by Tash Skilton
I slide myself onto a barstool that’s catty-corner from their table. I can see them out of the corner of my eye but, more importantly, I can hear them perfectly.
“You look . . .” Jude starts, then hesitates. “Interesting?” Then he catches himself. “Nice?” But he can’t seem to stop the question mark from appearing at the end of his adjectives. Maybe I should take my notebook out so that he and I can have a proper postmortem after this.
“Thanks,” Bree replies, touching the side of her hair. “Usually, it’s a little bit more accurate than this. I didn’t have a lot of time.”
“Oh,” Jude says. And then, nothing. He clears his throat. Then he picks up the menu. “Well, thanks for meeting me. I’ve heard good things about this place. They have over forty beers on tap and I think at least six of them are low-carb.” That might be the most animated anyone has ever uttered the phrase “low-carb” and it was way more enthusiastic than anything he said to or about her. Yeah, the notebook’s coming out.
“Right,” Bree says, picking up the menu herself. They both seem to be reading it for a while.
“What are you thinking?” Jude asks. “This Monterey Jack IPA looks good. And I think I might give the Wil Belgian Wheaton a go.”
“Um . . . .” Bree says, flipping the menu over and then back again. “I’m sorry, but does this place have any food?”
“Oh,” Jude says. “Are you hungry? We can ask the waiter for the food menu.”
“Yeah, that’d be great.”
It takes a while for Jude to flag a waiter down and during that whole time, they don’t utter a single word to each other.
It’s true what I said: Sometimes people’s online humor doesn’t translate in person. But with Bree . . . I can’t help thinking this is mostly Jude’s fault. She put herself out on a limb with the hairdo—if nothing else, an instant conversation piece—and he’s not engaging her at all. I’ve got to talk to him. This girl won’t be on the market for long, and I really think he’d be missing out on something pretty special to let her slip away.
A waiter finally comes and informs them there’s no food menu except for a forty-dollar cheese plate with a different slice of cheese to pair with each of their beers.
“What do you think?” Jude asks Bree.
“Huh, cheese,” she says, and then, “sure. Why not? I’m pretty hungry.”
“Cool.” He smiles at her. “Do you know what you want to drink or do you need another minute?” Jude asks before the waiter disappears again.
“Oh,” Bree says. “Just a Diet Coke.”
The waiter blinks at her before jotting her order down. “And you?” he asks Jude.
“Um . . . actually, I’ll take a minute,” he says.
“Okee dokee. Just holler when you’re ready,” the waiter says, impressively finding a way to express irritation through the medium of retracting a pen.
“You don’t want to try out the beers?” Jude asks Bree.
“Nah. I’m off alcohol right now.”
“Oh,” Jude says, looking thoroughly confused. I can see him throwing a glance my way. “I didn’t know that. I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have picked a brewery.”
Shit. I’m pretty sure she never mentioned this in our convos, but I am going to have to go back and do a postmortem on myself now.
“It’s okay,” Bree says. “Maybe I didn’t mention it. Who knows?”
“Well . . . do you want to go somewhere else?” Kudos to Jude for offering. But I have to dock a point since he’s looking longingly at the menu while he does it.
“Honestly? I’m not sure this hair would survive a trip to another location. So maybe it’s best if we stay put.”
“Right, okay,” Jude says, and then awkwardly picks up his menu again, perusing it with extra concentration.
When the waiter comes back, he ends up ordering a beer flight, along with the cheese plate and Diet Coke.
“So . . .” he says, once the waiter’s gone.
“So . . .” Bree replies.
Jesus, this is painful. I’m getting flashbacks to RayaJack5. I wish I could type words straight into Jude’s brain for him to speak.
“So . . . you work in medicine? Right?” he finally says.
“I’m a bookkeeper. For a medical practice.”
“Ah, right,” he says. “How do you like that?”
“I like it. It’s more fun than it sounds,” she replies.
“You’re obviously . . . a fun person.” He vaguely gestures toward her head. It takes everything I have not to thunk my head onto the bar.
