He’s not the man for me.
Based on what I know, he’d be the perfect man for a kind, good woman.
In other words, anyone but me.
Frankly, I’m surprised he’s still single.
He’s polite, courteous, and attentive. His good manners are a bonus.
Adele was right. He is a catch. Too bad he’s not my catch. Unless he has a basement full of decomposed bodies or swings naked from a chandelier, he could make someone very happy, but not me.
I catch him studying me, his face flushed. He’s definitely a nice guy, and for some reason, he seems intimidated by women in general and me in particular.
Adele and Mark invite us to their place as soon as we finish dinner. Located halfway between my place and downtown and minutes away from the hospital where she works, their house is part of a subdivision in a nice area with custom-made homes.
Many, like theirs, have a lake view.
Despite living not far from me, I’ve never invited them to my place.
For practical reasons, if nothing else. It’s hard to explain a 1.5 million dollar home when you’re twenty-four, have no degree, and are single. So I keep my mouth shut and my life private.
As the men settle in the living room, clashing ideas in a political debate, Adele and I head to the kitchen.
It’s a beautiful, cozy space with wood cabinets, stainless steel appliances, and a large breakfast table. Potted plants sit on the counters.
“Nothing for me,” I say as she sets four cups on a serving platter.
“You should try it. That's why I insisted on skipping dessert at the restaurant. This is by far the best ice cream I’ve ever had.”
“Okay… I’ll taste it then. Just a little.”
“It’s not like you need a diet,” she says, her gaze sliding down on me.
“It’s not about dieting. I get a sugar rush and can’t sleep. I’m like a seven-year-old.”
“I see… So what do you think?” she asks, scooping out ice cream from three containers, all bearing the label of the same Italian store.
Tilting her chin up, she motions to the living room.
“I think he’s a great guy,” I say. “Like Mark. And he needs a woman like you,” I add, grinning.
“Flattering. But what do you really think?”
“It’s the truth.”
“Well… I think he likes you.”
“He probably does,” I murmur, saddened.
“He would treat you nicely,” she says, styling the food.
“Let me do it.”
I push to my feet and nudge her to the side.
“Do you have any cream?” I ask.
“Yes.”