Third Date (16 page)

“Well, if you change your mind, I have his mother’s number.” He smiles again as he lifts his coffee cup to his lips. “She could connect you two.”

“I went out with Grant last night,” I say, changing the subject. “I’m his mentor at work. I told you about him, remember?”

“Yes. The lawyer.”

‘We went out for sushi.”

Dad makes a face. “Ugh. I hate sushi. I thought you hated it, too.”

“I’d never had it before, but now that I have, I won’t be having it again.”

“So do you like Grant?”

“Yeah, he’s nice. He likes different things than I do, so it’s good. He can teach me all about art and design and foreign films. He’s taking me to the Walker Art Center tonight.”

My dad’s giving me that look again, like he knows something I don’t. “Well, I hope you two have fun. I need to keep packing boxes. I have some empty ones in the living room if you want to pack up some of your stuff.”

“Do you think I could pack the boxes, but pick them up tomorrow? Grant is coming to my place tonight and he’s kind of a neat freak. I don’t want to turn him off with a bunch of clutter.”

My dad gets up from the table. “If he likes you, honey, he won’t care about the clutter. But yes, you can pick up the boxes tomorrow.” He kisses the top of my head and goes back to work.

Around noon I return to my apartment and start cleaning. No amount of cleaning will transform my apartment into Grant’s modern, stylish abode, but I’m not going to worry about it. If we’re dating, he has to accept me for who I am, ugly apartment and all, just like I have to accept his love of sushi and odd taste in movies.
 

At 7, he arrives at my apartment wearing a suit and tie. I’m wearing a dark blue dress and black heels. I dressed up because I’m assuming this is a high-end event. I looked it up on the Internet and tickets were $100 a piece.
 

“You look beautiful,” Grant says when he sees me.

“Thank you.” I check him out. He looks really good in his suit but Brad looked even better in his. But that’s not what I should be thinking about.

“We’re a little early. Can I come in?”

He’s still standing in the hallway.

“Of course.” I step aside, holding the door open.

I watch his expression as he sees my place. He probably thinks I’m one of those people who likes to shop at swap meets and garage sales. I don’t. It’s just that I don’t have money for new stuff. All my furniture came from my dad’s house, most of it just stuff that was sitting in the basement. It’s not like it’s dirty or torn. It’s just that compared to Grant’s brand-new, expensive furniture, mine looks a little dated.

I feel like he’s assessing every nook and cranny of my apartment, trying to figure out how to make it more design-friendly.

“It’s not much,” I say, “but it’s all mine.”
 

“I like it. A person’s place says a lot about them. And your place is warm and inviting. Mine’s a little stark, which works for me, but most people wouldn’t want to live there.”

I like that he’s not judging me and that he actually complimented my apartment. It shows he’s open-minded, like I’m trying to be.

Even though we like different things, Grant and I are both open to trying something new. And that might be what makes us work. I can learn from him and he can learn from me. He made me try sushi and I made him watch a comedy that wasn’t British.

At 7:30, we leave for the art center. His Audi is immaculate, just like his house. Even the floor mats are clean. I’m not sure how that’s even possible in the middle of a Minnesota winter. My car is full of salt and sand from the sidewalks and parking lots.
 

When we arrive at the art center, he gives me his arm as we walk through the slippery parking lot. We go inside and present our tickets, then he takes our coats to the coat check area.
 

He takes me to a large open gallery where stations are set up serving wine and appetizers. The place is more crowded than I thought it would be. It’s a mixed crowd of older and younger people, but they all look wealthy.

The women who are my age are wearing dresses that look like they came off a New York runway during fashion week. Their dresses look more like costumes. Some have feathers attached. One looks like it has paint on it. Then I spot a girl wearing a feather headpiece that matches her dress but looks completely ridiculous. Maybe these girls consider their outfits to be wearable art and therefore appropriate for an event at the art center. I don’t know where else you’d wear those outfits.

Two of the girls with the feather dresses walk by us and Grant doesn’t seem at all surprised. He’s probably been to these types of events before and seen people dressed like that. Nobody else seems to think anything of it, either. I guess I’m the only one who finds it strange.
 

