by Lindsey Hart
I’ve never really asked Janice for advice when it comes to relationships. While she didn’t like Calvin, she never told me to my face that he was the worst of bad news. She basically saved it all for after I had already broken up.
I type in a text, but then I hesitate and delete it. I have a few more false starts before I sigh and finally just write something honest.
Rowan: I have a client that I’m working with right now. I’m supposed to be arranging a match for him, but all I can think about is…. well… him.
Janice sometimes doesn’t answer her phone for hours or even a few days. She’s a teacher, so she doesn’t live by her phone like I do. Sighing, I wait and see if she’ll reply, and I’m a little surprised when my phone dings. I wait for a minute, trying to damp down my shame at my admission before I check it.
Janice: (brain exploding emoji) Umm… that might break some professional rules?
Rowan: Don’t worry. With the way things are going, pretty soon I won’t have a job.
Janice: Well, then that would be alright. Your workplace is toxic anyway.
I sigh. That’s just Janice, giving me her opinion after the fact. It’s like she has this rule where she can’t interfere in my life, but once something is in the past, and I’ve made my own decisions about it, the floodgates just pour right open.
Rowan: You’ve never said you thought it was bad before.
Janice: Because my opinion about it doesn’t count. It’s you who works there. I know you’re committed to your job, but your boss is a dick, and you’re seriously unappreciated there.
Rowan: I like what I do. Helping people is always nice.
Janice: You chose that job because they hired you when you were sick of working retail at the mall. It wasn’t a higher calling.
Ouch. While it is true, it does sting. Janice is far from being done, and I realize—as I glance down at those little bouncing text dots—I’m about to hear some non-sugar coated truth. I did ask for it, I remind myself. I was the one who texted her.
Janice: You never went to college like you always said you would because you were happy working there.
Rowan: I was. That wasn’t the reason I didn’t go.
Janice: Right. That would be the asshole who dominated your life for half of your twenties.
Rowan: Okay, I don’t want to talk about that. Or college. I have a serious problem here.
Janice: Right. The crushing on the client thing.
Rowan: Well… I don’t know that it’s a crush.
Janice: If you can’t stop thinking about him or focus on matching him up with actual good dates because you’re hoping to sabotage it so you can have a chance, then that’s bad. Really bad.
Rowan: I would never do that.
Janice: I know. I wasn’t done yet. I was going to finish up with your better sense wins out, but if you still can’t stop thinking about him no matter how hard you try, that might be a crush.
Rowan: It’s not a crush. I don’t know…
Janice: It’s normal to be attracted to other people, you know. To want to date. It’s been a long time since you broke up. You’ve moved on. You’re probably ready now, which is good. I thought Mr. Assholeface might have ruined you on men forever.
Rowan: Thanks for that. (angry, red-faced emoji with a swear bar in front of the mouth)
Janice: (blushing face emoji) I’m just saying.
Rowan: I get that. But what do I do about this?
Janice: Have you ever thought about telling him how you feel?
Rowan: (skull and crossbones emoji)
Janice: I always thought honesty was the best policy.
Rowan: In this case, I think it would be the worst policy.
Janice: I don’t know. Find him dates then?
Rowan: (skull and crossbones emoji, skull and crossbones emoji, skull and crossbones emoji)
Janice: Seriously? I think you have two options. Date or dates. If you aren’t going to tell him, then what else are you supposed to do? Either grow some lady balls and put it out there that you’d like to be his date or grow some lady balls and find him a date who isn’t you.
Rowan: It’s just—it’s not professional.
Janice: It’s not professional? Or are you just scared of getting back up into the saddle?
Rowan: Please don’t make this about horses. Neither of us is a horse. And don’t talk to me about riding lessons that are a metaphor for something else. I know it’s a metaphor for something else.
Janice: (horse emoji, laughing crying emoji) You’re my sister. I just want you to be happy (heart emoji). I’m just saying, if you have a chance to do it, then you shouldn’t let your previous experiences ruin it. And if you lose your job, I’m sure you’ll find another. You’re smart. Crazy smart. And crazy talented. Or maybe… go to college?
Rowan: Right. I can’t really do that without a job.
Janice: I have some savings.
Rowan: No way! I’m not taking your money. If I found a different job, maybe I’d consider doing something online. I could work and slowly get there, I guess.
Janice: That would be an excellent idea. Now… are you going to tell him or not?
Rowan: Honestly, I don’t know. He has two more dates. Maybe after that.
Janice: That’s great, except you are not a last-ditch option.
Rowan: Thanks. I get that.
Janice: I have a few more lesson plans to finish up, but text me anytime, okay?
Rowan: Okay. Love you. Goodnight.
Janice: (moon emoji)
I set my phone aside with a groan. What would I come out and tell Cliff? That I think he’s hot? That I can’t stop thinking about how his grey t-shirt was stretched over his shoulders and chest just right, and I’d like to see, feel, and taste what lies below? That I’d like to do more than that? That I’d like to discover just how much of a non-asshole he can be? That maybe I thought I was broken by my last relationship, but now I’ve suddenly discovered, since meeting him, that I actually still have functioning organs and an actual heart rate?