“I’d like to think so,” she says. “And you . . . sorry, I don’t remember exactly what you do.”
Really? But she made that wry comment when I mentioned the personal trainer thing a couple of days ago. Could it be she’s just juggling a lot of matches and doesn’t remember the conversations? That’s not a great sign, but it also means I might have to amp up my game to make sure Jude rises to the top.
“Personal trainer,” Jude says genially.
“Right,” Bree says, and then briefly touches his upper arm. “That would explain these.”
Jude smiles at her. Okay, this is better.
“So you’re from Ireland. Wait, no . . .” Bree pauses. “Scotland.”
“Aye.” Jude nods.
“Where in Scotland?” Bree asks.
“It’s a small hamlet near Glasgow called Auchentiber. It’s lovely.”
“It sounds lovely. Well, when you say it.”
Jude smiles. “Thanks.”
You’d think the train was finally leaving the station but, uh . . . nope. Another stall, just about a foot away from where they started. Neither of them says anything until the waiter comes back with their drinks and an enormous plate of cheese slivers that takes up almost the entire table.
“Well, cheers,” Jude says, lifting his glass to clink it with hers. He brings the beer to his mouth, then stops. “Oh, wait. I’m sorry. I should’ve asked if it was okay if I drank in front of you. That was rude of me.”
Bree blinks at him. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I just didn’t know if you weren’t drinking because of some abstinence thing or . . .” He trails off his sentence, thankfully not accusing her of being a raging alcoholic.
“Oh, no. That’s not it. I’ve just given up drinking on dates for now.” She leans in and whispers to him. “It’s led me to making some bad decisions in the past. So, cheers. Enjoy.”
“Ah, got it.” Jude smiles at her again and takes a sip.
“Which ones would you like?” Bree says as she takes the cheese knife and hovers it above the plate.
“Actually, I don’t eat cheese. I’m paleo,” Jude says.
“Oh,” Bree says. “So I’m supposed to finish this by myself?”
“I’m sure you can get it wrapped up?” Jude replies.
“Right. Good plan.” She then starts cutting the cheese (literally). She cuts and eats the cheese for a long time without a single interruption: no conversation, no gestures, barely even any eye contact. For all his good looks and charm, Jude needs a lot more help than I thought.
“Oh, God!” Bree yells and I glance over. A big piece of her hair seems to have come undone and just landed in what looks like a large pile of feta. “Yuck,” she says as she picks up her hair. Jude hands her a napkin. She laughs as she wipes at it. “Guess the Duchess never had this problem in space. Zero gravity and all.”
Jude smiles weakly and nods, but even I can tell he has no idea what she’s talking about. I guess he’s never seen Undersea. I’ve been obsessed with it for so long that I didn’t even entertain that possibility. Maybe our first order of business is to remedy that. A very small price to pay to get in this girl’s good graces.
“Excuse me a minute. I think I’m just going to go fix this . . .” Bree gestures to her hair.
“Of course,” Jude says and he gets up to pull her chair out, but she’s out of it and on her way to the bathroom before he can get
there.
Once I make sure Bree is out of sight, I walk over to him.
He’s running his hands through his own hair. “I’ve never particularly been up on avant-garde fashion,” he says to me.
“Uh, that’s not avant-garde fashion,” I say. “It’s from the movie Undersea. Mary Clarkson?”
“Oh,” Jude says, and then I see it dawn on him what I’m talking about. “Ohhhh. Right. I remember it. Vaguely. Haven’t seen it since I was a kid . . .”
“Well, we might have to do something about that because obviously she is very into it.”
“Right,” Jude says, though he sounds unsure.
“Don’t worry,” I assure him. “It’s awesome. Easiest homework you’ve ever had.”
“Okay,” he replies. “But homework . . . do you really think . . .”
“Shit, I gotta go.” I leap onto my barstool as Bree comes walking back to the table. Her hair is down and normal now and she’s carrying what can only be described as a cardboard dunce cap in one of her hands.
