Page 56 of When There Was You
Jeff speaks with the hostess, and we follow her to our reserved table. The narrow restaurant has a long wooden counter with stools along one side and matching booths on the other. More homey than fancy, it’s another nod to my former employer.
We settle in across from each other, accepting menus.
“It smells delicious,” I say.
His eyes bug out as he leans toward me. “This place is fantastic. Been around since the 1950s. I highly recommend…everything.”
I study the menu, immediately spotting my heart’s desire under the pasta selection.
He purses his lips and cocks a surprised brow. “You know already? Impressive.”
I don’t know if that’s a genuine compliment or rag on women in general, but I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt.
A soft-spoken, middle-aged man with classic Roman features takes our order and leaves us with warm bread smeared with a garlic herb butter, returning shortly with glasses of Cabernet Sauvignon.
The conversation flows without much awkwardness. But then our salads arrive and my date inhales his, talking with his mouth full and reminding me of my father in the most unfortunate way. I steel myself when our entrees arrive, but there’s no avoiding the front row seat to his egregious lack of table manners.
My delectable dinner makes up some of the loss. Brimming with sausage, meatballs, and melted cheese over a heaping mound of pasta, it will equate to three meals.
Jeff monopolizes the conversation, relaying stories from his fraternity days coupled with bad engineering jokes (Any circuit design must contain at least one part which is obsolete, two parts which are unobtainable, and three parts which are still under development), to which I feign polite laughter.
Just about the moment my eyes want to glaze back into my head, he seems to recognize the imbalance and coughs into his hand. “Oh boy…there I go again. I’m sorry, Jacqui. I talk a lot sometimes.”
My eyebrows hike.
He holds his hands in surrender pose. “Tell me more about you. Are you from Virginia?”
“California. I moved here four months ago to work at the magazine.”
“Wow, the Golden State, huh? Were you a beach bum?” He doesn’t give me a second to answer. “Of course you were. Look at you.”
I offer him a tentative smile, bracing for the stereotypical comments that people often blurt out. “I love the ocean. And I’m bummed the beach is so far. On the map, it seemed closer.”
“You’ve got the massive Chesapeake Bay in the way. It’s hours either direction to get past it to the big O.”
I nearly choke on my wine, my brain going straight to orgasm, not ocean. “I haven’t been yet. I’m dying to see how it differs from the Pacific coastline.”
Jeff’s expression turns optimistic. “I’m happy to take you. A buddy of mine has a house in Virginia Beach. We could hang for the weekend.”
I smile noncommittally.
With concerted effort, I make it through dinner, dessert, and more of Jeff’s long-winded monologues before begging off, citing work responsibilities in the morning.
“On a Sunday?” He’s rightfully suspicious.
My shoulders shrug, head tilting. “Writer life.”
“I’ll stick with my nine to five,” he answers, another indicator of how different we are. I’d spend every weekend working to become a great writer.
Once we’re outside, he insists on walking me to my car. “Any chance you want to come back to my place?”
You’ve got to be kidding.“I really need to head home. Thank you for dinner—my kind of place.”
“Cool. Let’s do it again. I’ll call you.”
I don’t answer, which he takes as a sign to lean in and kiss me. I break it quickly before he can insert his tongue.
“Thanks again,” I murmur, yanking open the door andclimbing into my Toyota. I race off with a final wave, heaving out a long groan. What a letdown.
