On the Rocks (24 page)

Meanwhile, I spent a few days trying to get myself mentally prepared for my date. It was the second week of July, and I was ready for this little project to finally start to produce results. I couldn’t decide what to wear and had gone through the contents of my entire closet twice before I admitted that I needed some reinforcement.

“What do you think?” I asked Lara as I did one last spin in front of the mirror. “Does this dress cover my love handles or do I look fat?” Lara had stopped by on her way home from work to wish me luck and give me final outfit approval. I was so happy that I had Lara to hang out with while Grace spent the workweek in the city. Without her, I’d have had to ask Bobby or Wolf what they thought of my outfit, and since Wolf thought that it was hot if a girl wore a dirndl and Bobby adhered to the less-is-more mentality, I doubted that either of them would have been of much help.

“I think you look cute. I don’t really know what girls wear on dates anymore, but I like it.”

“Did you used to freak out about this stuff when you were dating your husband?” I asked.

She ran her hand through her hair and tucked it behind her ear. “I used to freak out about everything. I thought my husband was the most handsome man in the world when we were dating. I used to worry that if I didn’t look perfect or act perfect or be the perfect girlfriend, he’d break up with me or something. It wasn’t normal. Just remember that the guys you want to be with are supposed to make you feel comfortable, not crazy. Trust me when I tell you I learned that one the hard way.” She began to spin her rings, as per usual, but now I wondered if she did it out of endearment or habit, or because she felt like her finger was wearing a handcuff she wished she could remove.

“That’s a good rule! You’re right. It’s just dinner. How bad could it be?” I realized that Lara always seemed sad and a bit disillusioned, except for the few times I’d seen her talk about her husband. Then she just seemed seriously pissed off.

“It’ll be fine,” she said. “My idea of an exciting night these days consists of ice cream and a romance novel. I’ll be lucky if I’m awake at ten.”

“Ice cream and a book sound pretty good to me,” I admitted, smoothing wayward frizz along my hairline. “Part of me wishes I was doing that too.” I thought fondly of many cozy nights with my friends from the freezer.

“No, you don’t,” she said as she stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. “I admire you, Abby. I think it’s great you’re dating. You’re out of your rut. That’s not easy to do.”

“I don’t think I’m quite out of it yet, but this is a good start.”

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” she asked as she handed me a stack of bracelets.

“Shoot.”

“Do people make out on first dates these days? I mean, this isn’t college where you leave a keg party bombed at 2:30
A.M
. How do dates even end? Are you going to shake his hand or something?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. But thank you for sufficiently freaking me out,” I said.

“Carrie Bradshaw never shook anyone’s hand, I don’t think,” Lara said. I couldn’t tell if she was remembering her dating years fondly or cursing fate for some of the decisions she had made along the way––most likely the ones that landed her in Rhode Island and her husband of three years in Massachusetts for months at a clip.

“Carrie Bradshaw also lived in Chanel couture despite making three cents a word at a newspaper people used to line their birdcages. I don’t think she should be my role model. The real world is a little different. I think.”

“So then what’s the answer?” Lara asked. Despite my efforts to go on dates, I realized I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about what that actually meant. Shit.

“I won’t shake his hand. But maybe I’ll give him a high-five or something,” I said, only partially kidding.

“Interesting. You’re right. Maybe that’s better,” she said, nodding.

We were educated women in our early thirties, and we were debating the merits of high-fiving a guy at the end of a date. Something was seriously wrong with us.

“Have fun,” she said as I did one last check to make sure my body shaper wasn’t showing. “I’m going to stop at the grocery store, cook dinner, and go to bed, so no matter what happens, you’ll have a better night than I will. Think of it that way.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, hoping that maybe Lara would open up if I just gave her the opportunity. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here for you.”

“I’m fine!” she said with way too much enthusiasm. “Go, get out of here, don’t worry about us boring married ladies.”

We walked out to the driveway, and I waited for her to buckle herself into the front seat of her car. “Have fun tonight. Call me tomorrow and let me know if he’s a good hand-shaker,” she joked.

