Chapter 23 Moyo
Moyo
WHY DID I SUGGEST A PRACTICE DATE?
Replaying our run-in at Anjie’s restaurant, I can’t believe I was too chicken to propose going on an actual date with Niyi. Guess old avoidant habits die hard.
This is not a date. This is not a real date.
I commit the sacred words to memory and bring them to the surface every few minutes on the drive to the restaurant where I’m meeting Niyi, but it does nothing for my nerves.
Do I actually have nerves over a man? At my age?
Evidently the giddiness of a crush doesn’t give a fuck about age.
Luckily, or unluckily, today is Niyi’s last time coaching me.
After this little sit-down meal, I’ll never have to be in his presence in a professional setting again.
Hopefully, I can muster up the bravery to go for what I really want: seeing Niyi in highly unprofessional settings.
It’s almost poetic that after attempting the hands-off, report-back approach—which helped—our final meeting is the hands-on approach I was against earlier.
I thought he’d hinder my dates by being nearby.
Little did I know that simply being around Niyi would feel better than any date has in my entire life.
This is not a real date, I remind myself. Unfortunately, that crucial piece of information doesn’t stop my hands from fidgeting. They move so much, I shove them between my equally jittering thighs to keep them still and warm.
Niyi ordered the ride from my place to the date and kept the location a surprise—which pissed me off a little because it didn’t give me much to work with for my outfit choice.
But I went with simple because, again, this is not a date.
I chose sage-green cargo pants and a white button-down top with loose feathers at the bottom and on the cuffs, layered with an almond-colored sweater.
For more color, I added a silk scarf of greens, yellows, and reds around my head, allowing my blown-out hair to billow behind me.
It isn’t snowing, so I picked a fur-lined, leather coat and a pair of simple white-and-green sneakers.
Once the driver stops outside the restaurant, I know exactly where we are.
I hop out of the car, thank the driver, and spot Niyi in front of the building.
He’s also dressed casually in a green shirt under a black jacket; his pants and shoes are all black as well, but he has little, gold accessories that make his dark-brown skin pop.
The gold necklace sits on the green, providing a sexy contrast. I’m a Yoruba woman; we go crazy for a gold-chain moment. It’s in the Bible.
I give him a tempered smile and point to my pants. “We’re matching a little,” I say once he can hear me.
He doesn’t laugh or smile, but he looks amused.
“You’re the better-dressed one,” he says as he surveys my outfit.
The look is blatant but not sleazy. When he’s done, his attention goes to my eyes, holding me in place, not allowing me to look away.
His tongue wets his lips a little before he returns to his composed self.
He probably forgot to apply lip balm. Nothing worse than chapped lips in the cold.
“Shall we?” Niyi says, and when I nod, he gestures for me to go first.
We bypass the regular indoor seating and go straight to the patio with three yurts.
I hear voices coming from two of them, so I move towards the silent one.
I’m about to open the flap when Niyi stills my hand.
The slight contact sends my internal temperature skyrocketing.
Like a child experiencing the tinge of a hot burner, I yank my hand away.
He doesn’t seem to notice. He just pulls the flap back, welcoming me into the warm interior filled with wreaths, fairy lights, and a table for two.
I shrug my coat off and hang it on the rack, then rub my arms for warmth, but the heat soon envelops me.
I’m still taking in the interior—pine garlands line the inside, white-and-gold decorative stars dangling from them and mixing with the lights beautifully; above the table is a hanging planter with eucalyptus overflowing—when Niyi pulls out a seat for me.
My lips turn downwards and my eyebrows raise. He shakes his head and looks away. I’m transported back to the first time he pulled back my seat at Cupid’s Bow HQ.
“Thank you,” I say. He pushes me closer to the table before taking his seat.
“You know you don’t have to do that every time we hang out.” My words come out in pieces, broken up by a forced chuckle.
“I know,” he says. “It’s my choice.”
This whole thing is beautiful, from planning a surprise to ordering my ride to making a reservation at one of the city’s most sought-after winter dining experiences. I’m impressed. A grin takes over my face as I browse the classic American menu.
“Okay, so any thoughts or observations?” Niyi captures my attention.
“Um, it’s…beautiful,” I offer, unsure.
“Oh, sorry, that wasn’t clear.” He shakes his head as if chastising himself. He always does that. “I meant my behavior as a good date. That’s what I was modeling for you,” he clarifies. The room feels like winter again and my muscles freeze up.
“Oh, that…” my voice trails off.
It’s not a real date, Moyo. Don’t forget that.
I infuse pep back into my voice. “You’re being a lovely gentleman. No notes.” I force a laugh.
“That’s the kind of treatment you deserve, Moyo,” he says, and the room is now dryer than the Sahara. His gaze is so intense, so piercing. I want to look away, but it’s arresting.
