He squints at me, his head tilting to the side, and it makes his bangs flop across his eyes in a way that is too cute.
“No, you can’t,” he says softly, and I slide my glass to the side to meet the unspoken challenge.
I think I make a really solid choice in skipping a rendition of Natalie Cole’s “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love),” since my talents don’t extend to any aptitude for singing, and go straight for the monologue.I deliver it with the kind of confidence that comes from being halfway through my third espresso martini in ninety minutes.I don’t forget the pause Sandra Bullock delivers after she comments on the sepia tone of the footage showing her idyllic childhood, or the inflection when she mentions her dad for the first time, but I make myself stop after four or so sentences.It’s just enough to prove my point, and when John stares at me, genuinely impressed, I can’t help but feel a little buoyant.
“That’s incredible,” he finally says, and I shrug a shoulder, trying not to show how those words actually meana lotconsidering most people would probably assume I never leave my house after hearing something like that.
“I can also doSaw,” I say, pulling my drink back in front of me.“But there’s a lot more screaming and swearing.”
His smile spreads, but he doesn’t show his teeth.I think it would take something pretty spectacular to make this man grin.The amusement is still there, though, in the crinkle at the corner of his eyes and the glint of his pupil surrounded by an unforgiving steel-blue iris.Then he asks, “Do you like scary movies?”
“I love them.”
And it keeps going from there.Back and forth.I tell him I like Taylor Swift—a topic that’s somehow come up in all of my previous dates—and he tells me he likes new wave music from the eighties.I played softball in high school; he was in the drama club.He sayshe makes an amazing cacio e pepe, and I admit that I get influenced easily—and let down often—when it comes to viral Instagram recipes.We share little facts about our lives like they’re breadcrumbs.If you like what you hear, keep following the trail.And I do like what I hear.He seems to as well because, when the bell rings and I start in my seat, he looks like he doesn’t want to leave.He’s too polite to idle, though, standing up with his long fingers curled around the neck of his beer, and landing that imploring stare back on me one more time.So cute.
“I’ll see you after all this for a drink, yeah?”
I think I’d like that.I think I’d like that very much, so I nod and watch him walk over to Laurie.I watch him fold into the seat across from her, reach over and shake her hand, and I watch him glance back over his shoulder at me one more time before a shadow falls over my table, a body moving into his spot and taking his seat.
I only allow myself the shortest second of disappointment before shifting my focus back to give my new date the same practiced smile I’ve been giving the last four men, but then I see who sat down in front of me and… Oh.
Oh shit.
I have to remind myself that it’s not polite to stare.To tell myself the noise in the room hasn’t suddenly hushed, and the lights haven’t gone hazy.There’s no camera zooming in and there isn’t a string quartet somewhere sustaining a long, resonant, affected note.There’s nothing to suggest this date is going to be any better or worse than the others.But this guy… he issomething.
And that’s a very strange thing for me to be thinking because if John met the criteria of what I thought was my type, this guy doesn’t check a single box.
Usually I like to be able to tell that my date spends more time in a lecture hall rather than a gym, but this guy… He’s more muscularthan lean, more athletic than academic.His white button-up shirt stretches across his shoulders and—that material isn’t supposed to stretch, right?His hair is dark, short, styled.Nothing like the affable milk chocolate mess that looked cute on John.“Cute” isn’t a word I’d use for this guy.I wouldn’t use it for anyone who manages to look so grave within the boudoir-themed surroundings of the bar, but that’s not a bad thing.He is Marvel-movie buff, Oscar-contender serious, and… damn… I guess I’m a fan.
He doesn’t look at me at first.His gaze darts to every part of the room until, as if by accident, his eyes meet mine.It seems as if he’s about to go back to scanning the room, but then he… doesn’t.
He blinks.I blink.And then the grim line of his mouth curves into the smallest of smiles.He hasn’t said anything yet—neither have I—but already my right hand itches to reach for my pen and fashion a big, clear, heavy-handed X in the “yes” column next to his name on the match card that lies facedown and unmarked beside me.I was going to wait until the break to assign my dates to the definitive categories of yes or no, or the more mollifying category of friendship only—but a couple of seconds of sustained eye contact and a lip quirk from the man in front of me has me thinking we should just call it a night now.Put in last calls, start flickering the lights and turning the chairs onto the tables.
Because another study I read about speed dates disagreed with the thirty-second theory.It said you know within the first four seconds of meeting someone whether you’ll want to match with them.And I’m inclined to agree as I glance down at his name tag and see three capital letters:WES.
“Hey,” he says.
His voice is deep, a little husky, and it soundssogood that there’s a little delay before I remember to say, “Hi.”
His smile widens into a grin he then tries to tamp down.It completelysoftens the inexplicably stern look that was on his face, and I find it so endearing I’m grinning back just as wide.
“I’m Wes.”
“Jamie.”
He stares at me for a second, his mouth silently forming my name until he tilts his head to the side and asks, “What makes you happy, Jamie?”
A bark of laughter shoots out of my mouth, loud enough that I see Laurie pause in her date with John across the way.Her head peeks over his shoulder, mouth pursing comically in a “Girrrrlll, we are talking aboutthatwhen we get home” expression before I glance back at Wes and try to swallow down a fit of giggles that threaten to ruin any cool girl allure I may have conjured in the last thirty seconds.
“Seriously?”It’s such a…strangething to say.
What’s even stranger is that I’m kind of into it.
“I—I don’t know why I said that,” he murmurs, color rising to the top of his cheeks though he keeps his stare on me.He’s not embarrassed enough to look away, to break eye contact.
He shakes his head, eyes closing in a prolonged blink, and I take the opportunity to cast my eyes down his torso.I think there’s a tattoo peeking over his shoulder—an interesting, sharp tip of something just visible at the opening of his collar.I’m not into tattoos.At least, I wasn’t.But I want to know what that spike connects to, and I want to follow its path to wherever it may lead.
“It’s the first question that came to mind,” he says, eyes still closed.
