6. Anika #2
The question hits harder than I expect. Do I?
Most nights, I’m too exhausted to think about it.
I fall into bed after closing, sometimes still smelling of beer, and sleep until it’s time to do inventory or place orders.
The days blur together in a rhythm of work that leaves little room for reflection.
“I have the pub,” I say. “I have customers I see every day. Old Herr Ziegler, who comes in for his afternoon beer. The hiking guides who stop in after tours. The seasonal workers who become regulars for a few months before moving on.”
Like certain hockey players…
But even as I say it, I realize these aren’t real relationships. They’re transactions wrapped in pleasantries. No one asks how I’m really doing beyond the polite “ Wie geht’s ?”
“The worst that happens is you get a night off,” James says reasonably. “You work too much.”
“It’s not just that I’m busy with the pub. I’d be terrible at a setup. Seriously! You know how I am.”
“What do you mean?” Ivy asks, rubbing her belly absently.
“I’m…” I search for the right words. “Intimidating, apparently. That’s what Lisa told me after your wedding, when I asked why none of the groomsmen talked to me. Too direct. Too opinionated. Too…much.”
James chuckles. “You did tell my cousin his speech went on too long.”
“It did! Twenty minutes about your rugby days? Come on.” I roll my eyes. “See? This is what I mean. Guys want someone sweet and agreeable. I’m the woman who tells them their fly is down or their opinions are wrong.”
“The right person would appreciate your honesty,” Ivy insists.
“Right. Because men love when women correct them about whiskey brands or call them out when they exaggerate their skiing abilities.” I set my cup down with a decisive clink.
“Every guy I’ve ever said three words to gets this terrified look when I even so much as look their way.
You’ve heard of resting grump face? I have resting I-will-drop-kick-you face. ”
Ivy bursts out laughing. “Maybe what you need is a dating coach.”
“A what ?” I blink at her.
“You know, like in that movie. James, what was it called? The one with the woman who kept having awful dates?”
James groans good-naturedly. “That terrible romantic comedy you made me sit through last Christmas? Dating Doctor or something equally ridiculous?”
“Yes!” Ivy snaps her fingers. “She hired this coach to teach her how to be more dateable. It was hilarious.”
I stare at them both. “You’re joking, right?”
“Of course I’m joking,” Ivy says, still chuckling. “Though honestly, you don’t need a coach. You just need practice.”
“Right,” I mutter.
Ivy reaches across and squeezes my hand. “One dinner. Just the four of us. If it’s terrible, I promise to never try setting you up again.”
“And I’ll let you leave early if you give me our secret signal,” James adds, demonstrating by tugging his earlobe.
I laugh despite myself. “You two are impossible.”
“Is that a yes?” Ivy asks hopefully.
I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s the champagne from earlier, or the peculiar vulnerability of having just confessed my complete lack of romantic experience, but suddenly the idea doesn’t seem quite as terrifying.
“One dinner,” I agree reluctantly. “But if I tug my ear, you better come up with an emergency.”
Ivy claps her hands together. “Deal!”
“I’m already regretting this,” I groan. “Can I change my mind? I’m changing my mind.”
Ivy shakes her finger at me. “No takesies-backsies. You promised.”
“You somehow tricked me into this,” I protest. “I was emotionally vulnerable after watching you unwrap seventeen onesies with ducks on them.”
James chuckles, gathering our empty mugs. “If it helps, Thomas isn’t even moving here until next month. And he’ll need time to settle in, find his flat, that sort of thing.”
“How long?” I ask, suddenly feeling like a death row inmate who’s just been granted a temporary stay of execution.
“Probably about six weeks before we’d do the dinner,” James says, heading toward the kitchen. “So you have plenty of time to prepare.”
“Or panic,” I mutter.
“Or prepare,” Ivy corrects, her voice firm. “And don’t you dare use that time to come up with excuses. I know all your tricks.”
I sigh dramatically. “Six weeks of anticipatory dread. Wonderful.”
“Six weeks to practice not scowling at men who try to talk to you,” Ivy counters with a smirk.
“I don’t scowl,” I protest. “Okay, maybe a little.”
James returns from the kitchen. “Look at it this way. If it’s horrible, you’ll have a funny story to tell the regulars at S’Holzfass.”
“Great,” I say sarcastically. “Old Herr Ziegler will love hearing about my dating disasters while he nurses his afternoon lager.”
Ivy shifts on the sofa, adjusting her position to accommodate her belly. “Just promise you’ll actually show up. No last-minute pub emergencies.”
“When have I ever…” I begin, then stop myself when I see her knowing look. “Fine. As long as the pub isn’t literally on fire, I’ll be there.”
“That’s all we ask,” James says with a satisfied nod.