Single Dad Seeks Juliet

“That looks great,” I agree, picking up the basket and blanket and carrying them over to the ground under the tree. I make quick work of spreading it out, and Rachel climbs on top, grabs the basket, and starts setting out the food.

She’s occupied with the task, therefore not really looking at me, so I take the opportunity to pull my phone out of my pocket and text Holley.

Rachel notices the action, and an excuse pops out of my mouth before I even know what I’m saying. “It’s my daughter. She just texted. I need to answer. Do you mind?”

She just shrugs off my question. “No.”

She doesn’t invade my privacy any more than that, going back to taking all the food out of the basket and setting it up, and I’m hit with a strange wave of disappointment by her reaction to my mentioning my daughter. Or that I need to text her back.

It’s weird. I don’t want her prying into my relationship with my daughter. It’s none of her business. We just met. And yet, something about it, the whole nonchalance of her reaction, her not even asking if everything is okay, sticks out as a negative in my mind.

Shaking it off, I scroll down to my thread with Holley and type out a quick message.Me: Are you sure you’re okay?She answers fairly quickly, and I breathe a sigh of relief.Holley: I told you I’m fine. No, not fine. Good. Fantastic. Not fine, okay? Just ignore that, and don’t go reading anything into it because I know you will. P.S. You’re annoying. Do your date thing with Rachel.I almost laugh at how well I can hear her ramble in my mind, but I take comfort in the fact that she’s clearly not acting too out of the ordinary. Someone who wasn’t Holley would have just deleted the sentiment of ‘fine’ and started the text over again.

I put my phone away and bring myself back to getting to know Rachel. The only way to make these dates bearable is to give them the chance they deserve. Rachel is a really nice, normal human. We don’t butt heads like I did with Bianca, and she deserves my undivided attention for at least the next hour.

I make a promise to myself not to let distractions like my friendship with Holley get in the way of giving this a chance.

“You’re an elementary school teacher, right?” I ask, leaning back into my hands on the blanket and picking a grape from the container sitting between us.

Rachel watches my hand and makes a tiny face before quickly clearing it. I don’t know what it’s about, but I give her a pass. I haven’t exactly been the most conscientious date up until this point. She’s probably just giving herself some sort of mental pep talk like the one I just did.

“Uh, yeah,” she eventually answers. “I teach mostly third grade, but last year I taught a kindergarten class, and that was really fun. They’re still so full of wonder, you know?”

“Definitely. That’s a great age,” I remark. “When my daughter was that age, she was a real pistol, too. Always asking me the kinds of crazy questions I didn’t necessarily want to answer. Did you get a lot of that with your class?”

“I always tell my class there are no wrong questions,” she states firmly, and I nod.

“Yes, definitely. I agree. All questions have merit. I just mean the ones that make you uncomfortable or put you on the spot.”

“I never want to discourage them from asking me anything.”

I sigh internally. Okay. Time to move on.

I grab another grape from the dish, and she watches me the same way, only this time, she doesn’t hide it as well.

Is she angry that I’m eating?

I decide to test the waters. “These grapes are delicious. Do you like grapes?”

“I only eat grapes on special occasions. They’re mostly full of sugar.”

“Grapes?” I ask, thinking I must have heard her wrong.

“Yes. Fruit has its place, but it’s not as nutrient-centered as people think it is.”

“Grapes,” I repeat again. I don’t want to be an asshole, but I’m really missing the bus here.

“Yes,” she confirms, her eyes narrowing. “They’re sixteen percent sugar.”

I nod—the slow, exaggerated kind that says I’m really struggling to find a way to continue this conversation without ruffling any feathers.

I reach for a cube of cheese, and she sneers again. I glance at my watch and sigh. Time of death on date number two? 4:15 p.m.

Call the morgue; this body is ready for transport.

Fucks gone, I reach over for the basket of crackers and cheese and pull it into my lap, eating them with both great joy and splendor. Rachel tries to ignore me as she asks me questions, but even my answers have been superseded by my ability to eat a turkey and cheese cracker sandwich.