I checked the clock over the entrance for maybe the hundredth time just as a man walked through the door. My heart did an odd prickling thing, but then the sensation eased. He wasn’t Derek. The man was too short and had no beard. And he was clearly younger than thirty-nine, more like late twenties.
With another sigh, I returned my attention to the book in my lap. I didn’t even know the title, having grabbed it from the bookstore across the street in a fit of pre-date-overthinking-induced insanity. I didn’t want to wait for him by scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt like phone-scrolling was too prosaic. And I didn’t want to be one of those people who just stared forward or people-watched while waiting, even though I loved to people watch. And I didn’t—
“You’re Marie.”
I glanced up, blinking at the man standing in front of my table, the man who I’d just dismissed as being not-Derek. He wasn’t looking at me. Rather, his gaze was on the open pages of my book.
“Yes?”
His eyes quickly darted to mine and then away as he removed his coat. “I’m your date.”
I frowned because I was surprised. And because I was surprised, it took me a solid five seconds to respond. By then he’d already placed his jacket on the back of his chair.
“Oh! Hi. Hi. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat across from mine and belatedly stood, trying not to feel weird about my smile. I never knew how big to smile during these things. I missed the days when I could just smile naturally and not have to think about it.
Reassessing my date, my eyes flicked over him. He was definitely not six foot three. More like six foot even, or a little shorter.
No big deal. A lot of guys embellish their height on dating sites, except . . .
He shaved his beard.
Sad face :-(
And again, he looked younger than thirty-nine. And his skin was white, paler than the olive complexion I’d been expecting, which was fine, but different from his picture.
“Derek?” I really was confused by the differences between his photo and his reality.
“Yes. I’m Derek. Derek is my name. That’s me.” Derek, my date, extended his hand, shook mine with a perfunctory up-down movement, and then claimed the seat I’d offered.
My smile wavered. My hopes crashed to the earth in a giant, burning cluster-comet of disappointment. I braced myself. We hadn’t made it past the first minute of awkward and I already knew things weren’t going to work out.
Derek was not my perfect match.
We had zero chemistry. No spark when we touched. No shock or magic voodoo juju awesomeness. No nothing.
And no eye contact. He wouldn’t even look at me.
Inwardly, I sighed and cringed, wondering if we’d be able to wrap this up quickly so I could run to the drugstore for some tampons before meeting my knitting group for wine, and yarn, and then more wine.
Outwardly, I pressed my lips into a shape I hoped resembled a smile and sat in my chair. My eyes sought the clock over the door. It was only 3:14. My record for a coffee date was twenty minutes. I wondered if I could break it today.
“Did you want anything?” I motioned to the cup in front of me, keeping my voice light. “I grabbed a drink already.”
“No,” he said, a slight business-like smile affixed to his features. “Let’s get started.”
“S-started?”
Derek was looking at his watch. He pressed a button. He let his hands drop to his lap. Only then did he lift his eyes to mine.
And then he blinked, his smile slipping infinitesimally, as though the sight of me was unexpected.
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting, because apparently it was time for us to get started. Whatever that meant.
“Hi,” he said. His gaze moved over my features, his smile growing hazy, more genuine.
. . . Huh.
He had brown eyes. His brown eyes held me momentarily transfixed, and not just because they weren’t gray—as he’d listed on his page—but because they were expressive and remarkably attractive.
His hair was also brown, but longer than it had been in his pictures.
Truly, he really did look significantly different than his profile—surely not just because of the absent beard? Nevertheless, despite being beardless, his face was handsome: high cheekbones, strong nose, a jaw that was decidedly square. His eyes were remarkably wide and round, but somehow they suited him perfectly, and I decided his eyes were my favorite part of him.
I allowed my smile to mirror his, my gaze dropping momentarily to his very nice lips, which honestly struck me as oddly pouty for a man.
Okay, let’s give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color . . .
So. Weird.
Who does that?
“Hi,” I finally replied, examining him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.
Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.
“You’re Marie?” His tone was distrustful?
“Yes.” I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. “And you’re Derek.”
“Of course I’m Derek. Who else would I be?”
“Uh . . .” Yeeeeeah no. I can’t wait to tell Sandra about this guy.
“Moving on.” He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. “So, Marie, you’re a writer?”
“That’s right. And you’re an engineer?” I asked, no longer in date mode.
“Your profile said you’ve had one serious relationship in the past, is this true?” Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.
“Yes.” I gave him a pointed look. “Everything on my profile is true.”
It didn’t feel necessary to clarify that though I’d only been in one serious relationship, I’d had relationships in my early twenties, all of which—except my last boyfriend—had been bad and/or unhealthy decisions.
So, yes, technically everything on my profile was true.
Not like your profile, buddy. Not even your eye color is right.
He didn’t seem to catch my hint. “As a woman in your thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?”
I flinched, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I was opposed to directness, just that it wasn’t typical on first dates.
In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows: 1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.
2. I shake off my initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.
3. I don’t get my hopes up if things are going well.
4. I never commit to seeing him again in order to avoid appearing overeager.
5. I wait three days, and then text. If the text is not returned, forget him and move on.
I’d only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date, and no one had ever felt right.
“I guess . . .” I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek’s shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.
As a woman in your thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?
“So, you would say that you don’t know what you want?” He sounded curious.
My gaze cut back to his. “Yes, I know what I want.”