“You got it! Have a good night,” I said as she pulled out of the driveway and I headed into town for my very first date in a very long time. I had just hit the sidewalk when my phone beeped.

I had a pretty brutal day and could use a laugh. You around?

Sorry, gotta run. I have a date.

I stared at the message I sent just to make sure that I actually wrote what I thought I just wrote.
Ha!
I said out loud to my phone as if Ben could somehow hear me.
I don’t need you and I don’t want you! I have a hot date with a hot guy at a hot restaurant.
How do you like me now?
I was so proud of myself when I put my phone back in my bag that I actually began to strut. The truth was, I was happy he had a bad day, and even happier that I couldn’t help him even if I’d wanted to. I had somewhere to be. I had a date.

Damn, that felt good to say. And even better to actually mean it.

The Black Pearl was one of Newport’s most popular restaurants. The food was great, the crowd was lively, and it was located on the pier near the water. So far as date spots go, it was a no-brainer. I entered the restaurant and found Pete waiting at the bar. He was drinking a draft beer, wearing a blue golf shirt, pink pants, and a whale-patterned belt. I stopped in my tracks at the door, taking in the sight of him and his very, very pink pants and reminded myself that I was not going to be hypercritical of him because of his wardrobe. Real men wear pink, and every girl knew that once you started dating a guy you could change all of his clothes. So I figured I could handle it for now and then burn his pants and any item of clothing with fish stitched into the fabric when the timing was right. Like date number two. Besides, I already knew what I needed to know to make him an acceptable dating candidate: he was nice, he was funny, he was an architect, and he actually followed through on making dinner reservations. Those were not bad qualities in a guy.

I tapped him lightly on the shoulder and waved hello. “Hey there,” I said with a smile, trying to sound effortlessly friendly and not at all nervous that my Spanx suit was riding up.

“Hey,” he said as he pecked me awkwardly on the cheek. “You look very nice.”

“Thanks, so do you.” And he did. The pink pants were growing on me.

“Are you ready to sit? I think our table’s ready.”

“Absolutely. I haven’t eaten here yet. I hear the food is amazing.”

“Best clam chowder in the world,” he said confidently.

“Careful, I’m from Boston. Those are fighting words.”

He smiled and grabbed his beer off the bar before he stood, leaning over to pick something up off the floor. “Here,” he said sheepishly. “These are for you.”

He thrust a bouquet of roses at me. Bright, vivid purple roses. I didn’t know roses came in that particular shade of, well, Barney-the-dinosaur purple. I felt awkward holding them, like some kind of pageant contestant, but I reminded myself to appreciate the gesture. Grace was right, I had to stop finding flaws in guys who were too nice. These were the first flowers I had received in years, and I was pretty sure that the guys who bring you flowers are supposed to be considered the good ones. Even if they do have questionable taste in said flowers. And pants.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful,” I said as I held them up to my nose to smell them.

“I’m glad you like them. I wasn’t sure guys still gave flowers on dates. Did I overdo it?” he asked shyly.

“Not at all. It’s a really sweet gesture.”

“Good. Let’s sit,” he said. “I’m starved.”

We followed the hostess to a small wooden table in the back by the windows that overlooked the wharf. I gently placed the flowers on the floor and prayed that I wouldn’t forget they were there and accidentally crush them with my chair during dinner.

He passed me the wine list and asked, “Do you prefer red or white?”

“It’s kind of hot out, so I’d prefer white, but I’m fine with anything.”

“Great. So am I, so why don’t you pick a bottle?”

“Sure,” I said as I glanced at the list. I didn’t know a whole lot about wine, so I found a reasonably priced bottle of Sauvignon Blanc and pointed to the number as the waitress looked over my shoulder.

“I’ll be right back to take your order,” the waitress said as she left to get our wine.

Once she was gone, Pete wasted no time diving into the topic I had been praying he’d avoid. Bobby.

“So, Bobby seems like a funny guy.”

“Yeah, I’m sorry about him. He’s cool, but he has an offbeat sense of humor. I wasn’t sure how I felt about him when we first met, but he’s a good friend.”

“He seemed to like embarrassing you.”

