I nod, keeping quiet to avoid rehashing the topic. The last thing I need right now is a Venus-scolding. In fact, I need the opposite.
“Vee…” I say, thinking about where to take Moyo for our last meeting.
“Yeah.”
“Any restaurant recommendations? I need somewhere delicious, cozy, and impressive.”
“I’m not asking for details to maintain plausible deniability, but I’m very excited for you,” she squeals. “There’s a master list Merc and I’ve been working through in the hopes to find something for aCupid’s Bowpartnership. I’ll forward it to you.”
“You’re the best,” I say.
“Never forget,” Vee replies, scrolling through her phone.
My email notification chimes a moment later. Looking through the list, I mentally sort them intono,maybe, andyespiles based on the feedback Vee and Merc wrote beside each one.
This has to be perfect. Saying goodbye to Moyo is inevitable. The least I can do is give her a date she’ll never forget.
23Moyo
WHY DID I SUGGEST A PRACTICE DATE?
Replaying our run-in at Anjie’s restaurant, I can’t believe I was too chicken to propose going on an actual date with Niyi. Guess old avoidant habits die hard.
This is not a date. This is not a real date.
I commit the sacred words to memory and bring them to the surface every few minutes on the drive to the restaurant where I’m meeting Niyi, but it does nothing for my nerves.
Do I actually have nerves over a man? At my age? Evidently the giddiness of a crush doesn’t give a fuck about age. Luckily, or unluckily, today is Niyi’s last time coaching me. After this little sit-down meal, I’ll never have to be in his presence in a professional setting again. Hopefully, I can muster up the bravery to go for what I really want: seeing Niyi in highly unprofessional settings.
It’s almost poetic that after attempting the hands-off, report-back approach—which helped—our final meeting is the hands-on approach I was against earlier. I thought he’d hinder my dates by being nearby. Little did I know that simply being around Niyi would feel better than any date has in my entire life.
This is not a real date, I remind myself. Unfortunately, that crucial pieceof information doesn’t stop my hands from fidgeting. They move so much, I shove them between my equally jittering thighs to keep them still and warm.
Niyi ordered the ride from my place to the date and kept the location a surprise—which pissed me off a little because it didn’t give me much to work with for my outfit choice. But I went with simple because, again,this is not a date. I chose sage-green cargo pants and a white button-down top with loose feathers at the bottom and on the cuffs, layered with an almond-colored sweater. For more color, I added a silk scarf of greens, yellows, and reds around my head, allowing my blown-out hair to billow behind me. It isn’t snowing, so I picked a fur-lined, leather coat and a pair of simple white-and-green sneakers.
Once the driver stops outside the restaurant, I know exactly where we are. I hop out of the car, thank the driver, and spot Niyi in front of the building. He’s also dressed casually in a green shirt under a black jacket; his pants and shoes are all black as well, but he has little, gold accessories that make his dark-brown skin pop. The gold necklace sits on the green, providing a sexy contrast. I’m a Yoruba woman; we go crazy for a gold-chain moment. It’s in the Bible.
I give him a tempered smile and point to my pants. “We’re matching a little,” I say once he can hear me.
He doesn’t laugh or smile, but he looks amused.
“You’re the better-dressed one,” he says as he surveys my outfit. The look is blatant but not sleazy. When he’s done, his attention goes to my eyes, holding me in place, not allowing me to look away. His tongue wets his lips a little before he returns to his composed self. He probably forgot to apply lip balm. Nothing worse than chapped lips in the cold.
“Shall we?” Niyi says, and when I nod, he gestures for me to go first.
We bypass the regular indoor seating and go straight to the patio with three yurts. I hear voices coming from two of them, so I move towards the silent one. I’m about to open the flap when Niyi stills my hand. The slight contact sends my internal temperature skyrocketing. Like a child experiencing the tinge of a hot burner, I yank my hand away.
He doesn’t seem to notice. He just pulls the flap back, welcoming meinto the warm interior filled with wreaths, fairy lights, and a table for two. I shrug my coat off and hang it on the rack, then rub my arms for warmth, but the heat soon envelops me. I’m still taking in the interior—pine garlands line the inside, white-and-gold decorative stars dangling from them and mixing with the lights beautifully; above the table is a hanging planter with eucalyptus overflowing—when Niyi pulls out a seat for me.
My lips turn downwards and my eyebrows raise. He shakes his head and looks away. I’m transported back to the first time he pulled back my seat at Cupid’s Bow HQ.
“Thank you,” I say. He pushes me closer to the table before taking his seat.
“You know you don’t have to do that every time we hang out.” My words come out in pieces, broken up by a forced chuckle.
“I know,” he says. “It’s my choice.”
This whole thing is beautiful, from planning a surprise to ordering my ride to making a reservation at one of the city’s most sought-after winter dining experiences. I’m impressed. A grin takes over my face as I browse the classic American menu.
