by Tash Skilton
YES! I almost pump my fist into the air. I’ve been waiting days for this. Or, I guess I should say, we have. Jude and I.
GreatSc0t: Of course. Holey Cream, right?
Though now that I think about it, Jude probably doesn’t eat doughnuts.
TheDuchessB: Actually, there’s this other place I’ve been meaning to check out. It’s a pop-up cheese shop called, very cleverly, Cheese. It’s in the East Village.
It’s actually down the block. I’ve seen it. But then I remember, Jude doesn’t eat cheese, either—a memorable point from their first date. Then again, maybe so many other things went wrong that she doesn’t remember. Either way, the fact that she’s giving Jude another chance is a big deal and we shouldn’t give her any cause to change her mind. I can probably get Jude on board; luckily, he’s one of my more affable clients.
GreatSc0t: I’m in. When would work for you?
TheDuchessB: Thursday night?
That’s two nights from now. I have to double-check Jude’s schedule but . . .
GreatSc0t: Let’s pencil it in!
* * *
Jude is fine with Thursday night. He’s even fine with Cheese. Sort of.
“I guess I’ll eat beforehand?” he says to me.
“Maybe,” I respond. “Or . . . I don’t know. Could you save your calories for the day or something and just eat a small amount? It would be less awkward. . . .”
Jude blinks at me through FaceTime as if he’s thinking of saying something. Maybe another deserved question about why we are trying so hard for this one girl. But then he lets it go.
“Sure,” he finally says. “I can have Sunday dessert on Thursday this week.”
“Great,” I say. And now to tell him the other idea I had, which was, in large part, inspired by Leanne’s accidental e-mail.
Jude needs this date to go well. I need this date to go well. It’s not that I don’t trust Jude to not have another stilted conversation disaster . . . okay, it is that I don’t trust him.
“So, do you remember how I mentioned we have a gold package? That comes with a conversational coach who can sit nearby and feed you lines on a date?” Who would ostensibly be Giles, of course.
“Er . . . yes, I do,” Jude says. “But I have to be honest . . . I’m not sure it’s in my budget to get another add-on. The photo package . . .”
“Totally, totally,” I respond right away. “And it normally is an add-on, but we’re actually testing out new equipment . . .” New equipment that Aisha and I have to go to Best Buy to figure out . . . “So we’re offering a steep discount right now. Only fifteen dollars for a onetime date.”
“Oh,” Jude says. “That’s not so bad . . .”
“Yup,” I say confidently. “It’s a very good deal.”
“All right. I’ll think about it . . .” Jude says.
“Great!” I say. “Do you think you could have an answer by say . . . eight p.m.?”
Because Best Buy closes at nine. And Aisha is not free tomorrow. Out of the two of us, she’s the tech whiz, and I’d be more comfortable if I had her with me.
“Tonight?” Jude asks.
“If you wouldn’t mind. I just have to make sure everything is in order and our coach is available.” I’ll let him know later that our regular coach will magically not be available and he is going to end up with me.
“Um . . . all right, sure. Why the hell not? Let’s just do it.”
I grin at him. “Great. You won’t regret it.”
* * *
I do get a weird kick out of going to Best Buy with Aisha. Because, inevitably, some employee takes one look at my tiny, female cousin and assumes she needs help when it comes to electronics. And then she gets to run circles around their technical knowledge. One time, when she was helping me pick out a router for the new Brooklyn apartment, some smug dude in his thirties actually asked her if she knew what a modem was. Her silence was only her trying to figure out if she should answer or just fall back on her kickboxing.
“We basically want the most unobtrusive Bluetooth headset we can find,” she says as she scans the aisle we’re in, while I keep an eye out to see if any employees will dare to approach us. I could use the entertainment. “Simplest way is to just have him sync it to his phone, then you call him, feed him lines or what have you and, bada boom.”
“Sounds good,” I respond.
“I actually found this spy set online.” She looks up at me, her voice going up in pitch along with her obvious enthusiasm. “The ear receiver is invisible, goes deep in your ear and needs a magnet to remove. Then you put this necklace around your neck as a receiver, and there’s even a Morse code tap thing in your shoes so you can tap out an SOS to whoever’s listening.”
