Sometime Soon

eight



A few uneventful days have passed since Bryn’s confession. It occupies my thoughts constantly, ahead of the company buyout, about which there has been no further news. I thought Bryn might try to call or email me after our conversation. No doubt, she’s wondering if I’ve told Katie, but I haven’t heard from her. It would be easy to vilify Bryn, but I’ve thought things over, and I find myself feeling sorry for her instead. Having the attention of an attractive, successful man, no matter how despicable he obviously is, would be hard for her to resist. Character issues aside, Bryn is insecure and probably a little bit lonely. Mike found the perfect candidate with which to share his own significant issues. Katie really would be better off without him. But I have a feeling she just won’t see it that way.

The nagging nausea I now feel reminds me that I have to hurry and get dressed if I want to be on time for my date with Jason. I’m always slightly nauseated before a date. No matter how many dates I’ve been on, or how many years I’ve been dating, nerves are my constant dating companion. Also, a part of me doesn’t want to go and would rather stay home. I wonder if that’s normal.

I drive toward a red velvet sky as I head into the city. The last moments of daylight are bleeding into a layer of purple clouds just above the horizon as I pull into one of the many public parking lots downtown and pay the attendant. The humidity has dissipated with the sunlight, and my clip-free hair feels as though it’s behaving nicely. I swiftly walk the two blocks to the restaurant with my clicking heels broadcasting my progression. Someone is leaving as I’m arriving, and he graciously holds the door open for me. The artificial arctic air hits me as I enter the restaurant. I’ve been to this place before when it was a more casual spot that served Mexican food. Since then it’s changed hands, transforming into an upscale Italian place. It’s crowded, and echoed voices create a constant level of noisy conversation occasionally punctuated by a burst of laughter.

The main foyer is filled with people waiting to be seated. I don’t see Jason. It’s just eight now, and I’m right on time. When I spot a crowded bar area in the back, I decide to take a quick look over there, hoping that I’ll recognize Jason if I see him. I crane my neck and glance around, ignoring the invitations for eye contact that I notice in my peripheral vision. I don’t think I see Jason, and I move back toward the door to speak with the maitre d’. When I do, I learn that there is a reservation for two under the name Randall. I let him know that half of the Randall party has arrived and then, rather than stand in the chilly foyer, I move outside to the sidewalk and the balmy evening air.

Boston is a great city for people watching. The street on which I stand is comprised of mainly of upscale restaurants and shops. Expensive cars line the sidewalks, and couples dressed for an evening out stroll by. The streetlights have been constructed to look like old-fashioned gas lamps, but they are juxtaposed by the modern skyscrapers that stretch up into the night sky. The tangy scent of garlic is in the air. I’m taking in the scene and thinking of Katie again. What will this second relationship disillusionment do to her optimistic outlook? Like Katie and myself, I know many women who are bright, ambitious, and successful in every aspect of their lives except romantic relationships. Why is that last frontier so hard to conquer?

Jason is now almost twenty minutes late, and he hasn’t called. I get the feeling I’m being stood up. I decide to give him ten more minutes before leaving. But just then Jason arrives. I hear my name called, and I turn to see him walking toward me. He looks sharp in a blue dress shirt and navy slacks held up by a brown belt with a silver buckle. He pockets his phone when he reaches me, leaning down to peck my cheek. The familiar frameless glasses are in place above a bright smile. His brown hair, streaked with blonde, has not one hair out of place. I expect to hear an apology or an explanation. He doesn’t offer one.

“This is my new favorite Italian place,” he says brightly, resting his hand on my lower back, directing me inside. “You’re going to love it.”

Despite our lateness, we are led right to a table for two toward the back of the restaurant. It’s a nicely situated spot away from the noisy bar and the crowded entrance. I get the feeling Jason knows the maitre d’ as he shakes his hand and thanks him.

“Were you held up at work?” I ask once we’re seated.

He seems confused by the question.

“We said eight o’clock. I thought maybe you were held up at the office,” I explain.

“Oh, no. A friend wanted me to go by and see an apartment he’s thinking of renting.” Jason unfolds his napkin and takes a sip of his water. Now I’m the confused one. He went to look at an apartment when he knew he was meeting me for dinner, and he seems completely unconcerned that he kept me waiting as a result.

“Did you like the apartment?” I ask, deciding to put my annoyance aside and get on with the date.

He shrugs. “It’s big. Kind of pricey, too. Do you like shrimp? We could start with that.”

“That sounds good,” I agree.

The food is wonderful, and Jason is very charming. He tells me he’s originally from Baltimore, but decided to stay in Boston after attending college here. He has an older sister who is living in London with her boyfriend, and he just went home recently for his father’s sixtieth birthday. He talks quite a bit about himself, but that doesn’t bother me so much anymore. Most men I’ve dated do that, and I generally don’t have much interest in talking about myself. I already know that subject thoroughly.

