Down the Rabbit Hole

The blonde was wearing earrings the size of handcuffs, and she pointed a manicured hand toward the front of the dining room. “Yes, are you looking for that gentleman by the window?”


Macy glanced over, took in the thirtysomething man in the blue button-down shirt with no tie and a pale complexion, and tried to match his features to the guy in the T-shirt and cowboy hat online. Because she was already nervous, this test nearly undid her. Despite the fact that she’d printed out and studied his profile like an SAT primer, she couldn’t tell if it was the same person or not. She’d thought he was more rugged-looking, but then a cowboy hat would do that, wouldn’t it? The chin could be the same, but . . .

She’d have to admit to the stylish young hostess—who probably never in her life would have to resort to online dating—that she did not know what her date looked like.

“Actually, ahhh . . .” As she leaned toward the girl, a couple tried to inch around her to put their name on the wait list, adding two more sets of ears to the problem.

The girl leaned toward her as the guy said something about a table for two. “I’m sorry?”

“Did he say he was waiting for someone named Macy?” she asked as quietly as she could.

The girl’s finely arched brows drew down and, bless her heart, she moved around the hostess stand toward Macy. “He didn’t say, I’m sorry. Would you like me to go ask him?”

Macy would have liked nothing better, but the line of people behind her was growing, and she didn’t want to hold everyone up. “It’s okay, I’ll do it. But thank you.”

The blonde gave her an understanding smile; she probably saw blind dates all the time. “Good luck.”

Macy gave a short laugh and wound through the tables toward the man by the window. He was kind of cute, she thought, nicely dressed in khakis and that blue Oxford shirt, square jaw, thick hair. No cowboy hat.

He stood as she approached, looking uncertain. He was taller than her, but not by much. Maybe five-eight.

“Are you Bill?” she asked.

His face cleared as if he’d had the same worries she had. “Yes, yes, I am. It’s nice to meet you.” He held out his hand and she took it in one of those wimpy girl-handshakes for fear of his noting her damp palms.

She let her purse slide down off her shoulder and reached for the chair, but he leprechauned around her with a smile. “Let me get that!”

“Oh! Thank you.” She gave a faint laugh and sat, hoping the waiter would arrive immediately to take her drink order.

Bill returned to his seat, leaning onto his forearms and clasping his hands, looking at her intently. He had a glass of something with a lime in it in front of him.

“You look just like your pictures!” he enthused.

She smoothed the back of her hair down with one hand—it had been breezy outside, and she imagined herself obliviously sitting there with it beehived around her head.

“Thanks, uh . . .” She couldn’t say the same. He looked like the kind of guy who wouldn’t put on a cowboy hat if you held a six-shooter to his head and made him. “You look . . . a little different from yours.”

He wilted. “I know. It’s the hat.”

“Do you, ah, wear cowboy hats often? Are you a country and western guy?” She tried to imagine the two of them two-stepping around a dance floor.

“Actually, no.” He appeared to be blushing. “I never wear hats, and I’m much more of a classical music guy. But there was this one time . . . I went to Houston with my, my, my, well, my ex-girlfriend, if you must know, and she took the picture. So . . . I don’t know why I used it.” He tried to chuckle and shrugged.

“Oh,” she said, a picture of the situation materializing. She gave him a smile. “You looked really happy. In the picture.”

“I do?” He looked at her. “I—I guess I was. We were both—or at least I thought we both were, on that trip.”

The waiter arrived, and she ordered a red wine. Bill ordered another gin and tonic.