“Wow,” I say. “Who would need that?”
“Um . . . actual spies?” she responds.
“Right,” I say. “Or, like, a really hopeless TITMH client.”
She laughs. “Yup. You should talk to Leanne. See if she can spare a grand to get one for the company.”
“Good idea.” I smirk. “I’ll also point out that she can spend a lot of time going over the minutia of it with our conversation coach.”
“Yeah, right. Like you would dare bring Giles up to her ever again.”
“You’re right,” I respond solemnly. “As far as we’re all concerned, Giles is dead. No, he never even existed.”
“I aspire to be as badass as Leanne,” Aisha says, and sighs as she takes one of the packages off the shelf. “This one should work. But it’s a hundred fifty bucks.”
“Ugh,” I say as I look at it. “I guess it’s an investment.”
She stands up. “Are you really that worried about the money-back guarantee? I mean, it’s a two-strikes-and-you’re-out sort of deal, so even if for some reason Jude activates it, you’d still have another shot.”
“It’s not that,” I say, and then hesitate. “Well, it sort of is. I also just, you know, want to make a good impression. On Leanne. I fucked up so much last month.” Even though it’s not really that either. Would I be doing this for any other client? Or, better question . . . would I be doing this for any other match except Bree?
I don’t even want to go there because I don’t want to give myself the chance to confirm the answer.
“Oh, excellent,” I say, as I see an extra-confident-looking dude in a blue polo strolling over to us, opening up his mouth to ask Aisha if she needs help. I take a step back, ready to enjoy the show.
* * *
Jude comes to my apartment to test out the headset and then we walk over to Cheese together. But I go in first, telling him to take a stroll around the block before he enters. I don’t want to risk Bree seeing us together.
I go into the restaurant and assess the situation. There aren’t too many people there. A trio of young women sit at one table, and, behind them, another woman in sunglasses and a fedora-type hat slouches into the corner of her booth. Probably a celebrity of some sort, but I won’t risk tarnishing my “I’m obviously a real New Yorker” demeanor by deigning to look closer to find out who it is.
When the waitress comes over, I ask to sit at the booth closest to the door. I slide into the bench facing the rest of the tables, giving me a perfect view of wherever Jude and Bree choose to sit.
I call Jude and he answers on the first ring.
“I’m outside the restaurant,” he says quickly and quietly. “And I see her. She’s about five feet away.”
“Great,” I say. “No need to respond to me anymore. I’ll just listen in and will be talking to you when necessary.”
Jude doesn’t say anything, but I hear him greet Bree and then, a minute later, see the two of them walk through the door.
I order food as they are getting seated, so that the waitress will have no reason to have a prolonged interaction with me. And then I settle in to concentrate on the conversation happening twenty feet away.
CHAPTER 14
ZOEY
One-fifty for a poem?
Are we talking sonnet or couplet? (And did you notice the time stamp?? 3:37 a.m.??) I text Aisha as I wait for the elevator. I haven’t seen the Sleeper inside all week, which I think is a record.
LOL! Srsly. I could be down for a limerick. Between this and my other boss’s digital get-down (don’t ask), I’m setting up a filter. Unless the subject line says “urgent” or “paycheck” all their e-mails are going straight to archive from now on, she writes back.
And then whenever you want to feel profoundly uncomfortable, you can binge them instead of this torturous slow-drip, I reply.
Yes!
I’m about to respond with something along the lines of, “We could make a party of it” when the elevator arrives and I chicken out. We’ll see each other at the work meetup next week and I’ll test the waters in person, see if she’d like to grab brunch sometime. I don’t want to come on too strong; I’m sure she doesn’t lack for friends, so I need to make my move organically, pretend it just came to me in the moment. Maybe a café near the High Line.
I tap my foot a few times. The elevator’s here but the doors aren’t opening. It sits for a moment, and then it’s called back down to the ground floor and leaves me behind. Sad trombone. Twenty seconds pass before I take a deep breath and head for the stairwell.
