Chapter Three
Cris
I’m halfway through a glass of wine with my date, and all I’ve managed to do so far is obsess about the “advice” Benji gave me. It wasn’t so much helpful as a hindrance. What he told me burrowed into my brain, which is now an echo chamber of distraction.
Beware small hands.
I’ve been staring at my date’s hands on and off while he’s been talking. I haven’t been able to stop myself. I’m sure he thinks I have some strange fetish.
Do not let him choose the restaurant.
I was too late on that one. My date—Clark—chose an Indian restaurant and I agreed. I love curry, but this place isn’t as good as the restaurant at Grand Marin. I should know since Vivian and I ate there last week. I’m already obsessing over what to order from the menu, and praying I don’t hate it.
And whatever you do, don’t mention you haven’t dated in a while.
After dispensing that piece of advice, Benji narrowed his eyes, gave me an accidentally sexy head-tilt, and asked, “You haven’t dated in a while, have you?”
I flubbed over my answer which was something like, “No, of course not!” followed by a dismissive, “Who has the time?” Now I’m here with Clark, undecided on my dinner, after having blurted the very phrase I was tasked with keeping to myself. “It’s been a while since I’ve dated.”
I actually said that.
My smile is frozen in place as I simultaneously wait for him to react, and consider running out of the restaurant before he can.
His eyebrows are sitting atop his forehead, which is a little too large for his face. He’s pleasant enough to look at, but he’s no Benji.
Not that I’m comparing them.
“How long’s it been?” He casually lifts his draft beer to his mouth. His chin is sort of small. I’ve heard the phrase “weak chin” before, but never understood it. I think Clark is suffering from the condition. I stop staring at his chin, rerouting my attention to his mouth when he licks his lips. His lips are nothing like Benji’s. They lack the fullness I’m so fond of. Clark swipes his mouth with his fingers, and I can’t help noticing his hand is a little small. Also unlike Benji, there is no smile lurking behind that hand. Rather than slanting me a warm smirk that lights his eyes, Clark merely gives me a bland blink.
Anyway. I’m not comparing them.
“Long enough I can’t recall the exact date.” Well, that’s a lie. I’m not even sure why I lied. Maybe nerves? I remember the exact date of my last date. It was the day of my mother’s wedding. One of her weddings. I didn’t go to her last three weddings. Including the most recent, which was not in Vegas like the last two, but in California at a vineyard. She didn’t invite me, and I didn’t offer to show up.
So, I went on a date two and a half years ago. July 2nd. His name was Phillip, and we went to a pottery class. It sounded romantic and sweet but ended up being uncomfortable and inescapable. Either because the class was three hours long, or because Phillip was sculpting the naked torso of his ex-wife and crying about how much he missed her.
Clark blows out a breath, looking bored. “I’m so tired of dating. Tonight is already tedious.”
I blanch.
He catches my expression and smiles. It’s not a warm smirk, but a creepy curl of his thin lips. “No offense.”
“Would you excuse me a moment?” I’m on my feet before I think about it. He waves me off, lifting his beer and draining the mug.
I thank the good Lord the bathroom is by the front door and also behind Clark’s head. He can’t see me when I duck out the exit instead of powdering my nose. Outside, I suck in a gulp of air as relief swamps me.
Freedom.
I walk briskly to my car, looking over my shoulder before enclosing myself inside and taking a deep breath. As I reverse from my parking spot, I send another furtive glance to the door to see if Clark is chasing after me, shaking his fist and demanding I pay for my drink. He’s not there. I drive away feeling as guilty as if I robbed the place.
Nerves and fear give way to anger. Soon, I’m fuming over several things. I’m upset with myself for being a coward and running away. I’m angry at Clark for being so good on text and so abysmal in person. And I have a bone to pick with Benji for planting a dozen poisoned seeds into my head before my first date in two and a half years.
I can’t do much about the other two, but Benji I can confront, which is probably why I drive to his house instead of my own. I slam my car door and stomp up his driveway to the front door, growing angrier along the way. I knock, wait for him to answer, and then knock again. The door swings aside. Instead of being momentarily stunned by his beauty the way I normally am, I throw my hands into the air and roar, “Everything is terrible and it’s all your fault!”
He blinks, does a once-over of me and my dress and heels, and says, “It’s still daylight. What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be on a date?”
I glare and he steps aside, sweeping his arm to invite me in. I tromp past him and into the kitchen where I plunk my purse onto an empty barstool. I hear the front door shut, and then Benji is on the opposite side of the counter regarding me with raised eyebrows.
So, I continue.