I yank my quilt up and throw it over my head. Great. Now said heart is racing, and I feel hot and achy all over. While we were sitting and eating ice cream, and I was busy trying not to think about Cliff and the crazy hot male vibes he was giving off and how I’d give just about anything to change places with his ice cream so I could be the one to be licked all over, I also thought of the perfect match for him.
Maybe I am too much of a professional, after all. I know that first thing tomorrow morning, I’m going to send him that profile. Even if it makes me ache in some very unexpected, and very wrong places.
CHAPTER 9
Cliff
Date two was better. At least we both agreed to disagree about liking each other. The date was fine. The whole dinner thing went over fine. Everything went fine. Actually, the whole date was fine. We were just… mutually uninterested in each other. But it was actually kind of nice to get to talk to another professional.
Lisa owns her own business. And so we talked business for most of the night, discussing different ideas. It was informative and interesting, and we actually exchanged business cards so we could keep in contact professionally. I would call that a win.
I know it’s not the kind of win Rowan wants to hear about, though, and that, for some reason, makes me feel guilty.
Since our ice cream meetup nearly a week ago, I’ve spent a lot of mental capacity on thoughts of her. Now I’m worried about her being pissed at me because date number two didn’t work out. I still haven’t emailed or called her yet to fill her in on it. I’m worried. I keep trying—and failing—to find the right words.
It blows my mind that I’m worried. How the double eff did I go from not caring about this at all to actually sitting here in my house with my laptop open, trying to type an email for the last two hours? So far, I have one word.
Rowan.
That pretty much says it all.
A week and a half ago, I didn’t even know
her name. Now, I want to know so much more than that.
I swipe a hand over my face and lean back against the couch. I can’t remember a time I ever felt so frustrated or useless. Before I even realize what I’m doing, my fingers are moving. I type two lines and lean back again, staring at what I wrote.
Rowan,
My house is creepily quiet tonight. For some reason, I’m noticing the silence now. I’m actually thinking about it. It makes me think about you.
I’m not a poet. I’m also no writer. I sell seeds and garden supplies for a living. I’m good with customers. I’m good with suppliers. I’m good at pretty much everything about my job. But when it comes to actual romance? Yeah, I obviously have just about zero practice with that. So no, I can’t find the words to tell Rowan that I can’t stop wishing our fake date had been a real one. That I’d love to get ice cream with her again. That I wish she’d just burn any profiles she might be considering for me because I only want to take her out.
I keep thinking about what she said. About finding someone when you’re not looking. I definitely was not looking. I never thought I’d be looking.
Apparently, I’ve done a real one-eighty over here because suddenly, I’m thinking about Rowan’s beautiful face. About her smile. About her laugh. I’m thinking about me making her smile. Making her laugh. About how that would be a great way to break the silence. I’m thinking about kissing her. I’m thinking about doing actual romantic things.
My eyes are blurry from looking at the computer screen for so long, so I blink a few times to try and focus. Squinting, I use the trackpad to hit the delete button on the draft, but a second later, the email disappears, and I hear a swoosh sound accompany it.
Oh no. Oh, fucking no.
Panic sets in, the worst panic than I’ve ever felt in my life. My eyes focus real freaking fast, and my fingers move with astonishing speed. In under a second, I’m staring at my sent messages, and the draft email to Rowan is at the top of the list. I think about all the ways to recall an email, but I figure it’s already too late.
All I can do is set my laptop aside and brace myself for impact—the impact of a giant shit meteor about to hit my stupid-ass self. What the double duty freaking hell was I thinking? How could I have even written that, let alone mistakenly sent it?
This whole thing has really helped me learn about myself. It’s made me realize that it is indeed possible to sink to brand new lows every single day.
Sure enough, less than a minute later, my phone dings. I’ve shut my laptop off and set it aside where it can’t do any more harm, but my phone is sitting on the coffee table. I squeeze my eyes shut and grind my teeth. Hard. Hard enough to do serious damage. But since I don’t like going to the dentist, I let up on it and instead settle for a long, drawn-out sigh that pretty much sums up how screwed I am right now.
Finally, my arm shoots out and grabs my phone. I brace myself as I swipe to my emails. There, at the top, is Rowan’s name in bold. Unread. I know it would be ridiculous and cowardly not to read it, so I force myself to click on the email.
Cliff,
I’m pretty sure that message wasn’t for me. Does that mean your date was a success?
Have a good night,
Rowan
She’s so diplomatic that it nearly kills me. I had made the mistake of a lifetime, but she just dismissed it in the next breath. I could tell her the date was great and that the message was for someone else, but it would be an asshole thing to do. Plus, she’d follow up with Lisa and find out I was lying. Then where would that leave me? I’d prefer not to dig myself into a deeper shit hole filled with shitty excuses and shitty lies and just shit in general. I know I have to come clean.
My phone makes annoying clicking noises as I type a response.
