Chapter 7
7
It’s official. This is the worst date of my life.
It’s Saturday night, nearly a week after I agreed to be set up with Brad Hoffman, and it turns out that there is not enough red wine in the world to make this evening palatable. Even though Brad’s taken me to RA, my favorite sushi spot in the city, I’ve been counting down the minutes until I can politely call it a night since the moment we arrived.
“We actually just installed lights like these in the funeral home,” he says, gesturing toward the installations above our heads. These are the first words we’ve exchanged in over five painful minutes.
I glance upward and do my best to feign interest. “Bar lights?”
“No, red lights. They’re super flattering. Lighting in a funeral home is so important.”
“How so?”
“Think about it. Why do they keep places like this so dim? It’s because everybody looks better in the dark. Including the dead. Everyone wants to see their loved ones looking their best when they’re saying their goodbyes. And funeral cosmetology can only take you so far.”
I raise one eyebrow. “Funeral cosmetology? Like, makeup?”
“Of course. But it’s more than just makeup,” he says, the volume of his voice rising to match his growing enthusiasm. “I wash and condition their hair, trim their nose hairs, shave off any unwanted mustaches. It’s like the best spa day they’ve ever had. Only they don’t fully appreciate it because, you know. They’re dead.”
I envy the dead at this moment. They may have left this world before their dreams were fully realized, but at least they no longer go on first dates.
“Wow. I didn’t realize being a mortician was so… hands-on. I imagined you just handled the business side of things. Managing the accounts and shaking hands and whatnot.”
Brad’s wide mouth stretches into a smile, his beady eyes illuminating. He really does look like a platypus.
“Nope, we do it all. Being a funeral director is a lot like being a wedding planner, actually.”
I blink at him. “How do you figure?”
“You’re in charge of one of the most important days in a person’s life. You oversee the entire production from start to finish, and it’s up to you to make sure everything goes perfectly.”
Brad reaches an arm across the table to take my hand in his. The dark hair extending from his shirt sleeve extends all the way to his knuckles. I do my best to contain a shudder while he speaks. “I think you and I have a lot in common.”
I offer him a limp smile as I extract myself from his grip. My eyes drift around the room, conducting a quick scan of the restaurant in an attempt to locate all the emergency exits. Just then, a rush of cool, outside air draws my attention to the front of the restaurant, where a familiar figure in khaki chinos and a green Barbour jacket stands in the doorway. Panic wells up in my chest.
No, it can’t be. Baltimore is full of restaurants. It’s not possible that of all the places to eat around here, Graham would walk into this one.
But then a woman with a crop of bright hair trails in behind him, and my worst suspicions are confirmed. Claire and Graham approach the ma?tre d’, who frowns as he thumbs through his iPad. Despite the warning bells going off in my head, I can’t quite manage to tear my eyes away from Graham. My eyes drift over the square line of his jaw as he leans over to say something to the ma?tre d’. I’m turning away, not allowing myself to continue staring at him when Claire catches my eye.
“Oh, hey!” she calls with a wave. “Teddy, look! It’s Ali, our wedding planner.” Graham’s body goes rigid as he whips his head toward me. Fortunately, Claire doesn’t seem to notice as she grabs his hand and begins leading him toward our table.
“Hi,” she says brightly, extending her hand to Brad. “I’m Claire, one of Ali’s bridal clients.”
“What a pleasure,” Brad replies, pumping it with vigorous enthusiasm, and I do my best not to think about where those hands have recently been. “I’m Brad, her date.”
Claire’s eyes light up. “A date, huh?” She grins conspiratorially at me. “I do love the idea of love’s engineers finding happily-ever-afters themselves.”
“Uh,” I sputter. “We aren’t actually—”
“Do you mind if we sit with you for a few minutes?” she asks, gesturing to the two empty chairs at our four top. “I could have sworn I made a reservation online, but the guy up front is insisting he doesn’t see my name on the list, and every other table is taken. I’m sure something will open in a bit.”
The horror on Graham’s face mirrors my own, and I can practically hear the words running through his head. Please God, no.
“Actually,” I say, as I start to rise, “we were just about to leave. You guys can have our table.”
Brad drapes an arm around my shoulder. “Want to head back to my place? I’m dying to show you my collection of antique surgical sets. I just scored an amputation kit on eBay that dates back to the Civil War era. It’s got a tourniquet, a couple of hooks that were used to pull arteries from limb stumps, and these long Liston knives that—”
“You know, on second thought,” I say, sinking back into my seat. “What’s the rush? One drink with friends can’t hurt.”
