1
Nicole
It is a truth universally unacknowledged that not every woman who is single is in want of a husband.
And I really wished my sewing sisters would get that through their thick skulls.
Because of their endless urging, I entered the restaurant at the appointed time to meet one David Brown (age, thirty-five; height, five foot nine; body type, athletic; occupation, electrician—or so his online dating profile said) that day in October. If Molly, Amanda, Jocelyn, and Betsy hadn’t bribed me, I wouldn’t have been there at all.
I’d been fine on my own the five years since my ex-husband walked out on me and our daughter. I really had no intention of letting another male mansplain to me why they were essential to a woman’s happiness. Newsflash—they’re not!
No, my presence at that restaurant had nothing to do with romance or “getting out there” or trying to find “Mr. Right” and everything to do with the fifty dollars each of my friends had pledged to donate to a charity of my choosing every time I agreed to meet with some guy from one of the dating apps they’d set up in my name.
Two hundred dollars, I’d reminded myself when I approached that table, David Brown exhibiting refreshing manners as I neared. His eyes lit on my face but then lowered to check out the rest of me. I got it. Outward appearances mattered to most people. Good thing my heart wasn’t set on this guy or anything happening between us, otherwise the way his eyes rounded when his gaze reached my hips would have wounded me.
I’d warned him and every other guy on that archaic yet high tech matchmaker app: body type, curvaceous. Pretty sure Amanda chose that adjective, but the word fit. I have curves. At 174 pounds, maybe some dangerous ones. But the headshot Jocelyn insisted on didn’t show the guys trolling and swiping left and right the full picture. My body was like a two-lane country road that all of a sudden exploded into a six-lane major city highway—pear shaped. My top half didn’t carry the bulk of my weight. Those pounds congregated around my hips and thighs.
Did my thighs rub together when I walked? Yes. Was it ridiculously hard to find a pair of pants that fit my rear without having a huge gap at the small of my back? Yes. But that’s the manufacturer’s problem, not mine. I refused to feel shamed because my body didn’t fit someone’s mold.
Two hundred dollars, I reminded myself again when David Brown’s bug eyes finally returned to normal size and he gulped, his cheeks stained red.
“Nice to meet you,” he said, but his stiff body language conveyed another message. He’d mentally deleted me from his prospective digital matches.
I set my teeth and forced a grin. “You too.” The girls wouldn’t make their donation to the Nature Conservancy if I let this worm off his hook, so I lowered onto the seat across from him.
A server approached our table and placed glasses of ice water in front of us.
“Welcome to the Loft. I’m Jen and I’ll be your server this evening. Can I start y’all off with some wine?”
David looked at me, eyebrow cocked.
My fingers hugged the cold glass of water, and I pulled it closer. “Water’s fine for me, thanks.”
David turned to Jen the server. Even from his profile I could see the widening of his eyes. The upturn at the side of his lips. His gaze roamed from the top of Jen’s artful messy bun to the tips of her non-skid black loafers—the same once over he’d given me, but this time an appreciative gleam entered his gaze.
“The right guy will make you feel like a princess,” Molly had said. Well, sure. When you lived in a fairy tale where you’re engaged to a guy who’d literally given you a rainbow unicorn, you could have an outlook like that. My track record consisted of trolls that made me feel like dirt and should live under bridges while eating the three billy goats gruff.
I rolled my eyes but held my tongue. I was on this date under false pretenses anyway. If David Brown wanted to hit on our server, why should I care? Wasn’t like I was here for anything other than the money.
I stilled at that thought and let the faint laughter from Jen pass over me. I could feel a Grinch-grin curling the sides of my lips in evil delight. My friends were pimping me out—not really, I knew that—and I wasn’t going to let them off the hook. At least, not without a little more cash thrown in for the Nature Conservancy.
What?! Saving the planet gets expensive, and a hairstylist doesn’t exactly rake in the money.
My “date” flirted a bit more, and I stared out the window to give them a small measure of privacy.
“Are y’all ready to order then?”
The question pulled me back around. David looked at me and waited. I wasn’t really hungry and hadn’t looked at the menu to see if they had any vegan options. “I’ll have a garden salad.” I handed the still-closed menu to Jen.
“And I’ll have a hamburger cooked medium.” He glanced at me again. “And extra fries for the table.”
Let it go, Nicole. Let him squander his money if he wanted to. But the wasted money wasn’t what bothered me. It was the uneaten food. Restaurants threw out hundreds of pounds of perfectly good food a day while people literally starved down the street.
I smiled sweetly. “That’s okay. I don’t want any fries.”
David frowned, and his eyes flicked down. If he’d had x-ray vision, he’d have been looking through the table to my size sixteen jean-clad hips.
His gaze returned to mine. “You might think you don’t want fries now, but when mine come out, you’ll change your mind.” He looked back to our server with a placating smile. “Extra fries,” he said as he handed her his menu.
I beamed brighter at Jen, channeling the rising heat from my core into rays of clipped civility. “Just the salad. No fries for me. Thank you.”
Her sculpted eyebrows pulled down as she volleyed her gaze between David and me, wondering which of us she should listen to. I held her gaze a second longer, and she must have seen something in my eyes, because she scurried away with a squeak.
“I don’t know what the big deal is. It’s just French fries. If you don’t want them then you don’t have to eat them.”
I breathed in through my nose and gripped the edge of the table, my knuckles turning white.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Nikki.” How many times had I heard those words come out of Greg’s mouth?
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only a little fever.” Sierra had been six months old, barely breathing, and burning up.
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s only a joke.” One at which no one laughed, only cried or seethed on the inside.
“Don’t be so dramatic. I just had to work late.” And have an eight-month affair before running off with Chelsea from human resources.
I pushed my hair back from my shoulders and rolled my lips. This was one of those times I needed to pick my battles. David Brown and our hopefully-no-longer-than-half-an-hour acquaintance wasn’t worth a spike in blood pressure.
“Your profile says you enjoy rock climbing?” Maybe I could get him to talk about himself, then tune him out until the check came.
He nodded. “Yeah. It’s a great workout, you know.” His eyes traveled south again, and he leaned a bit to the side.