“You mean the Facebook request you denied?”
“I didn’t deny it. I just ignored it.”
“Fair enough,” he says, smiling. “So what’s your advice?”
“Lose the cat.”
“What?” Pete says with an exaggerated gasp. “You don’t like Fudge?”
“His name is Fudge?”
“Her. And yes. Her name is Fudge. Because she’s black. Get it?”
“Wow,” I say, shaking my head, smirking.
“What?” Pete asks.
“Fudge?” I say. “That’s a really weak name.”
“My niece named her Fudge,” he says. “And now she’s dead.”
For a second I think he means his niece is dead—and I’m beyond horrified by my ultimate foot in the mouth. Then I realize that he probably means that the cat is dead. “Fudge died?” I say.
“Yes. My niece was devastated. It was really her cat, but she lived with me because my brother’s wife is allergic….It was hard on all of us, though. Fudge really was a good cat.”
“I’m sorry,” I murmur, duly noting both his kindness to animals and his closeness to family. “Still. You really should have vetoed the name Fudge.”
He stares at me a beat and then says, “Oh, yeah? Well, you should have vetoed Brio. So there.”
I burst out laughing. “And why’s that?”
“Because…it’s Brio,” Pete says with a trace of Gabe-like food snobbishness. “Most girls in your zip code cancel altogether when I pick a chain.”
“You wanted me to cancel?” I say, noticing the bartender hovering near us. We don’t give him an opening, and he moves on to another couple.
“I like to weed out the snobs,” he says. “I’m from Wisconsin. Snobs and I don’t mix.”
“There are no snobs in Wisconsin?”
“Maybe two or three.”
“Well, I’m not one,” I say with conviction. “But my best friend is—and he accordingly advised that I cancel on you based on your restaurant choice.”
“Gay foodie?” Pete says.
“Don’t stereotype,” I say, smiling.
“Okay. But am I right?”
I shake my head. “No, actually. He’s a straight foodie.”
Pete raises one eyebrow and gives me a circumspect look. “Straight male best friend?”
“And housemate,” I say.
“Hmm…Interesting.”
“You’re threatened already?” I say, feeling bolder by the second. “Red flag.”
“Trying to make me jealous already?” he retorts. “Red flag.”
A coy staring contest ensues until the bartender reappears. This time we look up and order. I go with a vodka martini, straight up, Tito’s if they have it, Belvedere if they don’t.
The bartender nods, his gaze shifting to Pete. “And for you, sir?”
“I’ll have a Miller Lite….And we’ll order a flatbread, too,” Pete says, scanning the menu. He asks if I have a preference, and I tell him to pick something with meat.
“Sausage?” Pete asks.
I nod, and as the bartender steps away to put in our order, Pete says, “Good. You’re not a vegetarian.”
“Or gluten-free,” I say, thinking of my sister’s latest obsession. “I’m not even sure what gluten is, actually. Is it wheat? Or something else?”
“No idea,” he says. “But you know how you can tell that someone’s gluten-free?”
I shake my head and say no.
“Because they’ll fuckin’ tell you,” he says, with a very cute smile.
I laugh, as he looks pleased with his joke. “So you’re a teacher?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say. “First grade…I love it. I love the kids.”
He nods, his eyes slightly glazed. I try to think of something more interesting to say and then remember that I’m not trying to be interesting—or at least not more interesting than I really am. Instead I ask a question that I’d never dream of under normal first-date trying-to-make-a-good-impression circumstances. “How do you feel about kids?”
He hesitates, knowing a desperate, late-thirty-something question when he hears one, but keeps a poker face, as he says, “Kids are great.”
“So we have a lot in common,” I say as our drinks arrive. “We both like meat, gluten, and kids.”
Pete laughs a genuine laugh and raises his glass. “To meat, gluten, and kids.”
Our glasses touch, then our knees, before we both take a sip. I swallow, wait a beat, then really go out on a limb. “So,” I say. “This is my final date.”
He looks at me, appearing both amused and confused, and says, “Are you saying you won’t go out with me again?”
“Pretty much. No offense—I decided this before I even got here.”