behind the stand, who is not three feet from us.
“Uh, sure, follow me,” the woman says.
She leads us through the restaurant, back to a section where several small tables have been pushed together to form one long
one. A group of people are already seated, and a tall, lanky guy stands to greet us when we walk in.
“Hey, guys! Here for the tour?” he asks.
I look over at Roger. He’s blinking so slowly I wonder if he’s trying to stay awake.
I look at the man and plaster on a smile. “Yes. Here for the tour.”
“Great, we’re just about to start.” He motions for us to sit down, and when we do, Roger nearly misses the chair. He catches
himself—barely—and I wince, fire rushing to my cheeks.
I grit my teeth. Minnie is my flesh and blood, so I won’t kill her. But Miles?
Miles is getting pushed off the rocks.
I resist the urge to tell everyone at the table that this is a first date and this man is essentially a stranger to me. Instead,
I give the tour host my full attention.
“Welcome, everybody! My name is James, and I’m your host for the very best walking pizza tour in Chicago. I’m going to tell
you a little about the history of different pizza places here in the city,” James says. “You’ll get to taste four of my favorite
Chicago pizzas in four very distinct styles, starting with the brick oven, thin-crust artisan pizza of Robert’s.”
As if this is a play they’ve rehearsed and that was their cue, the waitstaff appears with several pizzas, which they set on
the tables in front of the group.
I glance over at Roger, whose chin is resting on his hand, and I know there is no way this man is going to make it walking
around the city for three and a half hours.
I lean across the table. I have to whisper-shout his name twice to get his full attention. “Roger. Roger? Are you sure you’re—”
He burps and covers his mouth, and the woman next to him shoots me a look. I try to apologize to her with my eyes, when Roger
picks up a plate and hands it to her. “Hey, can you get me two slices of that one down there? The one with everything?” He
motions to a pizza at the other end of the table.
The woman slowly takes the plate, glances at me, and I look away, pinching the bridge of my nose.
All I hear on a loop in my mind is kerplunk.
Roger looks at me. “Aw, c’mon, sweetie. Don’t tell me you’re one of those women who doesn’t eat.”
I feel like an animal trapped in a corner.
“No, I eat,” I say, trying to stay as sweet as possible.
He looks at my plate. “Then why is your plate empty?”
“I was waiting for other people to get their food,” I say, biting back the words, which is the polite thing to do.
The woman next to him hands his plate back, and he doesn’t say thank you. “You know what they say, ‘God helps those who help
themselves.’”
God never said that, I think to myself.
I draw in a breath as Roger takes a huge bite of pizza. The waitress comes around with water, and he grabs her arm. “Can I
get a beer? Is that allowed?”
“Of course, sir,” she says. “We have several beers on tap—”
He cuts her off with a loud “Nah—Bud in the bottle is fine.”
I take a slow, steadying breath and take a slice of pizza from the pan and set it on my plate.
“So,” Roger says. “You’re divorced.”
I’m mid-bite when he says this—not quietly—and I cough a little as I chew. “Uh, yes. I am.”
“Let me guess. He found someone better. Ain’t that always the way?” The waitress hands Roger his bottle of beer, and I really wish she didn’t. The last thing this man needs is more alcohol.
“Uh . . . your profile said you work with a hockey team?” I say, desperate to change the subject. “What do you do with them?”
He looks at me condescendingly and mutters, “Oh, babe, it’s not anything you’d understand,” he says, mouth full. “I’m divorced
too. Married for nineteen years. She kicked me out last month.”
Last month?! This guy should not be dating if his marriage just ended a month ago.
“Said she was tired of doing everything alone.” He scoffs. A chunk of pizza falls out of his mouth. “Kept talking about socks
or something on the bathroom floor, dishes in the sink, who knows. Like, I work all day. Right? And I gotta come home to that?
Nah. Better off. More fish in the sea, right?”
He drops the half-eaten slice of pizza onto his plate. “Excuse me, Eileen, if I forget to pick up my socks once in a while.
I’m forgetful. She knows that.”
And then—because just when you think a date can’t get worse, it absolutely will—Roger starts crying.
The other people at the table stare at him. James stares at him. I stare at him.
And Roger starts sobbing.
