CHAPTER 4
“Shut up. Just shut up… You had me at homicide.”
—Not Jerry Maguire
The first three dates are… meh.
Drew seemed to like the look of me, or at least the look of my tits.
They garnered most of his attention during our exchange on safe controversial topics like pineapple on pizza (Ew.
No), mountain or beach (No strong feelings on that), and cats or dogs (Dogs…
obviously). None of our answers matched and I couldn’t find it in me to be disappointed.
Stu didn’t like it when I accidentally called him Drew.
Given I’d only heard his name for the first time five minutes before I made the mistake, I feel like the slip hardly warranted the silent treatment he gave me for the rest of our date.
I was this close to flipping him the bird as he stomped over to Laurie’s table.
Well, fuck you, too, Drew—I mean, Stu.
His preference for plaid and the manicured beard align more with Laurie’s preferences anyway, but I hope his personality puts a pin in that before it can become an issue.
And Lee, well, he spent the whole time talking about his first date, Nia.
She was the woman who gave me tips on how to keep my monstera alive during cocktail hour.
With her flawless brown skin and easy smile that showcases a set of perfect Gabrielle Union dimples, it’s not surprising she already has someone so smitten with her.
I could see her stealing glances at him from the corner of my eye, so I thought it only fair to offer to be his wingman after the last date was over.
We spent the rest of our date talking through a game plan.
By the time my fourth date folds himself into the chair across from me, I’m already considering what kind of filling I’m going to get in my Gyros. Lamb? Chicken? Both. Yeeeessss—
“Hi.”
I shake myself out of my meat-induced daydream and give bachelor number four the attention he deserves for signing up for ten blind dates, and… Oh.
He’s cute.
Late-eighties Bill Pullman cute. Blue eyes, longish, light brown hair that is ruffled because I bet it won’t do anything else, and when he leans over the table and offers me his hand, his palm engulfs mine. It’s warm and big and just a little callused. Green flag.
“I’m John.”
He says his name like an apology, his head ducking down a little, his eyes avoiding mine for a second before he looks back up and offers me the smallest of lip tilts. And it’s so endearing I can’t help but smile back. Things are looking up.
“I’m Jamie.”
“How’s your night been?” His voice is like his handshake: soft and warm and comforting, and I feel like he’d be really good at reciting poetry.
“Mediocre,” I say honestly, lightly, sliding my martini in front of me and making the glass do a pirouette as the comment gains the soft, throaty chuckle I was gunning for.
He goes to say something, stops himself, looks at me for an extended moment from under his lashes, and then seems to find the nerve to say, “I hope I can make it better then.”
Ooh. Smooth. I appreciate the risk and slide forward in my chair a little bit to reward him.
“How about you?”
“It’s been fine; there are some interesting people here.” His answer is more politically correct, but still, I can tell he’s being honest.
“What’s the most interesting thing you’ve heard tonight?” I ask, and he considers the question before looking over his shoulder and pointing out the pretty redhead with the Julia Roberts smile seated at the table next to Laurie.
“Shelley over there volunteered in Kenya helping endangered wildlife, and Dani”—he turns back to me and tilts his head to the woman with the Meg Ryan pixie cut—“has a tattoo of a chicken on her ribs that she has no idea how she got.”
That makes me grin. He’s been listening to these women talk.
They’ve been comfortable enough to share intimate and embarrassing stories with him, and if that isn’t a green flag, I don’t know what is.
I read this study on speed dating that said you can tell in the first thirty seconds whether you think you’ll be a match with someone.
Those numbers seem to be checking out right about now.
He shifts forward on his seat so there’s only a ruler’s distance between us. “Tell me something interesting about you.”
I ponder the question. I’ve got nothing on poultry body art or frolicking with antelopes across the savanna.
I am, however, a human trash can filled to the brim with film knowledge, and since John has been the most promising of my suitors so far, I pull out the big guns.
“I can recite the entire film of While You Were Sleeping.”
He squints at me, his head tilting to the side, and it makes his bangs flop across his eyes in a way that is too cute.
“No, you can’t,” he says softly, and I slide my glass to the side to meet the unspoken challenge.
I think I make a really solid choice in skipping a rendition of Natalie Cole’s “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love),” since my talents don’t extend to any aptitude for singing, and go straight for the monologue.
I deliver it with the kind of confidence that comes from being halfway through my third espresso martini in ninety minutes.
I don’t forget the pause Sandra Bullock delivers after she comments on the sepia tone of the footage showing her idyllic childhood, or the inflection when she mentions her dad for the first time, but I make myself stop after four or so sentences.
It’s just enough to prove my point, and when John stares at me, genuinely impressed, I can’t help but feel a little buoyant.
“That’s incredible,” he finally says, and I shrug a shoulder, trying not to show how those words actually mean a lot considering most people would probably assume I never leave my house after hearing something like that.
“I can also do Saw,” I say, pulling my drink back in front of me. “But there’s a lot more screaming and swearing.”
His smile spreads, but he doesn’t show his teeth.
I think it would take something pretty spectacular to make this man grin.
The amusement is still there, though, in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the glint of his pupil surrounded by an unforgiving steel-blue iris.
Then he asks, “Do you like scary movies?”
“I love them.”
And it keeps going from there. Back and forth.
I tell him I like Taylor Swift—a topic that’s somehow come up in all of my previous dates—and he tells me he likes new wave music from the eighties.
I played softball in high school; he was in the drama club.
He says he makes an amazing cacio e pepe, and I admit that I get influenced easily—and let down often—when it comes to viral Instagram recipes.
We share little facts about our lives like they’re breadcrumbs.
If you like what you hear, keep following the trail.
And I do like what I hear. He seems to as well because, when the bell rings and I start in my seat, he looks like he doesn’t want to leave.
He’s too polite to idle, though, standing up with his long fingers curled around the neck of his beer, and landing that imploring stare back on me one more time. So cute.
“I’ll see you after all this for a drink, yeah?”
I think I’d like that. I think I’d like that very much, so I nod and watch him walk over to Laurie.
I watch him fold into the seat across from her, reach over and shake her hand, and I watch him glance back over his shoulder at me one more time before a shadow falls over my table, a body moving into his spot and taking his seat.
I only allow myself the shortest second of disappointment before shifting my focus back to give my new date the same practiced smile I’ve been giving the last four men, but then I see who sat down in front of me and… Oh.
Oh shit.
I have to remind myself that it’s not polite to stare.
To tell myself the noise in the room hasn’t suddenly hushed, and the lights haven’t gone hazy.
There’s no camera zooming in and there isn’t a string quartet somewhere sustaining a long, resonant, affected note.
There’s nothing to suggest this date is going to be any better or worse than the others. But this guy… he is something.
And that’s a very strange thing for me to be thinking because if John met the criteria of what I thought was my type, this guy doesn’t check a single box.
Usually I like to be able to tell that my date spends more time in a lecture hall rather than a gym, but this guy…
He’s more muscular than lean, more athletic than academic.
His white button-up shirt stretches across his shoulders and—that material isn’t supposed to stretch, right?
His hair is dark, short, styled. Nothing like the affable milk chocolate mess that looked cute on John.
“Cute” isn’t a word I’d use for this guy.
I wouldn’t use it for anyone who manages to look so grave within the boudoir-themed surroundings of the bar, but that’s not a bad thing.
He is Marvel-movie buff, Oscar-contender serious, and… damn… I guess I’m a fan.
He doesn’t look at me at first. His gaze darts to every part of the room until, as if by accident, his eyes meet mine. It seems as if he’s about to go back to scanning the room, but then he… doesn’t.