I gesture for the waitress and tap the empty wine bottle on the table, signaling for a refill. Screw my mom’s free pass to heaven. There’s no way I’m about to go home with a man who has the capacity to Joe Goldberg me.
“This is such a fun surprise,” Claire says. She wiggles out of her jacket and drapes it on the back of the chair before sliding into the seat next to me. Graham stiffly mimics the gesture, although his discomfort seems to go unnoticed by everyone else. Underneath his jacket, he’s wearing a thick, forest green sweater that brings out the gold highlights in his hair. It’s repulsive.
Gingerly, he sits down across from Claire. Beneath the table, his leg grazes mine, causing a flush of color to spring from his collar. Truthfully, I’m not faring much better. My treacherous body is crackling with electricity, goosebumps rising on my shin at the point of contact. I absolutely hate that he still has this effect on me.
Brad looks over at Graham. “Sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”
“It’s Graham,” he replies bluntly.
Brad tilts his head, looking positively delighted.
“Oh, wow. You’re British!” he says.
Graham’s eyes narrow. “How terribly observant.”
“So, Brad,” Claire says. “What do you do for work?”
Brad’s chest puffs out with pride. “I’m a mortician. My family has owned the largest Jewish funeral home in the area for four generations.”
Claire leans forward, captivated. “A mortician? That’s such a cool job! Tell me everything. Like, what’s the grossest thing you’ve ever had to deal with?”
Brad purses his lips, showcasing the purple wine stains in the corner of his mouth as he considers the question. “Probably maggots. We typically don’t have much of a problem with them, but if a body isn’t handled properly, they’ll descend quickly. Blowflies can smell a dead body from ten miles away, and a single fly can lay up to three hundred maggot eggs.”
Not a moment too soon, our server returns to the table with the second bottle of wine.
“Here you go!” she says brightly, holding out a bottle of Merlot. She flashes us an enormous grin that takes up half her face, and Claire beams back at her, matching her enthusiasm.
“Excellent.” I grab the bottle, refilling my glass practically to the brim, and then chugging half of it in one long gulp.
“Damn,” Claire says, eyeing my glass. “For a person of your stature, you sure can hold your booze.”
“You have no idea,” Graham murmurs. I shoot him a glare as Claire raises a questioning eyebrow.
“About how little body size has to do with alcohol tolerance,” he amends quickly.
“Speaking of liquids, I’d better take a trip to the little boys’ room,” Brad says. He stands up and, toes pointed outward, waddles off to the bathroom.
When Claire returns her attention to me, her expression is positively jubilant. “A mortician? Girl, respect. This is probably the coolest date ever!”
“Wanna bet?” I mutter.
“I wouldn’t advise betting against you,” Graham says. My head snaps toward him again, and my eyes fill with warning as they sear into his. Then his expression shifts into a look of concern.
“Are you okay? With this guy?” he says quietly. My eyes swing to Claire, worried she’s clocked his too-familiar tone, but she’s busy filling her wine glass just as high as mine.
Turning back to Graham, I shrug. “Sure. I mean, yes, I’m on a date with a man who knows exactly how to dispose of a body. But I’m sure my mom could recover my remains and avenge my death. She watches a lot of Lifetime movies.”
Claire snorts into her wine glass, but Graham’s frown deepens.
“Well, he seems really into you. Even if it is only for the purposes of necrophilia,” Claire says. She beams at me, and it’s impossible to deny how likable she is. No wonder Graham fell for a girl like her. Even if he is completely devoid of a sense of humor.
I nod my head slowly, suddenly aware of how quickly the wine I’ve guzzled went to my head. “You’d be surprised, Claire. I’ve thought guys were into me plenty of times before, and have been so very, very wrong. Just last week, I went on a date with a guy who turned out to be engaged.”
“No!” Claire’s red lips shift into a little O. She looks at Graham and then turns back to me. “Please say you’re joking.” Graham’s face turns bright red as he fidgets with a straw wrapper, folding and unfolding it like an accordion.
“’Fraid not. It’s rough out there for a single girl,” I tell her, ignoring the slur in my words as I refill my wine glass for the third time. Or is it the fourth?
“You should consider expanding your preferences. I started dating both men and women in college and I was shocked by the difference. Women talk things out instead of playing mind games with you. Once you realize you can have your orgasms with a side of emotional maturity and the potential to share clothes, men become a hard sell.” She laughs, then stops abruptly before throwing an arm around Graham’s shoulders. “Except for this dime piece of course! He’s perfect, obviously.”
Mercifully, our server returns, effectively putting an end to this line of conversation.
“Can I get you anything else?” she asks, just as Brad is sliding back into his seat. He’s grinning at me from across the table like a wolf who’s just realized he’s about to drive a plump little piggy home in his Tesla. I realize with chagrin that even though I’m dying to get away from Graham, leaving here with Brad is an even less appealing option.
