Claire
P.S. The FDA is full of a bunch of clueless puppets who couldn’t make a decision on their own if their lives depended on it. Conspiracy, I tell you, conspiracy. Maybe you should take down the entire FDA as your writing topic? Now that is something I could get behind.
I giggle at Claire’s thoroughly thought-out letter. She is the damn nutritionist elf on a shelf. The woman never ceases to amaze me with her food dedication—also known as dictatorship. But between the texts, the date requests, and the random smoothie attachment messages, it is all too early for me to fight back. It’s not even nine o’clock!
I allow Claire these small victories when it comes to food. I do this to keep her from conning me into joining her fad diets with her. Eight months ago, she convinced me that the Carrot Diet was all the rage. We bought ten pounds of carrots for the two of us to consume over a week’s span. They had to be shredded and eaten raw. It was hell. And I am pretty sure they were to blame for my UTI.
I pull out my phone from my bag and text my crazy roommate.
Angie: You killed my breakfast, now you owe me lunch. And it can be one that the FDA does or does not approve of.
I smile as I click “send.” It doesn’t take long to make her bite.
Claire: Deal! Chicken wings (for you) and a cheese plate! Claire Nettles approved, nuff said.
I grab a bottle of vitamin-infused water and head out the door. I better enjoy every last drop of it before Claire finds something inadvertently wrong with it and outlaws it from our residence.
* * *
I smile to myself in the parking lot as I check my phone for any missed calls or messages. One missed call and voicemail. I don’t recognize the number as I press the buttons to retrieve the message.
As soon as his smooth voice starts on the other end, I know instantly who it is. “Hello Angie, this is Graham Hoffman. I’m calling to see if you would like to join me for lunch today. You can save my number in your phone and call or text your response. I am flexible today and am able to be free until three p.m. I’m sorry I was unable to accompany you to your door last night. I hope that you enjoyed your prize.”
I swallow the knot forming in my throat down to the base of my neck. A fraction of my girly side is disappointed that I have plans already. The more rational—less fun—side of me is pleased that I am genuinely busy. I don’t need this type of confusion in my life right now.
I listen to the message one more time, laughing at the way he specifies his last name. Really, how many Grahams does he think I know? He’s the only Graham I have ever met. I save the number to my contacts list and open a blank text message and start typing.
Angie: Plans with Claire. Sorry.
I hit “send” and wait for a response. He does not disappoint.
Graham: How about tonight for dinner? I’ll clear my schedule. Pick you up at 6?
As savvy as Graham appears to be, surely he saw that I am booked for tonight with a nameless date. Did he expect me to cancel for him? I ponder a reply that will appease him, although it lacks creativity.
Angie: Busy tonight. Sorry.
Graham: What’s his name?
I suck in a deep breath, although it does nothing to calm me down. As little as I know about Graham, this was not out of character. He appears to be a bold man who does not back down. I have zero experience dealing with persistence. To a typical man, the words “I’m busy” usually imply “I’m not interested.” But do I even want Graham to give up?
Angie: I have to go.
I dash through the parking lot before I am any more minutes late to my class. Avoidance is a great coping mechanism. My phone buzzes in my purse indicating a call. I ignore it, knowing without looking that it is Graham.
He repeats the calling four more times.
I ignore him.
10
“Sounds like a complete douchebag,” Claire responds in regard to my list of things to do before the date tonight with Mark. She rips off a piece of bread slathered with brie and shoves it in her mouth, moaning with each lick of her fingers—earning curious stares from every male above the age of twelve. “This is delicious. Worth every single calorie.”
“I’m in agreement,” I laugh, getting my fill of the food as well.
“Good, because I am rarely wrong.”
We have a window seat at a trendy converted-warehouse restaurant in the Pearl District. We watch as boat owners take their vessels out on the Willamette River. In one of them, a middle-aged couple relaxes in the glass-windowed cabin, sharing a glass of wine.