I frown. “You told me I didn’t want the real thing my first time out.”
He bends over and picks up a large oblong stone, then tosses it out into the water with a bigkerplunk.
“Let’s just hope your date doesn’t go likethat,” he quips.
I laugh and absently think that if my date with Roger goes anything like this impromptu walk, I won’t be sad.
Chapter 10
I’m on a date.
Well, technically not yet, because he’s not here, but still.
It’s hours after my walk with Miles, and I’m on a date.
The thought sits sideways in my mind, and I try not to linger there. It’s the kind of thing that’s better if I just do it, like jumping into a cold lake. If you think too much about it, you’re bound to chicken out.
I’m wearing ankle-length, slightly flared jeans, my favorite neutral Nike tennis shoes, a simple black top, and a khaki-colored trench coat, and I’m standing on the Ogden Slip dock on the Chicago River near Robert’s Pizza waiting to meet a man named Roger.
Who I’m hoping won’t be akerplunk.
I’m not pre-judging him, but when I got home from my walk, I read the messages between Roger and Miles/Minnie-pretending-to-be-me. I wondered if this counted as some twisted version of catfishing but decided that since I’d signed off on the communication, it’s okay.
Mostly because the entire exchange started with Miles/Minnie writing:I prefer to get to know each other in real life rather than over text messaging. Would you like to get together Saturday?
Forward, but hey, it worked.
It meant that Roger didn’t get any false information about me. It also meant that I know almost nothing about Roger except that he’s recently divorced, has two daughters, and included in his profile lots of pictures of himself with different hockey players that might be impressive if I had any idea who they were.
Now, as I shift my weight back and forth on the riverwalk, stopped near a sandwich board sign with the menu for Robert’s Pizza handwritten on it, I pull out my phone to look at the photo one more time. Roger isn’t the kind of guy who would turn a woman’s head. But in my experience, sometimes those are the men most worth knowing.
Like Miles said—this is just practice.
I blow out a held breath and look around the riverwalk. There are boats in the water and a few diners willing to brave the chilly spring weather scattered around the tables and chairs on the restaurant’s outdoor patio.
I glance at my watch. The tour starts at 1:30 p.m. and it’s 1:29. I scan the area again, wondering if maybe I got stood up. I pull out my phone and see a text from Minnie:
Minnie: Date day!! Let me know how it goes.
I text back:
Claire: If he doesn’t show up in the next sixty seconds, he’s late, and you know how I feel about people who are late.
“Claire?”
I look up and find Roger standing in front of me. He’s wearing a brightly colored Hawaiian print shirt, khaki pants, and white tennis shoes with the thickest soles I’ve ever seen.
“Uh, yes, I’m Claire,” I say. “Roger?”
He gives me a little bow. “At your service.”
My eyes dart around the riverwalk, and I laugh to myself, but when Roger stands up from his bow he stumbles, and I reach out a hand to steady him.
“Oopsie,” he says. “Lost my footing there.”
Oopsie?
“I think the tour is about to start,” I say. “Should we go in?”
