1. Kate
Sweet mother of pearl.
What have I gotten myself into? Three years. I gave up three whole years of nightly sweatpants and ice cream for this? As I shift uncomfortably in the heels I borrowed from Ellie, I can’t help but question every little decision I’ve ever made in my life. The unnatural angle of my feet is so painful I’m even starting to question my sanity.
A little too New York for my taste, Ellie.
“I guess I shouldn’t have assumed that the first time I got back out there I would be swept off my feet, right?” I muster a laugh and take a sip of the complimentary Mai Tai. “But doing it this way is fun too! Like pulling off a Band-Aid, don’t you think?”
The gentleman across from me—Larry, per his blue name tag—does not respond.
“Maybe not a Band-Aid,” I backtrack. “More like chopping off—”
A buzzer blares, cutting me off and rescuing Larry, based on the exaggerated sigh of relief he gives before power-walking to the next table. “It was nice meeting…” I trail off when I see him eagerly approach the pretty blonde’s table ten feet away. She’s wearing a bright-red, low-cut dress with a slit up to her hip bone, unaware of my existence as she laughs and swoons over the very perky Larry.
Where was that perkiness two minutes ago, Larry?
Glancing at the clock, I realize I only have to endure this night for thirty more minutes. I’ve been here for almost two hours, and what do I have to show for it? A half off coupon to the Hot Dog Hut down the street and a phone number written on the back of a parking ticket.
“Hello there.” A bald man wearing a white turtleneck approaches my table. “How you doin’?” Using a Friends pick up line? Do better, my man.
Summoning all the energy I left behind in my early twenties, I inhale, slow and deep, focusing my attention on the potentially harmless man with a shiny head in front of me.
What if he’s the one, Kate?
He picks his teeth with his pinky finger, retrieving a rather large piece of…spinach? Broccoli? Something green and rotten. Then, he proceeds to wipe it off on the white satin tablecloth between us.
Nope, not the one.
“You know what…”—I eye his name tag—“Tom, I’m not doin’.” I feel like air-quoting the word is essential for added effect in this moment. “I’m at a singles mixer on a school night. I haven’t dated anyone in three years, and after months of loneliness and self-reflection—I even took up knitting and made a sweater—I figured it was time to get back out there, find myself a man.” My tone deepens on the word man involuntarily. I tend to ramble, and when I do, my voice gets gritty and, according to my cousin, Benny, can be a tad macho.
“A man, huh?” Tom gives me a slow wink, adding another level of cringe to this interaction. I check the clock—thirty more seconds with this one.
“Yes, Tom. A man. Someone to share a life with. Not even a crazy, extravagant, world-traveling life. Just someone who sees me for me, someone who fixes the sink when there’s a leak, someone who gives me the comics while they read sports. I’ve been burned. I gave love a chance before, and it led me down a long road of unhealthy carbs and binging Sweet Home Alabama before I finally realized that most men suck.”
“So why do you want a man now, then?” Tom’s eyes don’t communicate sincere curiosity. No. His wiggling eyebrows and heavy stare at my chest communicate creepy. That and the trailing hand sliding toward me across the tiny bar table that separates us.
I clear my throat. Just a few more seconds of this guy. “Because my best friend just got engaged to my cousin, and I realized how lonely I am. I realized how much I want what they have. Someone to laugh with and share those lingering touches in the hallway. I’m a teacher, by the way,” I say defensively, feeling the need to clarify to Tom here. “I don’t just loiter in random hallways. But anyway, I just want what they have. I don’t want to inhale a pint of Phish Food every night by myself. I want to share that with someone.” My words come out fast and whiny, collecting glances from fellow speed-daters. The music crackles out of the duct-taped speaker at the front of the room, and the singular disco ball light flickers like it’s running out of juice.
A perfect picture of how this night is going. I am the disco ball.
The buzzer sounds. Thank the heavens.
“Well, maybe we can circle back to this,” Tom writes his number on my call log, shooting me another slow wink and a small pucker of his lips. Disgust shivers its way up my spine as he backs away slowly, eyes still pinned on me. You aren’t winning any points here, Tommy.
My next visitor, Julian, joins me, sporting a blue button-up and board shorts with birds on them. He sways on his feet for a moment then regains his balance. Oh boy. “Hey there, good lookin’!” His slurred words blare at me from all cylinders. Wincing, I plaster on a smile and attempt to respond.
Before I can, Julian loses his balance again, tumbling forward into the table and flinging his drink all over me. Streaks of pink and orange splash my chest and arms, staining my brand-new shirt. It’s a white shirt with cute puffy sleeves that is both flattering and feminine.
Wearing white…ugh, rookie mistake.
Okay, Kate, just stay calm. Maybe he’s just nervous. Julian, the thirty-nine-year-old dog groomer—because yes, he wrote his age and job title on his name tag as well—was so nervous to put himself out there that he got blitzed drunk. Just your old, run-of-the-mill, singles mixer shenanigans, right?
“You were supposed to catch me!” Julian yells at me as he climbs to his feet from the floor. It’s more of a stumble to his feet with his eyes glossy and chest heaving rapidly, like he just ran a race. I can’t help but gape at him as the remnants of his drink drip off my cheeks, and goosebumps travel up my arms from the icy cold of the liquid. Julian storms off, heading straight to the bar, leaving me to clean up his mess.