Outside, en route to Cheese, I earn squinting double takes from strangers as I walk by. My brown trilby hat, ponytail, artfully shredded jeans, and Holly Golightly sunglasses convince people I’m Someone, if only for a second. If I ever need to disguise myself again, though, I’m stuffing a BabyBjörn with salami. #MillennialMom for the win.
It was easy to get myself invited on Bree’s second date with Jude. Over FaceTime, looking contrite and concerned, I offered to drop by in case she needed a bailout. After all, in her view, it was my fault the last date bombed; I owed her one. I told her if it’s as much of a dud as the beer flight, she can Ace him for good.
At which point maybe I’ll set up a Game, Set, Match profile of my own and . . . nope. Nope nope nope. Keep it professional, Zoey. Enjoy the opportunity to check him out IRL and leave it at that. Your rent depends on it.
Luckily, she enjoyed Cheese the first time (minus their outside bottle policy) and was happy to go back. She told me to hide in a booth at the back. I don’t need a disguise, but it made us feel better about me tagging along. If I’m incognito, she can more easily pretend I’m not there and/or that we don’t know each other.
Her signal for an intervention will be if she loudly asks their server for a Monster Mozzarella to go. But if she orders the Ricotta Mousse with Balsamic Pepper Cherries to split for dessert, that means she’s having a good time and I should skedaddle.
* * *
The back of Jude’s head is sexy. It’s the only part of him I can see from my vantage point, but it’s excellent. It has a high fade, with adorably messy textures and flow on top. Sort of like if Miles-High put a little effort in, instead of his patented “I slept wrong, oh well, guess I’ll go out in public!” look. (I still can’t believe we shared a table last week. I’ve been checking my weather app each morning and it’s clear skies ahead, thank God.)
You can tell Jude works out a lot, but not because he’s huge; he’s streamlined. He probably has abs like a washboard. And yet, he’s not a meathead or gym rat, not even remotely. His texts are funny and clever and his profession is, dare I say, altruistic—using his superior knowledge of the human body to help others attain their goals. There’s something noble about a job like that.
I wonder if he has any female clients....
Bree looks great. Her hair falls softly down her back, and her crop top and linen pants are casual yet flirty. Was it my imagination, or did Jude look relieved at her choice of outfit and hairstyle?
Right now she’s telling him about her last visit: “They made me pay sixty bucks to open my bottle of wine. Can you believe it?”
Actually, they made me pay sixty bucks, but she’s allowed to embellish for a better story.
“Once we get to know each other better, assuming I don’t make a guddle of this date, I hope you’ll pick out some wine pairings with me sometime, because I’m hopeless at that. My area of knowledge is strictly beer.”
Guhhhhh. Guddle. He’s so hot and humble. Bree better acknowledge how hard he’s trying. If she doesn’t thank him for the walking tour, I might have to stand up on the table and wave my arms to get her attention. Also, it’s both intoxicating and strange to hear him talking, live and in the flesh. I’ve been listening to his recording on nights when I can’t sleep and his smooth, elegant voice always lulls me into a sense of peace.
“It’s brilliant really, this place focusing on cheese. When I was in Switzerland, you could order a plate of cheese—”
“Swiss cheese?” Bree interrupts.
“Exactly!” he says (points for enthusiasm). “And with a side of fruit it makes for a perfect meal, so I’m glad you suggested this.”
“Thanks for giving it a try.”
My daydream about Jude hiking the Swiss Alps shirtless is interrupted by the arrival of their appetizer: cheese curds. Jude picks up four small pieces and . . . juggles them. It’s charming and unexpected, and Bree laughs. Score another one for Jude!
He flounders and drops two on the floor. Bree bends down.
“Five second rule,” she declares.
“One, two, three, four, five,” Jude says.
Crouched on the floor, Bree looks up at him.
“Six,” he adds, ominously.
She pops one in her mouth, eats it, and swallows.
“I live on the edge, baby,” she says with a wink, and returns to her seat.