“How about a round of sake bombs?” Claire asks. I take a moment to consider the idea. On the one hand, I’m already toeing the line between pleasantly buzzed and performing sorority recruitment songs intoxicated. One more drink is likely all it will take to nudge me over the threshold. On the other hand, a one-woman performance might stand to improve the evening. Especially considering the Motown-themed set list is a goddamn delight.
I tip my head in confirmation. “Let’s do it.”
“Oooh, this is going to be so much fun!” Claire squeals, clapping her hands together gleefully.
She turns back to the server. “Can we get a round for the table?” she asks.
The woman beams at her. “You’ve got it. And how about some food?”
Claire picks up the menu and gives it a quick scan. “I’ll do a Crazy Monkey roll, and two orders of the tuna roll. Plus, an order of pineapple cheese wontons for the table. And”—she tosses a playful look in Graham’s direction—“a steak teriyaki bowl for this one.”
The server gives her an appraising once-over. “I like a woman who takes charge. Do you always order for your man?”
Claire grins back at her. “Graham always orders the same thing at sushi restaurants. I try to get him to branch out and be more adventurous, but he’s not exactly known for his spontaneity.”
Graham shrugs but doesn’t deny it. Strange how I seem to be the only person who can draw it out of him. It’s probably for the best that things never worked out between us. I would torpedo his tidy little life.
Once the server departs, Claire returns her attention to me.
“I’m so glad you’re on the planning team. I was worried the wedding might be a bit dry, given the host.” She pauses, shooting an apologetic look at Graham, who shrugs but doesn’t look particularly offended. There’s something slightly off about the way she refers to it as “the wedding” as opposed to “our wedding,” but the alcohol I’ve consumed has left my brain feeling entirely too fuzzy to parse it out.
“It’s a reasonable concern,” Graham admits. “My grandmother is definitely… on the formal side.”
“There’s the understatement of the century,” Claire smirks. “I adore the woman, but she makes the Dowager Countess of Grantham look casual.”
She turns back to me with a grin. “But we’re in good hands with Ali. You’re fun, I can tell.”
“That’s me, the good-time gal,” I mumble against the brim of my wine glass.
I steal a glance at Graham, who’s staring at me intently, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. I roll my eyes and turn away. How dare he look at me like that, as if he feels bad for me. As if he knows me.
Our server returns with a tray of drinks.
“Cheers to a spontaneous evening!” she says, as she sets a glass out in front of each of us. “Are y’all doing anything fun after this?”
“Who knows where the evening will take us?” Claire laughs. She presses her elbows into the table and leans toward the other woman.
“What time do you get off? You should join us.”
“I’m off at ten,” the server replies. “Think you guys will still be here?”
“Only one way to find out,” Claire says with a wink.
Something nags at the corner of my brain, but before I have a chance to think much into it, Graham lifts his glass, eyes narrowing as he stares at me over the brim, and I’m hit with a tsunami wave of déjà vu. Just like that, we’re back in London, embattled in the drinking game that will forever link us.
“Er, I’m not sure sake bombs are a great idea,” Brad says. Whoops, I’d totally forgotten he was here.
“Sundays are our busiest day, since we have all the funerals for people who died over Shabbat. In fact, we should probably be heading out. It’s getting late.”
“One round,” Graham says, and I don’t mistake the challenge in his voice. He has that same determined look in his eyes that he did eight years ago, and I feel my own competitive urges rise. Every head at the table swivels in his direction; even Claire looks shocked.
“Damn, Teddy. I’m not sure what’s gotten into you, but I like it,” Claire grins. “Also, is it me, or is our server a dead ringer for Zendaya?”
Predictably, one round turns into three, with only Graham tapping out early, and by the time we finish, the déjà vu of my last time recreationally drinking with him has come full circle. Only this time, it’s Brad who’s looking green around the gills.
“I’m not feeling so hot,” he announces to no one in particular. “I don’t think I should drive. Let’s settle the bill and call an Uber.”
“Lemme just use the bathroom,” I say. But when I stand up, the ground shifts beneath me, and I grab onto the edge of the table to regain my balance. Graham’s arm shoots out, and his fingers wrap themselves around my wrist.
“Are you okay?” he asks, his voice a low scrape. Behind his glasses, his eyes are filled with concern. I wrestle my arm free and turn away.
“I’m fine,” I mumble. The last thing I need is his faux sympathy. He may have fooled me once, but there’s no way I’m falling for his “I’m such a good guy” act again.