Jude stands up and this time manages to pull her chair back for her.
“Thanks,” she says.
He sits down and smiles at her. “I get it now,” he says overenthusiastically, gesturing toward her head. “Undersea!”
“Um . . . yeah,” Bree says, but she looks like she’s thinking about nothing except placing the dunce cap on his head.
* * *
The date does not last much longer than that. Suddenly, Bree isn’t so hungry anymore, Jude has finished his flight, and I’m hearing murmurings of “that was fun,” with no talk of a further date.
Crap.
Jude comes back to join me at the bar once he’s seen Bree out. He orders a water, since he’s apparently already filled his beer carb quota for the day. I order a Jameson on the rocks.
“If nothing else, that Wil Belgian Wheaton beer might be a contender for the quest,” Jude says. “It was pretty tasty.”
“It’s not over yet,” I reply. “We can still salvage this.”
“You think?” Jude asks as he squeezes the lemon into his water. Then he shrugs. “I don’t know. Remember what you said about efficiency? Maybe we should just move on.”
“I don’t think so,” I reply almost immediately, even though, normally, if my client wasn’t feeling it on the first date, I would 100 percent agree with exactly what Jude is saying. There are plenty of profiles in the sea, especially for a guy like him, and my job is to keep my clients from wasting their time.
But that’s the thing. I don’t feel like Bree is a waste of time. Sure, this wasn’t the most amazing date in the history of romance or anything, and maybe the sort of story they’d have to embellish if it got to the point where they were telling their grandkids about it (on the other hand, maybe it’d be hilarious: the hairdo that almost wiped out their existence). But it could also just be one mediocre date; everything I’ve seen and read of Bree so far makes me think she’s worth another shot. I tell Jude so.
“All right,” Jude says. “But I’ll be honest: I’m not sure she thinks I’m worth another shot.”
“Let me think on that,” I tell him. “If that’s true, I’ll come up with something to make her change her mind.”
“You’re the expert,” Jude says, raising his glass to me.
That night, when I get home, it’s to the welcome sight of solo Dylan on the couch with a tray of chips and salsa on his lap as he watches Shark Tank.
“Where’s Charles?” I ask, hoping the answer is something along the lines of “gone forever.”
“Having dinner with a former student, one of his mentees,” Dylan says.
Okay, fine. I have to admit that’s a better answer. Charles and I may not get along, but I’d be totally blind not to realize that he and Dylan are crazy about each other. And if there’s one thing I’ve always been, it’s a hopeless romantic.
Here’s where I butt up against this problem again: Regular Miles isn’t here and I’m genuinely not sure I want him to return. Because being a hopeless romantic meant that I left myself so wide open that I got my heart pummeled, steamrolled, and left for dead.
On the other hand, being totally cynical about love has thrown me for a loop too. I don’t feel like myself; I feel like a version of me that’s consistently seeing the world through a smear of Vaseline. Nothing is clear and I can hardly trust any of my own senses. That’s no way to live, especially for a New Yorker who needs to be constantly vigilant lest they sit on something unidentifiable and sticky on a suspiciously open subway seat.
I join Dylan on the couch and he offers me a chip, which I take, trying to chew above the tray so that I don’t add crumbs to the aggravation of my interminable stay.
“I think Barbara is going to snatch this guy up,” Dylan says, gesturing to the TV.
“Maybe. Or Kevin,” I reply.
“Ugh. I hope not. He deserves better.” Dylan has obviously bought into the villainous portrayal of the investor nicknamed Mr. Wonderful.
Maybe that’s the answer. I can be a Shark—an investor in the game of love, but not personally involved. I have the perfect job for it too. I’m not just constantly on the sidelines watching other people’s great romances; I’m a real architect of them. I provide the seed money, so to speak. And if I do my job and tend to it properly, I can watch something blossom without being in personal danger if the crop fails.
I don’t need to be Regular Miles. I can be Miles 2.0.
