Why do I think it’s weird that Dr. Baumann made a reservation for a romantic dinner three months ago?
I rub my chest. Damn indigestion had been plaguing me since Celia’s wedding a few weeks ago. I reach into my purse for Pepto caplets and a bottle of water. A rumble of thunder threatens.
Craptastic.I left my umbrella at home.
The thunder and a flash of lightning in the distance light a fire under me, and I hustle toward the restaurant, ducking inside the waiting area when the rain starts falling. That’s spring in D.C. - one minute, you’re waltzing down the street loving on the cherry trees. The next, the sky opens up and rains all of the rain on you.
A few drops hit me as I enter the restaurant, but I’m no worse for wear. I smile at the hostess. This is the night. We’re having THE SEX tonight.
Well, not me and the hostess. Me and my boyfriend. Dr. Wendell Baumann.
Yes. I do call him Dr. Baumann. He likes when I do that.
That’s not weird, is it?
No, seriously. Is it? I have no idea.
Before Dr. Wendell Baumann, I hadn’t been on a date in a year. And it had been right around the three-month mark that the guy ghosted me. Right before we had The Sex. The guy before that ghosted me at the three-month mark, too.
Shit.
Is this a pattern or a disturbing coincidence?
I’ll have to take that up with Dr. Keres at our next therapy appointment.
“You have an appointment?”
I blink and look at the hostess. “What?”
She’s one of those ultra-skinny women who probably only eats air and smokes clove cigarettes. Her black hair is pulled back into a Pinterest-worthy chignon. Her eyebrows would make Brooke Shields - or a caterpillar - jealous. And a judgey attitude is rolling off of her in waves.
I look down at my outfit. I came straight from work, so it’s my usual navy pantsuit. We’reencouragedto wear neutral colors in either a pant or skirt suit. My closet is chock-a-block full of navy and black. Which is fine by me because having a uniform to wear keeps the anxiety at bay every morning.
If it’s good enough for Zuckerberg…
“A reservation? Do you have one?” She demands again, her pointy talon-like nails tapping impatiently on the hostess stand.
“Um, yeah,” I mumble. “I’m Carolina Saber. Myboyfriendhas a reservation. Dr. Wendell Baumann.”
At the mention of his name, Severe Hostess’ lips curl into a smile. “Oh, yes. Dr. Baumann. He is already here. Follow me.”
I glance at my watch - quarter ’til six. I am early. Dr. Wendell Baumann told me to meet him here at six. I thought we were going to have drinks in the bar before dinner. But apparently, we’re getting in on the Early Bird Special. It’s like I’m right back in Florida with my parents at their retirement village.
I mean -and I’m paraphrasing my Mama here- if you don’t get in there by 5:30, you miss all the good cuts of meat. I hope she was talking about the buffet and not the single older dudes who lived there, but at this point, anything is possible.
“Ma’am?”
Oh. No. She. Didn’t.
I’m about to tell her to stick her “ma’am” where the sun don’t shine, but I notice I’m standing at the table with Dr. Wendell Baumann. I smile at him. He holds up a finger at me, putting me on “finger hold” because he’s finishing up a phone call.
I wait for him to get up, you know, and be a damn gentleman, but about thirty seconds into listening to him go on and on about anesthesia levels, I give up and sit down across from him.
A waiter appears at my elbow and takes my wine order. He returns a few minutes later with my Cabernet Sauvignon. Dr. Baumann is still on the phone. I had no idea being an anesthesiologist was so crucial that phone calls would interrupt your dinner. But here we were.
I met him at a speed dating event. Bet you didn’t know those things still existed, did ya? Well, they do. The Never Too Late dating app puts them on all the time. And why yes, I am on a dating app for people over the age of 45. Trying to meet someone in Washington was like putting my head against a workbench and driving a nail into my skull. Although, a nail through the skull would have been a more comfortable situation than the speed dating event. But I did meet the doctor.
As Dr. Baumann blathers on about whatever the hell emergency is happening, I tilt my head and look at him.