Best Friends Don't Kiss

A cute male waiter in a black bow tie and pressed white shirt chooses the absolute perfect time to serve as a distraction and steps up to our table. He sets a black leather menu down in front of each of us. “Good evening. My name is Anthony, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I interest you in a bottle of wine?”

“Wine would be great,” Brian answers and peruses the list. After a minute of browsing, he scrunches up his nose in what I can only assume is disappointment. “Do you happen to have a red that’s older than a 2015?” he asks—well, scoffs. But I try my best not to judge him for it. He just sat through a full slapstick comedy routine without walking out on me.

“Actually, we do not,” Anthony responds with a neutral smile. “But we do have a white that’s from 2007.”

Brian sighs and looks at me with a tilt of his head. “Would you mind the 2007 Sauvignon Blanc, Ava? If we want to actually enjoy our wine, it’s probably our best bet tonight.”

I almost open my mouth to tell him that I don’t like wine and to remind him that Britney Spears’s shaved head and her MTV Music Awards performance made it pretty damn clear that 2007 was a bad year, but I quickly remind myself that this is a first date and I need to be on my best behavior.

“Actually, I think I’ll just start with a glass of lemonade,” I hedge. “I don’t really drink much anyway, and it’s fine if the lemonade is from this year. Actually, I’d prefer it.”

I giggle a little at my joke and expect a similar chuckle from Brian, but signs of a sense of humor never come.

Damn, tough crowd.

Our server Anthony, on the other hand, smirks down at me in amusement.

“So, you don’t want any wine?” Brian asks for clarification, and I shake my head.

“No thank you.”

“Well, if I would’ve known you didn’t drink at all, I would’ve focused on the bourbons. That’s my preferred drink anyway.” Brian sighs again and glances down at the menu. Eventually, though, after my date finds a grandpa bourbon that’s old enough to make him happy, he gives Anthony his drink order, and then, our food orders.

No joke. Our food orders. Apparently, I want linguine tonight.

I didn’t know that, but I guess Brian has made some sort of telepathic arrangement with my stomach. It takes everything inside me to bite my tongue and let it go. Honestly, he’s lucky I actually do like linguine.

Man, this guy isn’t quite meeting my expectations thus far. It’s almost like Luke was right about him.

No. I shake my head. Just give him a chance, Ava. Maybe he’s super nervous or something?

First dates are really hard, and everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.Good God, what time is it?

“Ava, you’ll never believe the kind of times my boat has been able to clock on the water since I upgraded her sails.” Brian smiles proudly.

Evidently, it’s half-past hell.

Hindsight is truly 20/20.

If I could take a time machine back to the moments before I left my apartment to meet Brian on this date, I would do it, and I would barricade myself inside the damn thing.

All of my linguine is gone, I’ve had more than enough free bread from the center of the table, and I am desperate for some respite. Brian, it seems, has some of the same chromosomal qualities as my mom when it comes to maintaining a conversation without any help at all.

For the past forty minutes, my date has rambled on and on about his boat, named The Brianna.

Brian-na, a weird, female variation of his name.

And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.

The Brianna, according to the way he speaks about it, is not an inanimate object, but a legitimate person.

I actually thought he was talking about his sister or his mom for the first ten minutes, but when he started saying things like “her dinghy” and “her sails,” I realized I had severely misjudged the conversation.

I search the room for excuses and come up with a break to the bathroom as my best option.

“That’s so great.” I force a fake smile to my lips. “But if you don’t mind,” I add and set my napkin on the table. “I’m going to excuse myself to the ladies’ room.”

Brian nods and swirls his bourbon around his glass for the one-millionth time. “When you get back, I’ll tell you about the time I took my boat out to Catalina. It was wild.”

“Fantastic.” I grit my teeth in the form of a fake smile and don’t waste any more time. Instantly, I hop out of my chair and haul ass into the privacy of the restaurant’s bathroom.

Good Lord, if I have to sit through coffee and dessert and listen to him ramble on about that fucking sailboat any longer, I’ll die. Face first, right into some tiramisu, I’ll kick the boredom bucket.