I feel completely out of place. I thought my simple blue dress was both classy and elegant but now I look like one of the old ladies. I feel like the women my age are staring at me like
I’m
the odd one for not wearing something more unusual. It’s making me uncomfortable and I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t be here.
 

Grant puts his hand on my back. “There are several different wine tasting stations and we just make our way to each one. Let’s grab a glass and look at some of the art. When was the last time you were here?”

“Um, fourth grade,” I mumble.

“Wow. That’s a long time ago. I came here last weekend when you were gone. They had an artist giving a lecture. I bought a membership so I can come more often and participate in some of the events.”

I like art, but not enough to buy a museum membership. I mean, after you’ve seen the art, how many more times do you need to see it?

We get a glass of wine and walk around the gallery. Grant knows a lot about art. Every time we stop in front of a painting, he tells me about the artist and the artist’s inspiration behind the painting. I remind myself that this is good because I’m learning something new, but truthfully, I’m a little bored.
 

“Can’t you just feel the emotion?” Grant asks as we stare at a large canvas covered in red paint. That’s right. Just red paint. Nothing else. I don’t know what I’m missing here. I take a closer look at it, but it’s just red paint! I guess I don’t get art.

After two hours of this, I’m more than ready to leave. Grant could stay all night. But I tell myself that’s okay. My mom hated football and my dad loves it. And they still got along great.

I endure one more hour of this and then we finally leave.
 

“It’s a great museum, isn’t it?” he asks.
 

“Yeah. I can’t believe I waited so long to go again.” Actually that just confirmed why I waited so long. I could wait another 15 years before going again.
 

“Do you want to get something to eat? There’s a tapas bar not far from here.”

I know the restaurant he’s talking about and it’s just like the sushi place. It’s one of those ultra-trendy, loud, crowded places where we won’t be able to talk. Plus, tapas are very small portions of food and right now I’m starving and need more than a few tiny bites.
 

“How about we just grab a burger?”
 

“Okay. Do you have a place in mind?”

“There’s this funky diner in Saint Paul. You’ll love it. It’s in this old building. And if we go, you have to get one of their milkshakes. They’re the best.”

“That seems like a lot of food to eat this late at night, but if you really want to go there, we can go.”

“Let’s just go somewhere else.”

“Or we could go back to my place and I’ll make us something.”

“That sounds good. Let’s do that.”

I’m expecting him to make something like a grilled cheese sandwich, which sounds really good right now, or even just some tortilla chips with melted cheese and salsa. But instead Grant brings out a tray with brie, red grapes, dried apricots, and fancy crackers.
 

He doesn’t seem to eat normal food. Everything is so gourmet. I’m dying to look in his cupboards. Maybe he’s just trying to make me think he eats this way but his cupboards hide sugary cereal and toaster pastries.
 

He plays some jazz music on his surround sound speakers while we eat. I almost laugh because I keep imagining I’m in one of those commercials for high-end appliances where a young couple is sitting around the granite kitchen island, nibbling on grapes and sipping wine while admiring their shiny new stainless steel refrigerator.
 

The fruit and cheese leave me even more hungry. I’m still craving that burger and milkshake I mentioned earlier, but that ship has sailed. It’s after midnight and even fast food places are closed.

We go to the couch and sit down and he puts his arm behind me. I’m having major deja vu. A similar scene played out with Brad just days earlier. It’s completely ridiculous but I feel kind of guilty sitting here with Grant. But Brad and I aren’t dating. I have no reason to feel guilty.
 

Grant leans over and kisses me, the jazz music surrounding us and filling the loft. Now I’m imagining us in one of those cheesy music videos where the couple makes out as the saxophone plays in the background. This time, I can’t hold my laughter in and I have to break from the kiss.

“What’s so funny?” Grant asks.
 

“Nothing. Sorry.”

I don’t know why I’m finding this so amusing. Grant’s doing his best to make this a romantic evening. The wine event, the cheese platter, the music. I should be loving this.