“I guess. He’s harmless, I promise.”

“Was he drunk?”

“Sadly, no. That was him dead sober. You can imagine what he’s like after a few cocktails.”

“You seemed to handle yourself pretty well. You were actually pretty funny too. A lot of girls probably would’ve started to cry.”

“Thanks, I try.”

“I like that about you. I like girls with a little fight in them. It was a nice surprise.”

If this was what dating was like, I had been worried for nothing. It wasn’t so scary after all. Truth be told, talking to Pete was easier than talking to Ben had been for the last few months of our relationship. Maybe I would have noticed that if I’d had something to compare it to. The waitress took our orders, and we continued to have the kind of easy conversation I had thought was impossible for first dates. My heart fluttered in my chest when he spoke, a feeling I had long since forgotten and feared was gone forever. Just like that, it was back, and I felt Ben’s hold on me loosen a bit more.

After a fantastic lobster dinner, the waitress cleared our plates and brought us a dessert menu, which I politely pushed to the side. I thought the date was going great, but I didn’t want to assume that Pete wanted the night to continue. I also couldn’t afford to eat dessert with the wedding only a week away.

“Do you want dessert?” he asked as he scanned the menu.

“No, I’m okay. I don’t have much of a sweet tooth,” I lied. I wasn’t one of those girls who didn’t eat on dates, but I also didn’t need to be one who licked ice cream off a plate either.

“I’m not in the mood for dessert, but I thought the wine you picked was pretty great. Would you be up for ordering another bottle? If you want to get home, I understand, but I don’t think I’m ready for the night to end yet. I hope that doesn’t sound creepy.”

I smiled wide. “I think another bottle is a great idea. I’m having a nice time.”

“Me too,” he agreed as he waved the waitress over and ordered another bottle, and my insides continued to flutter, just a little, at the potential and possibility of Pete.

A
N HOUR LATER
I
STOMPED
up the stairs to the deck cursing and bashing anything within reach with the newly decapitated beauty queen flowers. I was reeling from shock. And embarrassment. And confusion. I was planning on throwing the flower stems in the garbage, myself on the couch, and my optimism out the window. Unfortunately, fate once again had other plans for me.

“She’s back!” Bobby yelled from a chair on the deck. He was almost invisible in the darkness, save for the orange glow of his cigarette. “How’d it go?”

“Don’t you ever go home?” I asked, embarrassed that I was going to have to relive this for him. Once was way more than enough.

“We don’t have any food at our place. Plus, I was waiting for you to get back. I feel like a proud papa sending my little girl out on her first big girl date.”

“I don’t think I can talk about it. It’s too ridiculous.” I sighed in frustration.

“Oh, stop exaggerating. What happened? Did he refuse to give you his varsity jacket or something?”

“Bobby, I just had one of the worst dates ever. I mean it.”

“Okay, again, I’m sure you’re exaggerating, but I’ll bite. Tell me what happened,” Bobby said as he battled a yawn.

I began to pace back and forth across the splintered deck in front of the grill, my anger making it impossible for me to stand still. “I can’t believe that just happened,” I said.

“You realize I’m still waiting for you to tell me, right?” Bobby sighed under his breath as he finished his beer and fished another one from the partially melted ice in the cooler at his feet. Finally, he noticed the remains of the flowers I was still holding in my hands.

“What happened to those flowers?” he asked.

“I beat them against a lamppost on the way home. Anyway . . .”

Bobby interrupted me. “Wait.” He laughed. “Are you seriously telling me that a date that started with dinner at the Black Pearl and roses went so badly that you had to destroy them on the three-block walk home? I give up. You might actually be beyond repair.”

“Oh please. They’re fucking purple. His pants were pink, and his flowers were purple. I should’ve known something was off.”

“So the guy has bad taste in flowers, and apparently in pants, but I’m still not seeing the big problem here. Unless he was gay. Was he?” Bobby asked.

“No, and I was fine with his penchant for pastels. I really was. Everything was going great, and then the check came.”

“Oh God. Tell me he made you split the bill,” Bobby asked, placing his beer on the table as he waited for my answer.