“How did you find out about this place?” I ask. It’s not exactly a hole-in-the-wall, but I need to say something to distract from the intensity he’s directing toward me. What’s he doing? Trying to imprint my image in his brain?
“Merc’s doing a restaurant tour for a new Cupid’s Bow partnership, and this was on the list, so I offered to check it out.” He slides the menu to his left.
Oh, this is an additional work trip. A wave of nausea hits me. He’s not even here for me…
Hurt coats my vocal cords with pain and rejection. “Wow, so you can’t even pretend like you chose this place for me. I always knew Mercury had great taste but thank them for me,” I chirp, trying to create a sarcastic, jokey moment to hide behind.
Niyi’s eyes fill with remorse. “Moyo, this was for you,” he pleads. “You mentioned visiting restaurants as one of your favorite things, so I asked Merc for the list of top restaurants and chose this one for you.”
It’s weird having someone other than the girls or my parents understand my discomfort when I hide it with humor.
It feels even stranger that he remembered a comment from our first coaching session, despite this not being the first time.
Am I so used to my hyper-independence that I can't fathom someone putting in the same effort that I do for others? .
I’m again embarrassed by my reaction to a perceived slight that triggered my insecurities.
At our first meeting at Cupid’s Bow, it was that I didn’t know what I wanted from dating.
Now it’s because I know what I want, and the object of my desire isn’t acting according to the perfect scenario in my head.
“Moyo, what’s going on?” Niyi stretches his hand towards mine.
“I’m sorry. That was passive-aggressive and an overreaction.”
“Yes, you’re right. But that doesn’t answer my question. What’s wrong? You’ve been fidgety all evening.”
Guess it’s time to spill my guts.
I take a deep breath and, on the exhale, I spiral into what can only be described as word-vomit.
“I thought this was just another work add-on for you,” I begin.
Niyi hums, his intense gaze not leaving mine.
“And that made me upset because I’ve started to have feelings for you and was secretly hoping you were seeing this as a real date, not a practice one.
I know I’ve gotten ahead of myself, and you don’t feel similarly because I’m a client, but our working relationship ends after today, so despite this being wildly unprofessional, bear with me and let’s enjoy this extremely hard-to-get-into restaurant. ”
“You…have feelings for me?” Niyi looks dazed.
Great, I’ve broken him. I should’ve just canceled this entire thing. And started afresh with someone other than my dating coach.
“Like I said, no worries. You can ignore that, and we can have dinner. Or, if you’re uncomfortable, we can end things here.”
“Moyo.” His voice is firm. “Breathe. Can I get a word in?”
I nod. If I talk, I’ll just keep self-sabotaging.
Niyi rubs the back of his neck. “I am proud of you for sharing what you want, even if you do need to work on your delivery. I shouldn’t have mentioned Merc and made this sound like just another job. I apologize.”
Again, I nod. Waiting for the other shoe to drop.
“Like you said, this is wildly unprofessional…” Here it comes. “But I also have feelings for you.”
Wait, what?
“You do?” I regain my voice.
“Yeah, I do. I’m surprised you’re interested in me.”
Am I on Punk’d? I look around the room for the hidden camera.
“You’re serious?” I ask.
Niyi responds, “Deadly. You’re serious?”
“As a heart attack.”
Niyi closes the distance between our hands and grazes my palm with his fingers, setting my hand on fire.
“I’ll be honest. I didn’t think past this,” I say, giggling. Everything that’s happened with Niyi has been against my usual methodology. Despite the uncertainty about the rest of the night, and a possible future, I’m excited.
Niyi opens his mouth, but a waiter—accompanied with a draft of cold air—comes in.
“Food first, and then we can figure this out.”
We order some calamari, a whiskey for Niyi, and a margarita for me. Once the waiter leaves, it’s back to business.
“We’re technically still working together,” I say, still holding on to his hand.
Part of me expects him to let go; instead, his grip tightens. “We are, but only for three more hours.” Niyi smiles.
“Touché.”
“There is something I’d like to tell you…to be fully transparent.”
Rebelling against my nature, I stop him. “Unless it has to do with you actually not having feelings for me, let’s table it and have a good night.”
A myriad of emotions flash across his face. “We’ll talk about logistics and other things later?”
“I could even send you a calendar invite,” I reassure him.
A different waiter delivers our appetizers and drinks.
“To us, three hours from now.” Niyi raises his glass.
Still holding hands, we clink glasses.
The night continues with even more drinks and fabulous food on the Cupid’s Bow tab.
I don’t know what’s changed for him, but his typical tension is nonexistent. For the first time, Niyi looks completely at peace. “Only two hours now,” he says, giving me a sip of his drink.
Two hours, then he’s all mine.