"And think he's a lucky guy to be going out with you. Why do you act like this? Hey, chin up, Story. You haven't gone through everything you've gone through just to start wallowing in your own self-pity before you've even stepped out the door."
I grin, "When did you get so smart?"
Carla smiles. "Maybe it's because I'm working on my master's in psychology."
"Jeez. I never knew I had such a smart best friend."
"Well, you do," Carla laughs. "Maybe I need to call this matchmaker, get myself a hottie boyfriend of my own."
"He's not a boyfriend. I've never even met the guy."
"I know, but he is hot."
"How do you know?"
"Well, I had to stalk him the moment you told me about him."
"What do you think?" I ask, slipping on my heels, rethinking my outfit but knowing that Truett is going to be here any minute. I have to go with what I’m wearing whether or not it is the most flattering to my curvy ass.
"I think that he looks very tired."
"Well, the pictures on his profile are three years old, and I think that was right before his mental breakdown."
"Did he really have a mental breakdown?" Carla asks. She's applying lip gloss.
"Where are you going, anyways?" I ask.
"I have a date too."
"With who?"
"I don't know. A guy from Tinder. Don't judge."
"I'm not judging."
"Not everyone has $10,000 to throw around on a matchmaking service."
"Don't say it like that. It sounds so–"
"What?" Carla says. "Honest?"
"No," I say. "I was going to say vulgar."
"It's not vulgar to talk about money. It's just, I don't know. It was bold of you. I still can't believe you did it."
"I want to have–"
"I know, I know," Carla says, cutting me off. "A happy relationship, a perfect marriage, a family."
I exhale. "Yep, you said it perfectly."
"Maybe just don't like, lead with that," Carla says with a laugh.
I laugh myself, my shoulders shaking. "I know, I'm not going to lead with that. But honestly, if Helena told him anything about me, he would have learned that pretty dang quick. I was extremely honest in my questionnaire."
"Do you think he had access to it? Everything you answered on that form?"
"I don't think so. I mean, I didn't get access to his information. That was just what the matchmaker used to match us."
"Huh," Carla says. "So she basically goes through these forms and makes decisions and tries to find out who would be perfect for one another?"
"Yeah," I say. "What do you think? How do I look?" I hold the phone back so she can get a full-scale image of my outfit. I have on a little black dress, strapless, to my knees, simply stated, a pearl necklace that was my grandma's around my neck, my most treasured possession. My hair is swept up in a bun on the top of my head, classic red lips, thick mascara, rosy cheeks.
"You look like a storybook princess."
I frown. "Don't say that."
"Why? I think it's cute when people say that."
"You're not people. You're Carla, my best friend."
"I know. But you really do. You look beautiful."
"Hope I don't trip in these heels. I never wear heels."
"You'll do great."
"So who is this mystery Tinder date of yours?" I ask, trying to pull the attention off of myself.
"I don't know. But I'm going to text you a picture of my location the moment I get there, okay? Safety first, right?"
"Okay, good call. I'll do the same. And Carla? Thanks for helping me through all of this. I don't exactly get out there very often and–"
"I know, I know," Carla says. "I am here for you anytime."
"But maybe there won't be another time," I smile. "You think?"
"I think for ten grand, this better be a pretty good date."
I laugh. "The date wasn't ten grand, the matchmaking service was. I'm not like a lady of the night, though that might be kind of cool."
Carla rolls her eyes. "Hey, most importantly, have fun and be yourself."
"As if I could be anything else," I say. The doorbell rings. "Oh my God, that's him."
"You better go answer it. And don't forget your purse, your ID, your lipstick."
"And my smile," I add, giving her a grin before blowing a kiss and ending the call.
I put the phone in my purse and walk with poise and confidence and just a teensy-weensy bit of self-doubt to the front door. I look through the peephole and I take a deep, long look at my match. It's Truett Baker all right, in the flesh. My heart beats extra fast and I unlock the door, pulling it open.
"Hi," I say. "I'm Story Cook."
"And I'm Truett Baker," he says, looking me over as if I am a cookie that's about to crumble, that he wants to catch before it falls, that he wants to pick up and eat every last bite of.