I offer my best friend a warm smile. He’s sweet.
“Give me your phone.” He holds out a palm.
“No.” I’m already suspicious of his motives. “Why?”
“I’ll set up your next date. I can’t bear to watch you go through this again. Maybe I can offer some insight. I am a guy, you know.”
“You are a guy,” I agree, mentally adding a few adjectives. Hot. Gorgeous. Funny. Intelligent. Good with his hands… I mean because he woodworks as a hobby, not that he—never mind.
“Show me the candidates.” He claps once. “Let’s do this.”
“Hard pass, boss. I’m not letting you choose.” I’m embarrassed about not being able to make it through a dinner. Tonight I didn’t even make it to a dinner. The last thing I need is Benji going through the candidates on the app and pointing out how small their hands are.
His turn to give me a bland blink. “Cris, it’s eight thirty at night. I am not your boss right now.”
“Don’t play the best-friend card. I wouldn’t let any of my friends choose my date.” I fold my arms over my chest in challenge.
“Is your phone in your purse?” He’s already off the stool and rounding the couch where my purse is sitting. Unattended. Rather than dig through my personal items, he plunks the bag onto my lap. “Do you need a shot of tequila to bolster your courage?”
“If I have a shot of tequila, I’ll have to sleep on your couch.” I swear I see a flash of heat…or something…in his eyes. It banks instantly when he smiles, making me wonder if I imagined it.
“No tequila. Got it.” He holds out his hand. “Phone.”
I fish my phone from my purse. I do not hand it to him. “Here’s the deal. You see only the screens I want you to see. And you can have a vote, but not the final say.”
“Deal.” He holds up a finger. “But you have to set the date for this weekend, and you have to insist on picking the restaurant. Also, if there’s a picture of his hands I want to see it.”
I burst out laughing. I knew it.
Half an hour and more laughter later, both plates of enchiladas have been annihilated and we’ve combed through the database on the app. We’ve narrowed my options down to two men. Benji approves of neither but admitted they were as good as we were going to find on the “stupid app.” He maintains this is a compliment to me rather than an insult. I remind him I know whose side he’s on.
Mine. Always. That’s how he became my best friend, after all.
“Should we flip a coin?” he asks.
“No. I choose Dennis. Except he shares a name with my brother, which is a little disturbing.”
“Agreed. What about the other guy? What’s-his-name.”
“Rick.”
He makes a face. “If you must. Make sure he’s available this weekend. Do you need help drafting your message?”
I whip my head around. “I’m insulted. Do you know how many emails I draft on any given day? I am capable of texting coherently.”
He holds up his hands in surrender. I type in a message to Rick, telling him I’m available on Saturday. I look up to ask Benji if I should suggest Italian food, but he’s staring forlornly at his margarita glass, so I don’t.
“Done,” I say after I hit send.
“Which restaurant did you pick?” His smile appears a touch disingenuous, but it is going on eleven o’clock, so maybe he’s just tired.
“Piccoly’s.”
“Italian. Nice choice.”
“Hey, if I’m lucky I’ll get to eat there.”
His laugh is forced. I assume I’ve overstayed my welcome.