His car arrives first, and he slides into the driver’s seat. He takes his time adjusting the seat and mirror, disapproval marking his terse movements as if he’s annoyed the valet had to adjust anything at all. When he’s finally satisfied with the orientation of everything, he drives off, not bothering to check if my own car made it to the front of the valet line.
My body sags the second he turns onto the road, and I can’t help the sudden shudder that runs up my spine. I feel gross. Like by being in the same air as that man makes my pores ooze a pungent body odor that’s equally offensive and foul. I need to wash this date off my body as if it left a sticky, slimy film in the wake of Harold’s offensive appraisal. That cattle-like feeling returns, making me wonder if I dodged a bullet by leaving the restaurant sans tag. More specifically, one that would’ve been clipped to my ear with my going rate.
“Brrrr,” I mutter, shaking my arms out while the repulsion rattles my entire body. I reach for my phone in my purse, quickly tapping along the screen to call my sister.
“Hello?” she answers through the video chat. Her tired smile fills up the screen through the dim lighting in her living room. Her hair’s disheveled, and I can see that she’s a little distracted.
“Hey,” I respond. The frustration that was climbing up my throat dies when I realize I shouldn’t be adding onto her already chaotic life by complaining about our mom and her horrible setup skills. So instead of venting to her or even asking her if she and my mom recently were in cahoots to prank me, I ask her about my niece. “How’s Avery?”
“She’s right here.” She hefts baby Avery onto her lap and what little remaining anger I was holding on to out of spite melts as soon as I see her chubby cheeks and glistening drooly chin.
“Hi, Av!” she squeals, and I wave at her. “I miss you, baby girl!”
Another squeal, and I’ve all but forgotten my date from hell. Well, almost. It’s hard to forget a wife list and all the ways I’m falling short in the marriage market.
“So, how was the date?” And just like that, my sister pops my small, very temporary, balloon of happiness.
I sigh.
“Uh-oh, that bad?”
“Can we just never let Mom set me up again?”
She laughs but quickly covers it with a hand clamped over her mouth. “I think the only way to do that is for you to actually meet someone.”
“What’s so funny?” I hear through the speaker. The screen suddenly fills with a third face lined with curiosity and a small case of FOMO. It’s Jade’s husband, Trevor.
“Grace and her horrible blind date,” Jade explains.
“Oh, no!” he exclaims. “Did he show up, see you, and leave?”
Jade smacks his arm. “Why would you say that?”
He shrugs, his cluelessness the epitome of honesty. “Because that’s a pretty horrible blind date.”
Though that would’ve been a pretty discouraging outcome, I can’t help preferring it over the night I had. “I wish he didn’t show up.”
“That bad?” Jade asks through a wince.
“He came to dinner with a ‘wife list.’” The flat tone of my voice measures equal amounts of annoyance and disbelief. I’m still in shock a wife list exists, and that I was graced with it tonight.
“What’s a wife list?”
“A list of Harold’s requirements to be his wife,” I say, answering Trevor’s question. “And he made me split the bill.”
Avery chooses that moment to wail, and a part of me thinks my blind date nightmare story is what caused her outburst. Which would actually be a valid response. Trevor takes Avery from Jade’s arms, and Avery’s crying fades into the background. While I miss the sight of my adorable niece, I’m relieved to have my sister all to myself.
“So, what was on this wife list?”
I reluctantly scour through my memory. “Um, decent health, not overweight. Preferably Chinese. Of childbearing age.”
If I weren’t so baffled as I recounted said list, I’d probably laugh at the amount of disgust distorting Jade’s face.
“I think I actually threw up in my mouth a little bit.”
“Ididthrow up in my mouth a little bit,” I counter, though it’s an exaggeration since it seems my gut decided it didn’t want a good meal—that I paid for by the way—to go to waste.
“What the hell does he mean, ‘childbearing age?’ I thought this was a date, not some livestock sale.”