He’s quiet at first, muttering something about how he “promised to do better if she’d just take me back and let me try again.”
But the sobs get progressively louder.
“Roger, maybe we should go outside for a minute,” I say. “Just until you, uh, get ahold of yourself?”
He covers his face with his hands, shoulders shaking, and lets out what I’d call a wail.
The others at the table are either looking away, like they don’t want to impose on this private moment Roger’s having—or looking
at me, like I’m supposed to do something.
There’s just one problem. I have no idea what to do. I don’t know this man.
I lean a little closer, and in my kindest, most nurturing voice, I say, “Hey, Roger, why don’t we take a little time-out?”
It’s like I’m negotiating with a toddler.
In response, Roger looks at me. “She’s dating a guy named Geoff. Did I tell you that? Plus he spells it like the stupid way
with a G! Is your name Jeff or Gee-off?! What does Gee-off have that I don’t have?”
I’m imagining so many things . . .
“I don’t know,” I say, realizing there’s no way I can sit here and keep eating while he’s having a literal meltdown at the
table.
There’s a long, awkward pause. James moves in his seat, and I wonder if he’s worried how the other people on the tour are
going to review this experience.
Finally, I shift into a different gear, clap my hands in front of Roger, and say, “Okay, Roger. That’s enough. It’s time to
get it together. Come on. Time to get your big boy pants on.”
He stops moaning and looks at me. His cheeks are stained with tears, truly the epitome of pathetic. He drags the back of his
hand across his face, wiping his nose.
I think of how unsuitable I was for company during the first few months after John moved out, and I’m overcome with sympathy
for him.
“We’re going to stand up and walk outside. I’m going to call you an Uber, and you’re going to go home and sleep this off.”
I stand up, fully aware that everyone is watching. “Let’s go.”
Miraculously, he does exactly what I say, and a few minutes later we’re standing on the street waiting for a driver named
Sheila to roll up in a black Toyota Camry.
While we wait, a still teary Roger looks dejected and slightly embarrassed.
“Look,” I say. “You shouldn’t be dating right now.”
“But she’s dating—”
“Right,” I say. “But you need to give yourself some time to get over this. Hang out with friends. Play video games. Watch
dumb movies. Eat junk food.”
“Does that really help?”
“Absolutely not.”
He looks up and chuckles.
“You’ll feel like crap,” I say honestly. “But eventually, you’ll get tired of feeling like crap. And then maybe you can figure
out how to make yourself better. Get a hobby. Find some friends. Change your life.”
He looks sheepish.
The irony of me giving this pep talk is not lost on me.
The black car pulls up, and I open the back door and help him pile in.
“I’m really sorry, Kate,” he says.
I nod ruefully. It’s a perfect end to this date.
“It’s Claire.”
“Oh, right.” He nods. “Claire. I’m sorry, Claire.” He over-enunciates my name, then his eyes flutter closed.
“Roger,” I say, one hand poised on the door.
He looks at me.
“For heaven’s sake, pick up your socks.”
Claire: NEVER AGAIN.
Minnie: Oh no! What happened with Roger?
Claire: You don’t want to know.
Minnie: I absolutely do.
Claire: He showed up drunk and sobbed at the table. About his ex.
Minnie: He WHAT??
Claire: I called him an Uber after twenty minutes and told him to pick up his socks.
Minnie: His socks?
Claire: Long story.
Minnie: OH NO! Okay, I’ll confer with Miles. We’ll do better next time.
Claire: See screenshot of above text with NEVER AGAIN circled in red.
Minnie: Ignoring you.
I’m really bummed you didn’t get to do the walking pizza tour.
Claire: Oh no, I did the tour.
I went back inside, and everyone at the table applauded me for handling a bad first date like a boss.
Minnie: Yoooo! Go Mom!
Claire: And we all swapped bad first date stories and bad breakup stories, and it ended up being a really fun day.
I got to walk around downtown Chicago and made some notes about things I want to come back and see later.
WITHOUT A DATE.
Minnie: So what’s the verdict on the pizza?
Claire: Oh. Deep dish all the way.
Minnie: That’s the correct choice.
We’ll eat it together when I’m back from England.
Claire: Can’t wait. Xoxo