Rowan,
No, that wasn’t meant for someone else. It wasn’t meant to be sent at all. I tried to delete it and sent it by mistake. I think there’s a good chance that mortification might kill me before you do. Unless… unless there’s any chance that you might take pity on me and save me from the oppressive silence of boredom and agree to let me pick you up. I have this place I like to go to. There’s this abandoned barn just outside the city. It’s pretty cool, especially at night. I used to go there with friends all the time in high school. It’s still there. No, we never got shot at. Yes, I’m pretty sure it is on private property. No, I also don’t think anyone actually cares. Yes, we could just sit in the car and stare at it from the back road. Yes, I do promise to get a full tank of gas along the way. Yes, we can talk about my date and about all of that if you want to ignore what I just said and keep everything on the professional level. No, I won’t be disappointed if you tell me to never contact you again because you think I’m extremely creepy.
Cliff
I send that off and wait. I don’t know what made me suggest picking her up. It’s Saturday night, and it’s already late. Like, really late. Inappropriately late. By the time I get to her house and pick her up, it would already be after eleven.
My phone dings in my hand as another email comes in. Of course, it’s from Rowan. I open it without thinking, and my heart speeds up to the point where my pulse nearly rips out of my neck when I read her response.
Cliff,
I haven’t broken the law in a very long time unless you count going five kilometers or so over the speed limit every now and then. If you’re asking for this to be a professional debriefing about your date at a very strange spot, then I guess I can’t refuse. I don’t have work tomorrow, so I guess it doesn’t matter what time it is. If you promise to fill your car up before you pick me up, and also let me inspect it, so we don’t get stranded in the middle of nowhere where there is dubious phone reception, then I guess I have no reason to refuse. After all, I can’t be responsible for the monster of silence in your house, devouring you. I was going to delete that line because it sounds stupid, but I’ll just leave it. Maybe like that, we can be even. You have my number. Just call me when you’re here.
Rowan.
I can hardly believe it. What I thought was going to turn into an ugly, humiliating situation actually turned out the exact opposite. At least, I hope so. There’s always the chance I’ll screw this date that’s not a date up like I did the first one, and she’ll end the night by leaving me on the side of the road and taking a cab back to her apartment. That would be harder from some back road in the middle of nowhere; I have to admit.
I honestly haven’t had a date in ten years. Not since Amy broke up with me. I’m out of practice when it comes to this, and I don’t really count the forced ones I went on that Rowan arranged. This one is my idea, and this isn’t someone I don’t want to see. This isn’t a stranger.
This is Rowan.
I really hope I don’t mess this up. I don’t want to hurt Rowan. I don’t want to give her a reason to match me up with a profile from hell to get back at me for butchering this. Okay, no. That has nothing to do with it. I don’t want to mess this up because she’s Rowan, and I’m Cliff. She’s a nice person. A good person. A beautiful, witty, funny, smart, and incredible woman, while I’m just this guy who hasn’t been on a date in a decade and was so immature about the knife my first serious girlfriend stuck into me that my mom had to go to a dating agency to teach my ass a lesson and break a decade long funk.
And the barn I’m going to take her to is kind of my secret escape. It’s a place I’ve gone to since high school to think and be alone. It’s been my inspiration, my solitude, my spot, and I really don’t want it to be associated with some trash memories of how I messed everything up.
Before I have time to talk myself out of this, I jump off the couch and rush into the kitchen, where I snatch my keys and wallet off the counter.
Nearest gas station, here I come.
Chapter 10
Rowan
Maybe going into the middle of nowhere, late at night, with someone I don’t even truly know at all, isn’t really that great of an idea. I think it vio
lates every single one of the privacy and safety rules that I always warn my clients about. I think it might also violate every ounce of common sense I have. I’m currently sitting in a confined space with a man who is seriously doing it on the over attractive factor.
He might be wearing a faded leather jacket over a black t-shirt and a pair of regular looking jeans, but still. Just because he’s not trying to be attractive doesn’t mean he’s not. I keep watching the way his hands flex on the wheel as he drives. I steal sidelong glances at Cliff’s profile whenever I can, which is every single time he has to pay attention to traffic. Oh, and he smells good. His scent is a mix of subtle cologne that could be aftershave or even deodorant or something, and a smell that I’m pretty sure is just Cliff.
By the time we reach the edge of the city, my entire body is a mess of goosebumps. The car isn’t cold, either. The heat is blasting, and the gas tank—which I checked when I got in—is full.
Cliff seems to have taken my advice to heart, which made me blush. He was at my front door after he texted me that he was there. He also showed me to the car and opened my door for me. He definitely improved since the last time. He’s upped his game, which is good news for me when it comes to keeping my job, but bad news for the suspiciously mushy spot in my chest.
I try to keep track of the route we take just in case. Just in case what, I’m not sure. It’s not like I’m going to have to run for my life or anything. Except for my heart, maybe.
It’s a disturbing thought. My heart is not getting involved. Attraction doesn’t have anything to do with the heart. Attraction is a biological function that involves brain signals, internal chemical reaction, the eyes, and other organs. Not the heart organ. You can be attracted to a person and not feel anything more than that, right? In fact, I’m pretty sure that’s how most of the world operates.