I was getting really sick of that word, “technology.” Heck, I was starting to loathe the whole concept.
“Leave your phone with me,” Una said. “I’ll set up your account while I’m waiting.”
Smoothing my hair down, I followed Fred over to his workspace and took a seat on the carpet-covered box in the middle of the floor. “So, you’re one of Una’s followers,” I said, making conversation. He’d be the kind of person she’d send my way, one of the people looking at all my photos of what—cookies and roast beef?
“Now I am.” He adjusted something on his camera. He was slightly older than me, probably in his late forties or early fifties, and had an “artistic guy” persona, what with the Birkenstocks, the hair knotted skillfully into a bun behind his head, and a threadbare “Save the Planet” T-shirt. He looked over at me. “I saw she was holding a yoga class at the resort, and I decided to give it a whirl. That’s one of my post-divorce goals, to try new things.”
That hit home in a way my daughter’s snarkiness couldn’t. Fred and I had an automatic bond. “I’m recently divorced, too,” I said.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Thanks, but it’s all right.”
He stepped over and motioned for me to tilt my head toward the light. “May I?”
I nodded, and he guided my chin to where he wanted it. “What kinds of things have you tried since your divorce?” I asked.
“Oh…” He went back to his camera and looked through the lens. “Golf, gardening, skydiving…”
“Yikes,” I said. “No, thank you.” Some people had their bucket lists, but there were a number of activities I was fine with not trying before I died—skydiving was one of them. Gardening, too, for that matter. At my old house, I couldn’t even keep my grass alive.
“I’m also trying to eat my way through Wackernagel,” Fred said, “to try every restaurant in town.”
“Now that’s more my speed,” I said, smiling.
He looked up from the camera, his eyes focused hard on me. I straightened, making sure my chin was still exactly where he’d placed it. “You should come,” he said.
My stomach took the express elevator to my knees. “Come where?”
“With me. To dinner.”
I felt my face heat up. Fred, this guy with the hippie glasses and hair he’d probably been growing since 1991, was asking me out. Maybe. “Is this a date?” I asked.
A flicker of a smile crossed his lips. “I mean, I mentioned it because Una said you were a foodie blogger or whatever, but yeah, sure. A date.”
Whoa. Talk about new things.
“Wow,” I said. “I… Wow.” I’d barely even dared to think about dating since the divorce. My married girlfriends back home used to talk about how exciting it was going to be for me to be back on the dating scene, but the thought had only ever given me hives.
Other than that brief moment the other night when I kissed a stranger who ended up being my boss. That was exciting.
“It’s okay if you’re not interested.” Fred fiddled with his camera again, and I got the sense that the Birkenstocks were no lie. He really was that chill. I could say yes or no, and he’d be fine either way.
“It’s not that,” I said, frowning. I wasn’t sure Fred was my type, but then, I’d never really had a chance to figure out who my type was, had I? I met my ex-husband in college, and we were married right afterward. I wasn’t so much back in the dating pool as dipping my toe into it for the first time. “This whole thing is a very new concept for me. It’d be my first date with a new person in a quarter century.”
He rested his elbow on top of the camera. “I get it,” he said. “I was in your position a few months ago. Then my nephew made me join Tinder.”
“How’d that go?”
“I’d rather meet people more organically.” He smiled at me.
“Me, too,” I said honestly. “The idea of dating through an app?” I shook my head. “Like Una said, I don’t even have Instagram.”
“Look,” he said, “think of it as nothing more than the promise of a meal. That’s what I tell myself. No pressure, no expectations, just breaking bread with someone you might or might not connect with.”
“That sounds great, actually.” For the past few days, I’d been obsessing over that kiss with Matt, reading his book, keeping his little note in my wallet. I’d jumped into a full-on crush over the first guy who showed me any attention post-divorce, and he ended up being my boss. I didn’t know if anything more could happen with Matt, but I wasn’t going to sit around waiting. I’d done enough of that in my marriage—waiting for my ex to get home from work, sitting at home while he was out entertaining clients, wondering who he was with and what he was up to. It was time for me to put myself out there and try something new. “I’ll give you my number and we can set it up.”
“Sounds good,” he said. “Now tilt your head to the right and gaze into the distance.”
…
Matt
December 8th, still twelve days before deadline
At around four in the afternoon, I wandered down to the kitchen to get some tea and found Dani sprawled across the table, her butt in tight jeans on full display, as she tried to snap a picture of some brownies.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
She shot up, nearly dropping her phone. “Oh my god.” She smoothed her shirt, a fitted pink button-down. “Sorry. My sister-in-law is making me post the food I make on Instagram. I must have looked ridiculous.”
“It was a sight to behold, I’m not going to lie.” Dani’s curves in those jeans were etched on my mind.
Her face flushed.
I showed her my mug. “I just came down to get some tea.”
She grabbed the cup from my hand and rushed to the sink. “I could’ve gotten that for you.”
“How would you have known I wanted it? Telepathy?” I grinned and wandered over to the table. She’d artfully arranged the brownies on a plate patterned with Christmas trees.
Dani filled the kettle with water and set it on the stove then wiped her hands on a towel. “How’s writing going?”
“All things considered,” I said, “fine.” I’d spent most of the day trying to incorporate the producers’ notes into my outline. Some of their ideas weren’t terrible, but they also meant I basically had to rewrite everything I’d already done. Such was the nature of editing—pull one thread and the whole thing unravels. Though I still refused to add dragons into the mix. I noticed a bottle of scotch on the counter. “Actually, forget the tea.” I checked the clock. “It’s five o’clock. Eastern, anyway.” I grabbed two glasses, some ice, and the bottle. “Will you join me?”