Page 9 of Lessons in Lemonade

Taylor winks at me as I grab my purse from the office desk and Scott and I head out the front door.

“Ha, look at that—your scarecrow looks like you,” he comments, stating the obvious.

My mind drifts to Jack, the guy I met at Zach and Shelby’s over the summer. When Taylor first posted our scarecrow, I mimicked its pose and Jack made a similar comment, but more along the lines of me finally exposing my long-lost twin sister. Over the next two weeks, on additional posts, he also teased that he couldn’t tell which one of us was the scarecrow and how I need to stop scaring the scarecrow. He was definitely more original, and he’s always funny. The guy regularly makes me laugh, and I already know he’s going to have a field day with tonight’s date.

“So, you’re a cook,” he says again, only this time he’s nodding approvingly.

“Yeah, something like that,” I answer as I start walking toward the heart of the Battery.

“How long have you worked there?” he says, looking over at me. I can feel his eyes roam over me again and I can’t tell if it’s making me feel slimy or not, but I already know this is over just as it begins. I mean, if he doesn’t understand the difference between a chef and a cook, he’ll never understand me—not that I was looking for long-term anyway.

“Since it opened,” I tell him, not glancing his way. A vision of Shelby and me standing outside after we flipped the wooden sign in the window to open for the first time flashes in my mind. We hugged each other tight, and I knew right then the restaurant would do great things.

“Nice. It says a lot about a woman when she can keep a job consistently.”

I stop walking. “I beg your pardon?” There’s fire in my tone; I can’t help it.

He tries to ignore my ire and keeps on walking. “You know what I mean,” he says sheepishly, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

“I don’t think I do.” My hands fall to my hips.

He lets out a sigh and turns to face me. “Sorry, that came out wrong. My last girlfriend was constantly trying to find herself and changed careers like four times while we were together.”

“Oh. Well, I don’t think it’s a bad thing to want to find yourself,” I say defensively.

“Yeah, well, you weren’t the one paying for it,” he says bitterly.

“Ah.” Now his comment makes more sense. I’m definitely thinking it’s his social skills (or lack thereof) creating the weird vibe.

We begin to walk again, and conversation stays minimal as we’re both a little uncomfortable now.

The weather is cooler and the humidity has receded, which is nice. We must walk for a solid mile up and down the blocks, and with each new scarecrow, the tension lightens. Most scarecrows are typical with a plaid shirt, jeans, and suspenders, but some went all out to match their stores like we did. There is an old man scarecrow smoking a cigar, sitting in a rocking chair, and playing chess out in front of the smoke shop. Child-sized scarecrows are decked out and playing in front of a children’s clothing store, and there’s even one on its knees praying in front of St. Mary’s Catholic Church.

Eventually we decide we’ve seen enough and dip into an Italian restaurant not far from where we started at OBA. The head chef has been here for years and makes the most delicious gnocchi. She sneaks out from the back to say hello, and we talk a little business but mainly keep it to pleasantries.

“So,” Scott begins after we’ve ordered. “Do they ever host any sporting events where you work? Like the World Series, the Kentucky Derby, things like that?”

Where I work. I snicker on the inside at how he hasn’t put two and two together yet.

“Ah, no. OBA is more of a low-country chic bistro. Its Southern fare and quaint setting attract locals and tourists, and the menu is known for intertwining fresh farm-to-table ingredients from the local market with a strong mix of coastal and French influence. Think crab cakes, oyster stew, jambalaya, she-crab soup, shrimp and grits, fried green tomatoes—things of that nature.”

He looks bored by my description then asks, “No chips and queso or chicken wings?”

“No, that’s really not our brand.”

“Those are my kind of places. I’m a pro sports bettor,” he announces while leaning back in his chair. He smirks at me like I should be impressed by this.

Taking one from his playbook, I ask, “So, you’re a gambler?” I know it’s a low blow, but I couldn’t help it.

He frowns. “We don’t really call ourselves that.”

“I see.”

In the spirit of the once-a-month dates, I ask him questions about what he does. Although he and I aren’t going to work out, I make the best of the dinner and let him talk about what he loves. It’s not my thing as it all seems a little risky and uncertain, but he’s passionate about it, and well, I am definitely learning something new today.

By the end of dinner, we acknowledge that we’re just going to be friends, and while I drink wine and he drinks beer, he whips out a deck of cards and we play a few rounds of Texas hold ’em, seven-card stud, and poker. That’s right, he carries a deck of cards and two rolls of pennies in his pocket.

Pulling out my phone, I sneak a picture of the cards splayed across the table then post the image to Instagram with the caption: My date tonight is a pro sports bettor. What do y’all think—should I go all in or fold?