She pointed at me and told me if I ever needed help finding a woman, she'd hook me up.
I chuckled. Back then, I was a cocky fool. I thought I knew all sorts of things about love, women, sex. I didn't have a fucking clue, especially not about love.
I was too busy thinking about myself to know anything about anyone else's needs. Still, I got to know Helena and Max over the years, living in LA, and I appreciated their romance. He'd buy her flowers. He'd make a point to tell the guys that worked out at the gym that he was leaving early to take his woman out on the town. Hell, he'd get a yacht and take her out on the marina. They'd go away for the weekend. I'd ask where to? They'd be off to Catalina or Las Vegas. One time he flew her to Paris, just because, he said. I knew they had money, old money, Greek money, but it wasn't just about that. It was about the way they used it. Not to flaunt it, but to love one another up.
Now, as I'm driving myself away from my mountains toward the city, I'm getting all sentimental about those two, but I can't help it. The way they looked at each other, fuck, it was cute. And I appreciate that when it finally was time to call Helena up and ask for some help, she gave me what I needed – and fast.
"I think this might be a bad idea," she told me over FaceTime.
She wagged her manicured finger at me, as if I were standing in front of her at her husband's gym.
"I know, but I've got to go to dinner."
"This girl, she is special," Helena said.
"You think she'll come?"
Helena sighed. "She wants…"
"What?" I asked. "What does she want?"
Helen just nodded. "I think this will go well."
"Why? It's just a dinner date. It's just a match. This isn't a proposal."
"Oh, I know. I know it's just a match. It's just dinner. But I think this will go very, very well."
"How can you be so certain?" I asked. "All I need to know is that she's going to say the right thing at the right time, and that the restaurant owner is going to think we're a couple. You think we'll come across like a couple? You've met her, right?"
"Oh, I've met her several times. She's very eager. Very outgoing, very pleasant."
"Good. Because I'm a little bit..."
Helen chuckled. "A little bit of an asshole?"
"Something like that," I said with a shrug. "But you promise this will go well?"
"I can't make guarantees."
I laughed. "I thought your matches were a hundred-percent guaranteed?"
"No, that's not how my business works."
"You're a matchmaker, and you can't guarantee a match?"
"No, that's up to the clients to decide. You have to decide what you want from this."
"What does she want from this?" I asked. "What's her name again?"
"Story."
"Her name's Story?"
Helena smiled. "Yes. And your name's True."
"Truett." I said, adding the extra T's.
"Truett and Story. True Story." Helena repeats. "See, I think it's a match made in heaven."
I shake my head. "Yeah. And what's her last name?"
"Cook." Helena said with a laugh.
"You've got to be kidding me. Baker and Cook?"
Helena shrugs. "See? I'm good at my job."
"No, I think you just saw her name and thought it would be funny."
"No, I think it's perfect."
"And what does she do for a living?" I ask. "No, don't tell me. I don't want to know."
Helena clapped her hands together. "See, you understand my sense of humor."
"Let me guess. She’s a baker since I’m a cook."
Helena grins. "See, you knew it."
"Really. Truett Baker is going out with Story Cook."
Helena has a twinkle in her eye. "I know you say it's just dinner, but go with an open mind, Truett. You've been waiting a long time to be happy. Maybe this is the storybook ending you've been waiting for."
"Maybe I'm just really fucking hungry." I ended the call and jumped in the car after getting dressed.
Now, as I'm pulling up to Story's apartment, I'm wondering what the fuck I've gotten myself into.
I wanted dinner, but do I want all this?
Still, I want it to go well.
Maybe my mom got into my head.
Maybe too many articles in the LA Times are to blame, but I'm hungry and I'm lonely.
And I want more than what I've got.
So hell, it's Story time.
4
Story
"I wouldn't call it hyperventilating, I would just say overthinking. Overanalyzing.” I groan. “This is a terrible idea."
"Well, what are you wearing?" Carla asks.
I hold up the phone and show her what I have on. My old college roommate is watching me get ready and she winces. That's not a good sign. "What am I supposed to do, Carla? I don't have anything else to wear. I don't know where we're going to dinner. He's like rich rich, and kind of well-known. He's going to take one look at my apartment and think–"