He laughs and raises his hand for a high-five and I no longer know what I’m witnessing. If my date essentially licked the floor of a public restaurant, that would be a problem for me. Either the five (or six) second rule also exists in Scottish childhoods, or he has no intention of kissing her later? (Or ever, one can hope?)
“Do you have any female clients?” Bree asks, eerily echoing my own thoughts from earlier. “Are most of them ramping up for some big event, or summer bikinis, or is that a myth?”
“I mostly work with blokes to be honest, but there certainly is a lot of eye candy at the job in general.”
That’s a bit . . . odd to mention. How he likes to ogle women at the gym. I mean, it’s not offensive exactly, because of course we all like to check out attractive people, especially if they’re a bit sweaty and working their bodies into a frenzy in spandex, but—
“Wouldn’t it be the worst if you were, like, watching a super foxy girl, just a perfect specimen, running on the treadmill next to you and she suddenly let loose with a big ol’ fart?” Bree says with a giggle. Then she does a sound effect. A SOUND EFFECT.
I almost spit out my food. Jesus Christ. She’s just thrown her Future Honesty at him. The future is now, apparently.
Far from disgusted, Jude responds instantly: “That’s happened! That’s really happened to me before!”
“Noo.”
“Right hand to God, when they’re running it’s like they can’t hold it in! And then it makes a ‘rat-a-tat-tat’ like a car engine burst.”
He slaps his hand on the table, and they’re both laughing so hard the other customers look over.
So far, this date can be summed up thusly: floor cheese and farts.
Huh. Well, okay. Maybe they needed a silly icebreaker after the awkwardness of their first date, and now they can move on to, shall we say, less flatulence-based conversation. Props to Jude for being so willing to go with the flow. His laughter sounds genuine, too, and since Bree’s facing me, I can see how pleased she is that they’re connecting.
Jude truly is a saint. A handsome, kind, witty saint. Maybe the “rat-a-tat-tat” sound effect wasn’t witty per se, but I like to think he’s overlooking all of Bree’s behavior because of our—I mean, her—messages the last few weeks. He’s willing to put in the extra mile to make her happy, because he thinks I’m�
�I mean she’s—worth it for the banter burning up our keyboards.
They move on to discussing Bree’s job, and when their main courses arrive, their body language is easily decipherable. She’s touched his arm twice, and he’s helped the waitress clear away Bree’s old dish to make way for Bree’s new one. Thoughtful, considerate Jude.
I dig in to my kanafeh. It’s divine, but I can’t help feeling glum over their obvious enjoyment of each other.
It’s good, I remind myself. This is what you’re aiming for.
Then I hear the chilling words: “We’ll have the Ricotta Mousse with Balsamic Pepper Cherries to split, for dessert.”
No.
Jude leans across the table toward her. “Why wait for cherries when I’ve got these perfect lips right here?”
Did he just . . . refer to his own lips as perfect cherries? Or did he mean hers? If he meant his own, that’d be a bit egotistical. Unless he’s flirt-joking. Yes. That must be it. He’s being ironic. And you know, he’s not wrong. His lips are pouty-plump and would probably feel amazing gliding up and down someone’s—Oh. God.
They are kissing. They are kissing. I jump up from the table and walk swiftly past them, only to see Bree’s hand sliding up Jude’s thigh under the table!
Outside, I pace. My mind fills with images. They’re going to leave and they’re going to go back to his place or her place and they’re going to keep kissing, deeper and wetter, and then he’ll lift her up effortlessly because he’s a freaking gym trainer and she’ll lock her legs around his lower back and he’ll carry her to the bedroom, and . . . I can’t let this happen. I just can’t.
I dial her number. I get voice mail. I dial again; same result. I text her madly: I’m outside. MAJOR emergency. I need your help. PLEASE!
A minute passes and Bree exits the restaurant. Her lipstick is smeared halfway around her face.
“What happened? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” she asks, patting my shoulder.
“I’m fine, I just had to get you out of there.”
“What are you talking about? I did the good signal.” She looks longingly back inside the restaurant. “Did you mix it up with the bad signal?”