Surely this is all part of a poorly thought out prank. I’m sure, any second now, a man in a bunny suit is going to jump out at us and yell, ‘GOTCHA!’ Then, this painfully awkward moment will turn into a hilarious one, followed by a knight-in-shining-armor entrance of a tall man with a deep voice, who sweeps me off my feet and says, “Let’s get you cleaned up,” filling my stomach with giddy butterflies and my head with a happily-ever-after soundtrack.
It’s a silly thing to think—being swept off my feet. Yet, here I am, suffering through this night with that small flicker of hope that this could have been the night everything changed. But based on the last few options and the poorly curated line of subjects awaiting their turn to join my table, I’d say this is definitely not the night everything will change.
A young waitress, shaking like a Chihuahua, rushes to my side with a towel in hand. She’s more chivalrous than Julian. “That was…”—she bites her lip—“painful to witness.”
“Had to make the night memorable.” The liquor smell soaking into my hair will probably speak for itself the next few days. A constant reminder of this night. I chuckle at the ridiculousness of it all, wiping pink sludge out of my hair as I do. The waitress eyes me warily, unsure at first if she can laugh with me, until we’re both in a fit of giggles as she helps me wipe up the table. “Thank you.”
“Can I get you anything?” she whispers, looking at the bar then back to me. “Dessert?” The offer is served with a recoiling smile.
Kindly refusing the offer, I take a seat at my table and wait for the buzzer to signal my next assailant. My phone dings in my pocket as I wait. Checking my phone is off limits. That’s rule number one of date etiquette—per my lola’s instructions, anyway. “You young people and your phones. Put it away, and focus on the man in front of you.”
Another ding sounds, drawing my attention even more. What if it’s an emergency? This isn’t a real date anyway. I watch the clock at the front of the room count down ten seconds, an absurd internal battle of phone checking waging a war in my head, before finally checking.
Panic, or embarrassment, or just sheer terror courses through me when I read the text that pops up on my screen.
Malcolm: I’ve never seen someone so bored.
I’m an hour away from home. How does he know what I look like right now? How does he know I’m bored? My heart pounds in my chest as I scan the room. In the sea of singles, no one resembles my grumpy friend. A crowd of people isn’t necessarily his ideal hangout spot anyway. But that doesn’t stop me from looking.
“I have to take a phone call,” I lie to the new gentleman trying to join my table, then I weave my way through the bodies lingering too closely to each other. I keep scanning the room. Still no sign of him. Even standing on my tiptoes, I don’t see a big, brooding man in a fishing shirt, mentally growling at everyone behind a glass of brandy. Dodging the handsy man from earlier, I make it to the front door without being intercepted by Malcolm.
Did I want him to intercept me? Maybe. It might have been enough to save this painful night.
I wave bye to the hostess and rush out of the bar. The cool air is harsh against the sweat on the back of my neck, a combination of fear and embarrassment of being seen here sizzling through my veins. It’s like I just ran a marathon.
Wobbling in the heels, I scope the sidewalk and across the street—still no Malcolm. Assessing my shirt, that is now sticky, I accept that tonight was a complete dud and head back to my car. I continue my search for Malcolm as I climb in. I wouldn’t put it past him to jump out and scare me once I try to pull out of the parking lot.
My fingers get tangled in my hair as I try to smooth it out. I have to yank to separate some of the sticky strands that are now knotted and plastered to my cheek—another very literal representation of my current situation. Dating is sticky and messy and can ruin your favorite clothes if you aren’t careful. Why I thought going to a speed-dating mixer was the best way to get back out there is beyond me. Maybe I’m not mentally sane, and I need to see a therapist. Maybe I should talk to Ellie.
Unlocking my car, I realize Malcolm isn’t anywhere around me. Did he stay inside? Of all the people I would want to see me enduring a night like this, he is the last. There’s just something about telling my very surly, dating-the-traditional-way friend that I’m getting back out there that terrifies me. His opinion is annoyingly the most important to me. Don’t ask me why. I haven’t figured it out yet. It just is, and I have no doubt he is in stitches over seeing me tonight.
Wait. Why is he here tonight?
Is Malcolm speed-dating right now? My best friend getting back out there, too, is something I should want. The man deserves his happy ending, just like me. A pit forms in my stomach at the idea of him chatting it up with the pretty blonde from inside. They’d probably have cute blonde babies within a year, and I’ll still be alone.
My car engine rumbles as I let the heater warm my skin and throw my head back against the seat. I guess if any part of my getting-back-out-there plan was going to be a train wreck, I’m glad it was tonight. Ripped off the Band-Aid.
Another text dings on my phone—a photo of Frankie, my cousin’s cat, perched on top of Malcolm’s chicken coop, staring blankly into the camera. It’s followed up with another text.
Malcolm: Isn’t she supposed to try and eat them?
Uncontrollable laughter bubbles out of me, leaving me borderline teary. I remember now that he is babysitting Frankie for the night. She must be the one who is bored, not me. Malcolm isn’t actually here, an hour from home, also at a singles mixer. I panicked for nothing. Relief feels like a balloon deflating in my throat.
The relief fades quickly as I drive home, reminding myself to stick to the plan. You’re dating again, Katherine. It’s time. Once I’m home, I do the thing I swore I would never do. I sign up for a dating app: Playing the Field.