Chapter One
Takira
Twelve Years Later
“So what do you do?” the man seated across from me asks.
You mean besides meet random people online over and over on Groundhog dates, only to be disappointed time and time again?
“Um,” I say aloud instead. “I do hair and makeup.”
“Ahhhh,” Calvin—if that’s even his real name—says. “Right. That was on your profile. Like in a salon or something?”
“Mostly in entertainment. Film, television, photo shoots. Stuff like that.”
“Oh.” Calvin’s brows lift as if I’ve impressed him. “Any stuff I’d know?”
“Well, I just wrapped on that new Canon Holt biopic, Dessi Blue. Have you heard of it?”
“Wow. Yeah.” If possible, Calvin’s brows climb even higher but then dip into a disapproving V over his eyes. “You must be pretty successful, huh?”
Oh, Lord. One of them?
If they aren’t sleeping on your couch and asking for gas money, they’re pissed off and intimidated that you earn more than they do. Or they’re so obsessed with making money they barely have time to take you out and get you off before the night is over. I swear, the last guy may as well have had one hand on his phone and one between my legs with the little bit of attention he paid me. How do you get lost down there? And yet, a surprising number of men seem unable to find their way around a clit these days.
“I do all right,” I say warily, casting a longing glance toward the door leading to the street. “What about you? Your profile said you’re an artist. That’s exciting. Would I see your art anywhere? Shows? Exhibits?”
“I mostly do drawings at events. Kids’ birthday parties, bar mitzvahs—stuff like that,” he says, the look he offers a little sheepish. “I didn’t think that sounded as good so I may have flubbed a little on my profile.”
Flubbed a little?
The only apparent similarities between Calvin and his dating app profile is that he is actually a man. When I entered the restaurant, I walked right past him, not realizing the guy standing by the door who was maybe an inch shorter than I am was supposed to be the six-foot-four Adonis from the profile pic.
“Drawing is really…cool,” I murmur, picking up my menu and immediately going straight for the drinks like a heat-seeking missile. “Should we order?”
An hour later, I can feel my brain mushing. I wouldn’t be surprised if my soul is oozing from my ears. If this date is a preview of hell, I’m running up the aisle and falling on the altar this Sunday. Begging God to hear my cry. It’s not because this man ekes out his living drawing children at parties. At least he’s gainfully employed, which is more than I can say for Bart from Hinge. It’s not because he tells the server it will be separate checks as soon as she takes our drink order. Gary from Match didn’t even bother bringing his wallet. Calvin’s dull, sure, but Ginger from Plenty of Fish regaled me about the wonders of her work as a shoe fitter the entire date.
The problem is I’m completely unmoved by Calvin. Not a flutter in my belly. Not a pussy twitch. Not a quickening pulse. My heart may as well be a lump of clay in my chest. I’m so tired of going on these dates hoping to feel something and feeling absolutely nothing.
I’m considering another drink when the phone in my purse rings.
“You need to get that?” Calvin asks.
“Oh!” My hands practically shake fumbling to reach my bag, my lifeline. “Yeah, I do.”
I didn’t ask anyone to do the ol’ call to interrupt a bad date trick, but this is evidence that God must still be on my side. I barely even glance at the screen before I answer. I’d talk to a scammer right now to get out of here.
“Hello,” I say breathlessly, feigning an apologetic look to Calvin.
“Hey, boo,” my best friend Neevah booms from the other line. “What you doing?”
“I’m on a…a date,” I lend weight to the word because Neevah is the one who endures my belly aching every time a date crashes and burns.
“Oh, shit. What should I have?” Neevah whispers. “Appendicitis? Broken bone? I’m too superstitious to fake a death in the family.”
“It’s fine,” I say, keeping my tone even and flashing a reassuring smile at Calvin. “What’s going on?”
“You know Lotus Ross?” Neevah asks. “The fashion designer?”