15. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
Speed dating is still a thing. Yesterday, Carmen handed me a flyer advertising “Bon Appétit Brunch” at a French café in my neighborhood, for which she so kindly signed me up.
If the event were being held anywhere else, I would’ve stayed home.
Convenience is an excellent motivator to get me out of my apartment.
The dating rounds last eight minutes, and I’ve entertained three potential suitors at my table so far.
The first two spoke in innuendos, and the third man is wrapping up a long-winded answer to my simple question about what he does for a living.
I nod along, pretending to understand computer acronyms while smothering my yawns.
On a positive note, my coffee date from a few weeks ago is here, looking like a deer caught in headlights.
Based on his table partner’s animated hand gestures, he’s getting a detailed explanation of the many, many tattoos on display.
I look forward to what’s-his-name landing at my table.
He needs a pep talk. I need a break and a drink refill.
The brunch part of the evening consists of mimosas and Bloody Marys with sliders and tater tots speared on plastic swords, not a crumb of French cuisine to be found. I’ve opted for a pink lemonade spritzer, minus the alcohol.
A whistle signals the end of the current round.
The software engineer bolts from his seat, and a guy with shaggy brown hair and baggy clothes takes his place.
The new prospect’s name tag says Gavin. With green eyes and a prominent nose, the name suits him.
It’s the bushy mustache above his luscious lips that has me rolling my eyes.
“You’ve made a career of impersonating people, but this is a bit much.”
Graham smiles and sets his glass of whiskey on the table. “You say that like we’ve met before.”
“Are you also here to explore your options?”
“I thought you might need a wingman.” He glances around the room. “Have you got your eye on anyone? I spoke with the guy in the blue suit earlier. He’s a prick, but the one in the brown sweater seems nice.”
The redhead he’s referring to at table three looks our way and tosses me a flirty wink. My upper lip curls. This event may be a mixer, but he’s disrespecting his current date by being nice to me.
Graham tips his head toward the last table in our row. “What about him?”
I scrunch my nose. With that many muscles, I’d bet the guy never leaves the gym unless he needs a hit of fresh air. “Too bulky.”
“And his bald head is a no-go. Nothing for you to sink your fingers into.” That comment earns him a smile, one he returns.
I bring my straw to my lips, then remember my drink’s empty and abandon it. “Why do you like this game?”
“Because I get a kick out of watching you squirm.” He waves a hand to catch the server’s attention and points to my glass.
Whenever Graham and I would go to bars or restaurants with friends, he’d ask what I thought of other men and which physical traits appealed to me. On the rare occasion I found someone worthy of a second glance, he’d simply grin and move on to the next target.
“There’s nothing wrong with appreciating the beauty around us,” he says. “I’m confident in where I stand. Even if your eyes wander, your body knows who it wants.”
“You have a crippling case of MVP.”
“Am I wrong? You’re not falling in lust at first sight because someone’s attractive.”
I raise my chin higher. “Maybe I’m searching for an instant emotional connection.”
He throws his head back and laughs. I miss the sound of it. Easy, lazy, but always genuine.
“Darling, it took you months to admit you love me. If anyone can seduce you emotionally, I’ll buy them a bottle of the finest whiskey.”
“Good to know my love is only worth the price of liquor.”
“Your love is priceless. The liquor will get him drunk and up my chances of winning a fistfight.”
My fingers go slack around the empty glass. “You’d fight for me?”
“Why do you think I’m here?” The tenderness in his gaze strikes deep, instantly locking me inside his orbit, my favorite place to be.
When a server delivers my fresh drink, neither of us acknowledges him. Graham and I are the only two people in the room. Content in our bubble, I sip my spritzer while he spins his whiskey glass on the table.
I hate the contacts he’s wearing. They hide his beautiful amber eyes.
And the shaggy wig is a surprising choice.
He’s never liked wigs. Prolonged pressure against his scalp gives him a headache.
Loud noises and alcohol make his headaches worse, which explains why he’s spinning his glass instead of drinking from it.
Clearing his throat, he says, “You look nice tonight.”
I run a hand along my orange silk jacket. “Thank you. This color reminds of the heliconia plants in Costa—”
The whistle blows. Graham flinches before forcing a smile. “Be gentle with the next one, darling. He seems nervous.”
As he slides out of the chair and joins the person at the next table, I give his new friend a sidelong glance. Anyone who wears a long-sleeve polo shirt without a corporate logo isn’t a threat to me.
A man with sweat dotting his brow drops into Graham’s vacated seat. “Oh, thank god. Someone I know.”
I slide a napkin toward him. “Hello, Preston.”
“You remember my name.” His eyes nearly pop out of his head. When I point to the tag on his shirt, he blushes and dabs his forehead with the napkin. “Right. So…it’s good to see you again. I like your jacket.”
My skin prickles, feeling the force of Graham’s stare from several feet away. Perhaps he gets jealous after all. And after he crashed my dating event, I’m in the mood to test theories.
Giving Preston my undivided attention, I plant my chin on a fist and stir my drink in a coy fashion. “The navy plaid brings out your eyes. I prefer it to the red you wore last time.”
He puffs out his chest. “Thanks. I tried on seven shirts before I left my apartment.”
Anything my table mate says next goes in one ear and out the other. Graham’s exaggerated country drawl overpowers all the voices in our vicinity.
Flexing all ten fingers, he says, “I like ’em soft and pliable. If they have a sharp tongue, even better. Spoil him rotten and punish the brat. That’s my motto.”
I’ll kill him. How dare he bring me into his subpar one-man play? When he looks my way and smirks, I mouth “asshole.”
Choosing to ignore Graham for the rest of the night, I turn to the man sitting across from me. He’s bright red and gawking at my ex like he hung the fucking moon.
I peek at his name tag and slap the table. “Preston!”
He jumps. “Sorry, sorry.” Leaning in, he shields his mouth with a hand. “Do you think I have a chance with that guy?”
Mama Mary, please send help.
I rub my temples. “It’s an act. Honestly, I don’t think he has a genuine bone in his body. Even his mustache looks fake.”
Preston caves in on himself, his broad shoulders hunching and shrinking before my eyes. My guilt hits hard because I recognize the reaction. Insecure people like us cower when there’s nowhere to hide.
Speaking quieter, for his ears only, I lean in and say, “We all deserve someone genuine, Preston. Don’t settle for less.”
From what I’ve gathered, most of tonight’s speed daters are looking for a steady hookup.
They’re either tired of the club scene or need to establish some kind of personal connection before dancing the horizontal tango.
Preston, however, strikes me as someone in search of love. I doubt he’ll find it here.
Over the next hour, I try paying attention to the visitors at my table.
I fail miserably, keeping one eye on Graham and the people he chats with.
They all fall victim to his charms. Every single one of them.
And I might cause a riot if the flirt in the purple crop top doesn’t rein in those fluttering fake lashes.
When the rounds come to an end, I hand my scorecard to the host. I’ve checked “no” by each name, including Gavin the Fake. None of the candidates have earned access to my contact information. On the bright side, I spy Preston leaving with the guy in the purple shirt, both of them all smiles.
Discreetly, I search the venue for Graham. He’s gone, and disappointment barrels through me like a tsunami. The eight minutes we spent in our bubble were the highlight of my week, and I’d give anything for eight more.