Still, the walk to the bathroom forces the realization that I’m a lot drunker than I’d previously thought. Reluctant as I am to admit it, my tolerance isn’t nearly as high as it was in my early twenties. I splash a bit of cold water on my face, then stare down my reflection in the bathroom mirror.
“Get it together,” I say pointedly to my reflection. “You are a strong, independent woman, and you are not going to let some dude get in your head, no matter how sexy his voiceover would sound in a nature documentary.”
“Amen, sister.” Behind me, a toilet flushes and a woman with flawlessly shaped eyebrows steps up to the sink beside me. “Unless it’s a British accent, of course. Then I’m toast.”
“This pep talk isn’t having the effect you probably intended,” I tell her. “But I appreciate the effort.”
By the time I return to the table, all the dishes have been cleared and Brad is shrugging into his coat, looking eager to leave.
“You ready?” he asks me. “I just called an Uber. We can pick up my car tomorrow.”
“She’s not going home with you, mate,” Graham says through gritted teeth, and there’s something about the way he’s standing, chest puffed out, his fists closed tightly at his sides, that looks positively primal. Angry heat flashes through my body. Is he serious right now? I don’t need to be saved, least of all by him.
Claire looks at Graham, then back at me, clearly confused by whatever unspoken thing is happening here. But then one corner of her mouth rises as if something has just dawned on her.
“Oh, that’s right,” she says. “I completely forgot! Ali is running a wedding errand with us tonight!”
Brad’s brow furrows. “Tonight? After we’ve all been drinking?”
“Yup. We are, uh… going wine tasting! To pick wines for the reception. I mean, what’s a few more drinks at this point, right?” Claire lets out what is probably intended as a giggle, but after three sake bombs sounds more like a passing garbage truck.
Brad looks perplexed but also entirely too nauseated to argue the point.
“Oh, right,” he says. “I guess that makes sense.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll make sure she gets home safely,” Claire reassures him, and Brad’s shoulders sag with relief.
“Okay,” he says, resolved. “Well, my ride’s here. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”
“Definitely,” I reply, already mentally changing his contact info in my phone to “You’ll Never Be This Desperate.”
Brad reaches out a hand to Graham, who shakes it reluctantly but is still shooting daggers at Brad with his eyes.
When he departs, Claire turns to me, grinning devilishly.
“Eek! Sorry that was such a bad date,” she says. “But glad we were able to stage a rescue. Sorry it took me a minute to recognize Graham’s strategy for extraction. He’s a doll that way, isn’t he? Always trying to do the noble thing.”
“Oh yeah, he’s a real stand-up guy,” I say through gritted teeth.
She throws an arm around my shoulders, and I can smell the sake on her breath. “We can walk back to our place. It’s only a few blocks away, and then Graham can drive you home. He only had that one drink.”
“No!” Graham and I both say at the same time. Claire’s mouth drops open as she looks back and forth between us.
“I mean, I couldn’t ask you guys to do that,” I say, careful to use the words “you guys” in the lingering hope that I won’t be spending any part of this evening alone with Graham. “I mean, it would be completely out of your way to drive to the suburbs and then back again.”
Claire shrugs. “It’s no big deal. Besides, a car service would cost a fortune.”
She’s not wrong. Still, I’m desperate to find a way out of this, because as unenthused as I am about spending thirty minutes in an overpriced, overheated Uber, I’m even less excited by the prospect of spending that time alone with Graham. I turn to him and raise a skeptical eyebrow. “Do you even have an American driver’s license?”
Claire chortles. “ He does. I’m the one who doesn’t. Never thought there was much of a point.”
I shift my skepticism in her direction. “Why is that?”
“I never had a need for one growing up in Vancouver or when I studied in New York. And since we’re only here for a few months, I didn’t see the point in getting one now,” she explains.
“What do you mean, ‘only here for a few months’?” I ask slowly, because somehow, I’m still not understanding what she’s getting at. She blinks at me, like it’s perfectly obvious.
“We’ll be moving back to New York after the wedding,” she says after a beat. “For my job. Doesn’t really make sense to commute. Graham’s company is based there too. And once he gets the hotel back on its feet, he can help his grandmother remotely.”
Oh. I don’t know why, but the idea that Graham will be moving back to New York after the wedding had never occurred to me. It makes perfect sense—of course he plans to live in the same city as his wife. Yet somehow, I hadn’t considered his impermanence in Baltimore. Especially after the way he spoke about his grandmother over drinks. It was clear that he really cares about her, that he seemed thrilled to finally be living in the same city as her. I flick my gaze over to him, but he’s staring at the ground. I blow out an exhale.
“Well, the least I can do is buy you a coffee for the road.”