I shift in the seat, reminded that I need to cut back on the donuts as the waistband of my skirt digs into my tummy. The brown velvet blazer I’ve paired with a white tank top is pulling over my triple D boobs and straining the single button that threatens to pop open at any moment.
It took me a half hour to find an outfit that still fit me and looked decent but not desperate. Being a writer, I do a lot of sitting and you combine that with my other side job of working in a bakery, it’s a sure recipe for an ever-expanding rear end.
“Listen,” I start as I grab a glimpse of myself in the cab’s rearview and take my free hand to my hair, trying to smooth it back. My hair is full of these whacky little curls. When people ask me how I get my hair to ‘do that’, I answer with, ‘I wash it and hope for the best’.
I finish my request to Heather, “Just call me in, like, forty-five minutes, okay? I need an out just in case. I can’t endure an entire evening of blind date hell again. I just can’t. I feel like if one thing goes wrong, I’m going to lose it.”
“Fine,” Heather answers on a sigh. “Just try to keep an open mind. You never know when Prince Charming will arrive. Your whole ‘What If’ series is based on that very idea. When you least expect him, expect him. Isn’t that your tagline?”
Anxiety knots my belly and has a throb starting in my temples. “Unfortunately, fiction isn’t real life.”
I wrap up the call with Heather and do some deep breathing as the cab winds its way through a tough looking neighborhood to finally slow and stop outside a seedy street front bar that looks like it’s seen better days.
“Eight-fifty.” The driver addresses me with a look into the rear view as I wonder how deeply Helga interviewed this new potential suitor. Because if the location of our first date is any indication, he’s not raising my expectations.
As I fumble in my purse for my wallet, a voice inside my head says to tell the driver to keep driving. Instead of heeding what is probably very good advice, I pay the fare and on a deep breath make my way through the wind and mist into the bar.
As I cross the sidewalk, I look down at my black patent leather Doc Martens. I have fourteen pair of the signature boots and I wonder if maybe my foot ware is part of the problem. Could it be that men simply cannot make peace with a girl that enjoys a good edgy boot? If I traded my rubber soled, lace up habit for some Jimmy Choo’s would my life be different?
“What if. What if…” I mumble as I tug open the door plastered with a selection of beer logo bumper stickers, pressing a slight smile onto my face and shaking my hair back hoping for the best.
Inside the dark bar, it takes a moment for my eyes to adjust but immediately my nose is in heaven. Instead of being assaulted with the scent of stale beer and cheap perfume it smells like coming home. Only, unlike my home—where reservations were my mother’s claim to fame—this is like stepping into the kind of home where the mom spends the day cooking everything that smells like comfort.
I do a quick room scan and there’s an invisible rope that pulls my gaze to a table where a dark-haired, beast-size guy sits. My eyes lock onto him and I swallow hard and my stomach does this little flip, a rush of instant heat envelopes me. There’s a steaming cup of coffee in front of him, as well as an empty plate with silverware and a rumpled paper napkin on top.
Why would he have eaten without me?
Rude.
I shuffle a few steps forward, my heart tap dancing in my chest and there’s a low hum buzzing in my ears. The guy hasn’t looked up yet, but the only other patrons I see sit in pairs or groups so I’m assuming this hunk of man flesh is Derek even though he said he’d have on a black jacket. Whatever. All I can think is…
Score.
As a professional blind dater, I’ve learned to trust my first impressions. Never before have I had this sort of sensation. It doesn’t feel like my feet are touching the floor and everything around has blurred edges. There’s a light shining down on him like a heavenly sunbeam through the clouds, and I notice he’s looking down at a book.
He’s reading.
Oh my god.
He’s reading an actual book.
I squint and see it’s an older, hard-bound copy of The Great Gatsby one of my favorites of all time and I’m half in love already.