Page 85 of First-Time Caller
“That’s the best work that paper has done in years,” a deep voice offers from my left. I look up and see a man leaning against the door by the entrance. Pressed navy suit. Starched white shirt beneath. Collar undone. He’shandsome. Like a coin that’s been shined to perfection or a pretty glass vase sitting up on a shelf.
A dimple flares to life in his left cheek when he offers me a hesitant smile, and I’m struck stupid.
“Lucie?” he asks.
I stand there gaping at him in my damp dress and frizzy hair with a newspaper from two weeks ago clutched in my hand. “Oliver?”
He pushes off the wall and adjusts his jacket, smoothing lines that don’t need to be smoothed. “That’s me,” he says sheepishly. “I was, uh, I was starting to think maybe you might be standing me up.”
“The rain.” I hitch my thumb over my shoulder. I can’t stop staring at his face. It’s sopretty. “My car.”
He steps closer. “The newspaper,” he adds.
I glance down at the crumpled paper in my hand. “That too.” We stare at each other in the tiny reception area of the fancy restaurant.
He clears his throat and glances over his shoulder at the rest of the dining room. “Should we—”
“Oh! Yeah. Yes. We should.” I awkwardly hand the wet newspaper to the woman standing behind the hostess stand. “Thank you for . . . taking care of that.”
She holds it between thumb and forefinger and gives me a tight smile. “Your waitress will take you to your table now.”
Oliver’s hand presses gently to the small of my back as we weave through the cozy, candlelit restaurant. The waitress deposits us at a small table in the corner and he pulls out my chair. It feels like I’m caught in a different era. I’ve never had a man pull out a chair for me before.
I tell him so as he settles into the seat across from me.
“You’ve been going out with the wrong people.” He pauses from where he’s flattening a linen napkin across his lap. “I’m also very . . . out of practice. Unfortunately my dating advice comes in the form of Gregory Peck movies.”
I laugh and my shoulders relax. It’s a nice change from the guy who berated me over breadsticks. And the guy who didn’t bother to show up. Or the guy who keeps texting theHeartstringsphone, asking for my shoe size. I don’t exactly have a stellar baseline when it comes to dating.
I think of a half smile in the dark. The sharp line of a jaw and scruff against my neck. Goose bumps pebble on my arms and I reach for the menu, holding it in front of my face.
“I’ve heard the rigatoni is good.”
“Yeah,” Oliver agrees. “I’ve been wanting to try this place out.”
We order drinks and argue about appetizers and my nerves settle when Oliver laughs so hard he snorts, some of his fancy wine ending up on his fancy shirt. He’s embarrassed about it, but it’s—it’s good, to know that I’m not alone in all this. That I’m not the only one who can be awkward or silly or slightly out of place.
He’s funny too, with his corny jokes and stories from the charter school he teaches at. He teaches history to a bunch of middle schoolers and apparently social media is the bane of his existence.
“The number of kids who suddenly believe the earth is flat is frankly alarming.”
“My middle schooler doesn’t think the earth is flat, but she does think Taylor Swift invented friendship bracelets.”
He makes a low sound of sympathy. “They know how to make you feel ancient, don’t they?”
It’s a good date—an excellent one, really—but my mind keeps drifting. Back to a tiny studio with a chair that squeaks every time I adjust my legs and a broody, temperamental host who’s been ignoring me for two days.
What’s he doing in the booth right now? Is he thinking about me? Is he happier when I’m not there? Is he counting down the days until this little dating experiment is over so he can have his show back without me interfering?
“You seem distracted,” Oliver says over two heaping plates of pasta, after I ask him to repeat himself for the third time.
My cheeks flush hot. “I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“Interested in someone else,” he finishes for me, reaching for the wine menu. “Would you like another glass of red or white?”
My stomach drops all the way to my toes. “I’m not—I mean— I don’t—” I swallow. “What?”
He smiles softly. “It’s all right, Lucie. No hard feelings.”