And I think that Bree and Jude are the perfect couple to have a stake in.
CHAPTER 10
ZOEY
I think Bree ghosted me.
It’s been three days since her date with Jude, and she hasn’t responded to a single message I sent asking her about it. I’m freaking out.
If the job interview I had on the phone yesterday for a script coverage position had gone better, I wouldn’t care so much, but it ended with the ultimate backhanded compliment: “We’re just afraid you’re overqualified and wouldn’t be happy here.”
I’m not sure what I could have done to convince them I don’t mind running errands and answering phones. I mean, I did it for eight years just fine; I don’t see why I can’t keep doing it.
Then this morning I got a reply to a résumé I sent out six weeks ago. No greeting, no reminder of which company it was. Just:
When I sent back an explanation of the term, I got this in return:
I’m so flustered by the brush-off and lack of money coming in that I can’t focus on the script I’m supposed to be writing. I’ve been stalled on page two for weeks, changing the main characters’ names and redoing their opening dialogue until I don’t even know what the story’s about anymore, assuming I ever did.
I know Mary would never kick me out of this apartment, but the idea of telling her I couldn’t hack it in the city, considering she gave me every possible advantage, makes me sick to my stomach. After Bree looked so astonished by my address, I researched the building’s history. Turns out I should be paying nearly four grand for this tiny room, which is NONSENSE, but it means Mary’s more generous than I realized; if I can’t cobble together the monthly rent at 70 percent off, I don’t deserve to live here. Let someone who knows what the hell they’re doing take it over from me.
Because bad news always comes in threes, now Clifford is threatening to renege on my pay for what I thought had been a slam-dunk ghosting job! I need to find out what happened. Voice mails and IMs aren’t working, so I decide to log in to Bree’s account with Game, Set, Match and search for answers on my own. She hasn’t given me permission to do that since I last saw her, but she hasn’t NOT given me permission, either.
Maybe it’s good news I haven’t heard from her. Maybe she and Jude are so loved up they don’t have time for anything else. I’ll hop in, skim a bunch of gooey missives—I bet Jude gives great gooey—and invoice Clifford for another success story.
Username: TheDuchessB
Password: 1374552x9992080
&nbs
p; The login or password you entered is incorrect.
I roll my eyes. That’s because it’s a bunch of random numbers that correspond to some type of Undersea map coordinates. I double-check it and type again, slowly and carefully.
The login or password you entered is incorrect.
I grit my teeth and make a third attempt.
The moment I hit enter, the screen goes black and a single yellow tennis ball smashes into a cartoon player’s face. His eye swells up and a few of his teeth fall out. Charming.
Then a message in white text appears:
Please contact an Admin to restore your access. Bye!
Oh shit! How long will she be locked out?
I’m reeling from the implications when my e-mail inbox dings. The message is from Clifford and it’s a video. Just what I fucking need! At least I’m at home where no one can witness this lunacy. I click on it and cover my eyes, watching through the sliver of space allowed by my fingers. When does he have time to make these?
Oh, he had fun with this one.
The video depicts Ariana Grande singing and dancing, but her face has been sloppily covered with Bree’s profile pic. Ariana’s brown ponytail shoots out the top of Bree’s head, not unlike the party pylon hairdo, come to think of it. She (and the Weeknd, because Clifford’s obsession continues) sing that if I want to keep them, I need to love them harder. Then Clifford walks toward me in front of a white screen.
“Here’s the sitch-a-roo. Your client filled out a customer survey, and she gave you a”—he cringes—“one out of five for user satisfaction. That’s almost the worst possible outcome.”
What’s the worst one? Murder?
“Not everyone’s compatible, but this goes beyond that.”
No shit! Is my boot compatible with your jugular?
It’s really tough for me to fathom how Bree’s meeting with Jude could have turned into a bad date. I set her up perfectly; all she had to do was show up and chat about her favorite topic, and she would’ve been off to the fricking races. Jude and I connected. If it went wrong, it’s not because of me.