“Do you rent in the city?” I ask, as our dinner plates are cleared away.

He nods. “I’m in Beacon Hill right now, but I’d like to move here to the Back Bay.”

“I love the Back Bay,” I say enthusiastically. It’s a beautiful area of the city running parallel to the Charles River. “What’s stopping you?”

He rubs his thumb against his forefingers. “It’s mucho dinero. I’d rather take that money and travel with it. Do you ski?”

“No.”

“Some buddies and me rented a place in Aspen over the winter. We had an incredible time. We’re going to do it again next year. You should come. We’re also talking about taking a place on the vineyard next summer. Do you like the beach?”

“Love it,” I reply, thinking it’s strange the way he casually threw that invitation out to me.

“Me, too. It would be great to get away on weekends to the vineyard.”

I agree with him that it would be nice to have a weekend getaway place. I’m also thinking how differently I feel about money and about saving it. I like to travel, too. I just took a vacation, but I’m getting the impression that saving money isn’t a priority for him.

“Let’s get some dessert at a café I know over on Boylston,” he suggests. Do you mind a little walk?”

“Not at all. That sounds great,” I reply. And it does, although my strappy sandals are going to make my feet very unhappy.

Jason pays the bill and I decide not to do the wallet-reach. I usually do perform it, but I don’t want to tonight. Since he extended the dinner invitation, I want him to do the right thing and he does, automatically, without letting me see the check and discreetly hands his card to the waiter. I’m pleased, and I decide to insist on paying for dessert as a thank you for what was likely a very pricey dinner.

We step outside onto the sidewalk. I look up and see only dark sky with no stars and a sliver of moon in the distance. This is one negative about the city. The lights make it too bright to see the stars at night. Jason smiles at me and takes my hand as we stroll down the street. It’s getting late, and the city is quieter now. Jason moves closer to me. It feels nice to be beside him, my hand firmly in his. We arrive at the café and stand at the counter, studying the offerings posted on a menu on the wall. I glance down and admire the cakes and cookies in the display case.

“Cappuccino, latte, espresso?” Jason lists, raising his eyebrows at me.

“No espresso. Too much jolt for this time of night. Cappuccino sounds good.”

He nods in approval. “Want to share some cheesecake, too?”

“Sure.” I smile. There really isn’t any dessert that I don’t like.

Jason orders two cappuccinos and a slice of cheesecake. When the woman rings up the order, I move beside him. “Let me, to thank you for the great dinner.”

He studies me, hesitates, but then puts his wallet back in his pocket. “Thanks,” he says graciously.

The cheesecake comes with strawberries, and the cappuccinos are tall--topped with a layer of white foam. We sit close to each other at a small table by the window. There is only one other couple in the café.

Jason’s fork politely waits for mine to retrieve a bite as we take turns with the cheesecake. He grins at me, his eyes appreciative behind his frameless glasses, and I can feel my cheeks heating. It’s very intimate and cozy. Once finished, we linger for a bit as Jason laces his fingers through mine on the table.

Later, back on the sidewalk outside the café, he takes my hand again as he leans down and kisses me. It’s a hesitant first kiss as his lips feather over mine. “Are you headed my way?” he asks in a whisper by my ear, indicating the T stop across the street.

I shake my head. “I drove in. I’m parked by the restaurant.”

“Would you like to come with me?” he whispers, his breath warm on my cheek.

I lean back and raise a skeptical eyebrow at him. It’s only our first date.

He smiles good-naturedly, unbothered. Then he kisses me again. I feel his hand tighten on my waist and this time his lips linger on mine. The night has become still and cool, but I feel only his warmth against me. There aren’t many people around now, but I probably wouldn’t notice if there were.

“I had a really nice time,” he says, leaning back, looking down at me.

“Me, too,” I reply, feeling a little breathless.

“We should do this again.”

I smile in response and nod.

He grins back at me. “Goodnight, Andrea.” Then he turns and walks to the underground T station across the street.

“Goodnight,” I manage to say as I stand rooted there in disbelief. Once he disappears down the stairway, I give myself a mental shake before swiftly turning and backtracking toward the restaurant. From there, I cover the two blocks to the parking lot in record time considering my feet are protesting every step of the way in the sandals I have now decided to toss into the trash. I retrieve my car, tipping the attendant and taking my outrage out on the steering wheel, which now suffers beneath my grip.

How could he walk away and leave me standing alone on a city street after midnight? I couldn’t believe he didn’t offer to walk me to my car. I guess I read the whole thing wrong. Maybe he isn’t interested in me, and he couldn’t care less if I got back to my car safely. Or maybe when I wouldn’t go home with him, he acted as though it was no big deal, but he was really writing me off and just wanting to get away.

I crank up the radio and look forward to just getting home and getting into pajamas. I hate dating. I hate it more and more each time.