Chapter Seven: Blind Date
My blind date was precisely 10 minutes late. This meant I'd been waiting at this stupid restaurant for twenty, which was already a negative mark against this guy. I like order. Not the line everything up in specific ascending or descending order but the arrive on time kind. I despised being late. Mr. blind date lateness added to the irritation of this week. So much had happened in just four days. I went from a boring life, quietly going through the motions of my various roles, to divorced, angry, and sexually frustrated. I rechecked my watch, hating the seconds ticking by. I'm sure Grant wouldn't be late. My eyes widened by that thought. Where had it come from? I shouldn't have this kind of thought about a man I had a one-night stand with. I didn't know anything about Grant besides how good in bed he was, his hockey stats, and his hatred of interviews. On the other hand, I knew about the same about my date. Ellie said he was a co-worker's brother who recently divorced his high school sweetheart. The short bio she read me sounded sweet on paper, but I squirmed with apprehension. Ben had checked off all the boxes at some point too. I send a silent prayer to whoever is listening that he isn't a perv or serial killer.
My fingers tore at the paper napkin for another ten minutes. I grew annoyed that this seemingly lovely restaurant would use wasteful paper napkins instead of reusable fabric ones. It's silly to project my irritation onto the place's napkin choices. A sinking feeling began as I realized maybe I was stood up. Twenty minutes late to a first date, this was strike one. Tears welled up in my eyes, and I felt the same unwanted sting that I'd felt so often through the years of my marriage. No, This was not happening. I would not be this weak again! I was worth more, and I will not sit here feeling less because of some dude. I grabbed my stuff and pushed back my tears. Just as I was about to leave, the hostess appeared with a suave-looking man. He was the same height as me, with manicured features and clean-shaven business casual attire. In the looks department, I could see the appeal, but flaming lust-inducing hot, he was not. I forced my mind to focus on the man in front of me rather than the one who starred in every one of my fantasies since our eyes met. The hostess gestured to the table I stood next to. The man outstretched his hand, "Hi, you must be Violet. I am Steve."
I gave him a polite smile and shook his extremely dry hand. "Yep, that's me. So nice to meet you."
"Sorry, I'm late. My ex-wife was being an overly dramatic pain. As per usual."
I cringed internally at his phrasing. Behind clenched teeth, I managed another polite smile: "I hope it all worked out."
"Yep. I just gently reminded her of our custody agreement." He snapped for the waiter, quickly ordering a robust alcoholic drink. I try not to let my disgust and annoyance show on my face, but I seriously hate when people snap at staff like they are dogs. Everything about this guy already gave me the creeps. There had to be some redeeming quality to him. Our eyes met, and I grew hopeful at the sight of cloudy blue eyes. I tried to feel anything besides disappointment that they weren't cobalt whirlpools of lustful amusement. I may have been out of the dating game for too long. That's why I couldn't stop thinking about Grant.
"Oh, you have kids?"
"Part-time," he corrected. I stared at him in confusion, and once he had his drink in hand, he amended, "I have the kids part-time. My ex-wife has them most of the time."
I sat back; what kind of father gave an answer like that? The part-time kind. I should give him the benefit of the doubt. Maybe his kids were a sore subject for him, which might explain the detached tone. It was for me, at least. Steve took a huge gulp, sat forward, and flirtatiously checked me out, "So besides being hot AF, what do you do?"
"Um. I'm a sports journalist." I took a sip of my water, feeling extremely uncomfortable.
"So, like, an anchor or a weather girl?" He licked his lips, leaving a line of saliva around the outside. I suppressed the urge to gag. Could another human being really be this disgusting? He sat back with his hands held up. "I'm now picturing you with a microphone and interviewing players."
"No, not like a weather girl. Meteorologists have very different jobs. I write articles, do various interviews, update stats pages, and do bios on occasion."
"Wow! A chick who is into sports!" Steve grinned condescendingly. The waiter returned, and Steve ordered for both of us. I tried to protest, but Steve held up his hand. "I've got you, sweetheart. The steak here is amaz-ballz. You have to try it. Trust me!"
But I didn't trust this dude. I don't even think I like this guy. Strike two: Ben always ordered for me and would frequently forget my allergies to shellfish. Every time I brought up how much I hated it, he would counter that I was ungrateful for his attempt at being romantic. According to him, all women viewed taking charge like that sexy. It's only sexy in the proper context and without the fear of possibly dying.
As the dinner continued, we fell into a one-sided conversation about women's role in sports, his ex-wife and the annoyances of fatherhood, the woke culture ruining today's work ethics, etc. To top this horrible date off, the steak was overcooked and way too seasoned. Amaz-ballz was not a word I would ever use to describe anything, let alone this meal. I couldn't stand much more of this.
"Excuse me, I have to use the powder room." I interrupted his monologue about some new-age conspiracy, grabbed my purse, and headed toward the bathroom. I locked the door and began my business. I texted Ellie that the date sucked, and she owed me. I was trying really hard not to scream. I would be single forever if this was what the dating pool was like. Not that marriage was much better because I felt trapped in that loneliness. I had pretty much lived a single life for the last year with the excuse of still being married, and I was tired of being alone. One lousy date was not the end all be all. I finished up, washed my hands, and Steve was waiting in front of the door when I opened it. He smiled creepily. Was that supposed to be sexy? Then he took a step toward me. I put up my hands, "What do you think you're doing?"
His smile dropped into a dopey grin, "Uh, Bathroom hook-up?"
"What?" My face twisted up in disgust, "No."
"You gave me the code." He whined like I knew what he was talking about. Why the fuck would I ever want to have a bathroom hook-up, let alone have one with a whiny man-child? I definitely didn't give any indication or code in the last hour of his ramblings to suggest I would. When I just stared at him, he grunted in frustration, looking up and down the hallway. He leaned in, "Come on! You said 'powder room,' which is code for bathroom sex."
I silently cursed my mother and her Southern manners; she insisted we learn. Strike three: this dude was out. "Sorry, PAL, but I meant I needed to pee. We are definitely not having sex. In the bathroom or anywhere else. EVER."
I pushed past him to head down the hall to the front door to leave when Steve grabbed my arm, "Hey, I don't like being jerked around by a damn tease!"
I tried to free my arm, but Steve invaded my personal space. My body tensed under his sudden, overwhelming presence, and I tried to recall all the moves I'd learned for self-defense. Shit, I should've gone to more of those 6 am classes with Sarah because right now, my mind is blank. That creepy smile of his widened, and he leaned in further. I desperately tried to yank free again, I turned slightly so my body wouldn't be flush against him.
"Is there a problem here?"
I smiled at the voice behind me, relief flooding through me. I called out, "Tanner Bright!"