We kiss again and I focus on the kiss, trying to ignore the music. He’s only kissing me with his lips again and I wonder if that’s all he does. But then I finally feel his tongue and he takes the kiss deeper. I’m expecting that surge of heat to fill my core, like it did with Brad, but it doesn’t. No heat. No tingling. What the hell? This may not be the greatest kiss, but it’s not bad. Grant’s not being overly aggressive or slobbery with the kiss, so what’s my problem? I keep kissing him, hoping I’ll feel more, but I don’t.

Maybe Brad’s kisses ruined me for all other guys. I doubt any other guy could replicate those kisses.

Grant and I continue to kiss but he doesn’t take it any farther than that. I’m relieved. I wasn’t ready for more than kissing tonight.
 

We end the evening at 12:30. He takes me back to my place and walks me to the door. “Did you have a good time tonight?”

“Yeah, it was fun.” It’s kind of a lie. The art museum wasn’t that fun, but it was new and different. And Grant was a total gentleman, like he always is, and I
did
like spending time with him.

“Next time you can pick where we go,” he says. “I seem to pick the wrong places.”

“That’s not true. The museum was great.”

“Come on, Morgan. You totally hated it. I could tell. I was kidding when I asked if you had a good time. I know you didn’t.”

“Maybe it wasn’t my scene, but that’s okay. It’s good to try something new.”

“How about next time we go to that diner you talked about? And maybe a movie. You pick. Whatever movie you want to see.”

I smile. “I don’t typically go to foreign films.”

“That’s okay. Like you said, it’s good to try something new.” He kisses me. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Goodnight, Morgan.”

When I get inside, I feel better about the date. It didn’t start out well but it improved once we got back to his place. I’m definitely attracted to Grant and although his kisses didn’t set off any fireworks, I’m sure they’ll improve once we spend more time together.
 

I check my phone quick before going to bed. I swipe through the hundreds of work emails I have and notice an email from Haverson Foods, the company where Brad is an intern.
 

My heart skips a beat just seeing the company name because I know it’s an email from Brad. I’m so relieved he isn’t mad at me. I open the email.
 

My excitement fizzles as I see that it’s just a form letter from the company that says, “Thanks stopping by our booth!”
 

There’s an attachment and I open it to find a photo. It’s the one of Brad dressed as a gorilla holding me in his arms in front of the jungle scene in the exhibit hall.
 

I can’t stop smiling, not just because it’s a funny picture, but also because it reminds me of Brad. Maybe I should’ve given him my number. I miss talking to him. I want to know what he’s up to and how he’s doing. Maybe we could be friends, like he suggested. Although after the way I ended things, it might be too late for that.
 

***

At work on Monday, I go to the lab where Kayla and Paige are anxiously awaiting details of my dates with Grant. I tell them about the sushi on Friday night and then give them highlights of the museum event on Saturday. I don’t tell them that I didn’t really like the sushi or the art event because I’m trying to be positive about these new experiences. I don’t have to like everything I try and now that I’ve had time to think about it, I’m glad Grant forced me out of my comfort zone.

“This guy sounds perfect,” Paige says. “He actually likes art and it sounds like he knows all about food, too. Didn’t you say he cooks?”

“He sounds gay,” Kayla says. “I didn’t really see that at first, but now I’m definitely thinking he’s gay.”

“Stop saying every guy she dates is gay,” Paige scolds. “It’s so rude. And just because a guy can cook or appreciates art and design doesn’t mean he’s gay.”

Kayla puts her lab coat on. “He barely did anything with her. They kissed. That’s it. That was their third date. He should have at least gone for third base.”

Paige looks at me. “Ignore her, Morgan. It’s good he isn’t pushing you into stuff. It shows he really likes you.”

Kayla looks offended. “What are you saying, Paige? That the guys I date don’t like me? Now
you’re
being rude.”

“That’s not what I meant. I wasn’t talking about you. I’m just saying that some guys like to take things slower if they’re really interested in the girl.”