“Thanks,” I say cheerfully. I exit the apartment without another word.
I’ve learned a lot about Adam in the past hour. He’s an accountant, he grew up on Long Island, he wrestled in high school and, on his days off, he likes to watch reruns ofSeinfeldand do crossword puzzles. To sum things up, he’s lovely.
I have also learned several other things while talking to Adam. There are seven buttons on his shirt. No one has scored in the Mets game playing on the flat screen above the bar. A couple standing a few feet away is arguing over their plans for this coming weekend. And I have also learned, after stealing clandestine peeks at my phone, that I have only been here for an hour and ten minutes and it is way too early for me to go home.
It’s not that I’m having a bad time; I’m just not focused. I should be giving Adam my full attention. He’s good-looking, nice, he has a job and he doesn’t give off any noticeable let’s-see-if-you-fit-in-the-trunk-of-my-car vibes. By modern standards, he’s the holy grail. Other single thirtysomethings would gladly club me over the head and walk over my unconscious body to get to him. That’s why it’s so unfortunate that upon further investigation, I’m not attracted to him at all.
He and Kyle have just walked over to the jukebox that charges a dollar a song when Maggie slides next to me at the cocktail table we’re standing around.
“So, what do you think?” she asks.
“It’s going okay.”
“You hate him.”
“I don’t hate him,” I clarify. “He’s very nice.”
“Calling a guy nice on the first date is the kiss of death. Did he offer you money to touch your feet? Does he train seventeen cageless parakeets on the weekend?”
“I don’t think so.” I chuckle.
“Lucky. Kyle does.”
“Does he really?”
“No, but he did tell me he has a waterbed, and that’s a deal-breaker for me.”
“Really? I bet you’d get your sea legs after a week or two.”
“It’s possible but it’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
“Devastatingly so,” she agrees, picking up her wineglass. “At least you have your actual dream man back at your apartment. The only thing waiting at my place is bitterness and old age.”
“That’s not true. You see your dream man multiple times a year.”
“The Phantom of the Opera doesn’t count. Though he should count, since we’re obviously in love, but the fact that I have to buy a ticket to see him every few months makes me feel dirty.”
“Well, Ryan doesn’t count either. So once again, it’s just you and me.”
“I’m good with that.”
“Me, too.” I lift my bay breeze and we tap our glasses together, smirking and taking a sip. I turn to look towards the jukebox where the guys are still searching through songs when I notice a lone figure sauntering into the bar from out of the corner of my eye. My breath catches in my chest and I have to fight back an ear-to-ear smile.
Ryan stands by the door for a few seconds until he spots me. His eyes lock on mine and he flashes me that sexy grin that makes me feel like a cavewoman. He’s wearing worn-in jeans, a plain white T-shirt and a Carolina Hurricanes baseball cap. Needless to say, Momma likes.
“Crap,” I mumble under my breath.
“What?” Maggie asks, following my gaze to the door. She stares at Ryan for a solid amount of time until she looks back at me. “Stop. Is that Ryan? Is that him?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
Maggie gasps and turns back. “I honestly don’t know what I was expecting but he looks like a modern American version of the prince fromBeauty and the Beast.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“He fully does.”
