by Nella Tyler
“I like when you’re here,” Brady told me, looking up at me through his eyelashes. He hugged my leg tightly, nuzzling against the spot just under my knee.
“I like it when I’m here, too,” I told him, smiling as I got down to his level to give him a hug. I lifted Brady off of the ground and started to carry him through the apartment towards the bathroom.
“But you like working,” he pointed out.
“I do,” I agreed. “Not as much as I like you.”
“Why do you work, then?” I set him down on the bathroom floor and started to run the water for his bath while I thought about that question. He was too young for me to explain it to him completely, obviously.
“Well, Mommy has to have money to live,” I told him, testing the water with the inside of my wrist. “And I like my work…even if I don’t like being away from my cute little boy.”
“You meet friends?” I nodded.
“I meet a lot of friends,” I said. “Lots of friends.” I thought about possibly putting Brady into daycare when he turned four; it would be good for him, to get him around more kids and into a more structured environment. He already had a good vocabulary for his age; I thought it was probably because of all of the reading—at least, I hoped so—and the fact that I always spoke to him like a normal person. “Why don’t you tell me about some of your friends?” I began stripping off Brady’s clothes while I let the bathtub fill, adding a capful of his favorite bubbles to the water; they helped him sleep, or so the label said.
“Sarah’s nice,” Brady told me; Sarah was one of his babysitters. “She plays cars.”
I nodded along as my son listed off all of his “friends”—from the other kids he played with at the park to his babysitters, asking questions here and there to keep him going. Even though I worked, I wanted him to always feel like his mom was involved, interested in his life; I knew he was too young to have a thought that complicated, but I wanted to put it in his head before he ever could. After a while, his attention wandered onto other topics that he always seemed fascinated by: why some dogs were big and others small, why he wasn’t allowed to touch frogs, why the monkey bars at the playground were so high. I let him play in the warm water and relaxed, taking in the sight of my son. He looked more like his father than like me, but I had never really cared. Even if Alex wasn’t part of my life and never would be again, Brady was more than a reminder of a relationship that hadn’t worked out.
“Saw Jenny’s papa,” Brady said randomly, looking up from his alphabet floating toys.
“Did you? What’s he like?” I wondered what brought the thought on, what had jogged loose the idea of someone’s father.
“Nice,” Brady told me. “He likes swings.”
“Who doesn’t like swings?” I grinned at my little boy. “It’s almost time to get out now, and we’ve got to wash your hair before we do.”
“Mama,” Brady said, pressing his lips together and looking at me almost sideways.
“What, baby?”
“Are you lonely?” I stared at my little boy in shock at the question.
“Who put that idea in your little head?” I tried to smile, but I knew it was only a halfway effort.
“Jenny’s papa,” Brady told me. “Said you’re lonely.”
“Well I’m not,” I told him firmly, but with as much positivity as I could manage. “I’ve got you!”
“You need a papa,” he said. I laughed.
“I have a papa,” I pointed out. “Grandpa is my papa.”
“No,” Brady said, shaking his head. “Like Jenny’s papa.” He frowned, almost pursing his lips, and I could see him trying to put the thoughts into the words he wanted. “Like Jenny’s mom has.”
“Oh, you think I need a husband,” I told him.
“What’s husband?” His frown deepened. I sighed.
“That’s a bit complicated, little one,” I told him. “Jenny’s papa is Jenny’s mama’s husband.” I took a deep breath and tried to think of how to explain it in a way that a three-year-old could understand. I knew he couldn’t remember his father, not really; Alex hadn’t shown up in Brady’s life since the divorce, and Brady had only been about one when that had happened.
“You need one,” Brady told me solemnly. “So you’re not lonely.” I laughed and shook my head.
“Maybe one day, little bit,” I told him. “Now come on—no more stalling. Let’s get that hair washed.”
I finished up Brady’s bath and got him out of the water and wrapped up in a towel. He was already starting to yawn when I got his pajamas on, and by the time we were curled up in his bed and I was reading him his bedtime story, he was nearly asleep already. I managed to get through the short little book nonetheless, and as he finally began to doze off, I felt the last stresses of the day start to leave me.
I crept out of his bedroom as quietly as I could, and my thoughts turned to Zeke. We were going to have our first real date in a few days’ time—he’d had his personal assistant call me to let me know the specific day—and I wasn’t sure what to think. My first impression of him had been good; he’d come up to the table looking put together, in a pair of jeans and a nice shirt, and the light had gleamed on his clean, light brown hair. His bright blue eyes had almost glowed. You have to admit, of all the clients you’ve worked with, it’s hard to imagine him having a hard time getting a date, I had thought to myself as we shook hands.
But then my optimism took a turn for the worse as I realized he wasn’t really paying attention to me; he was nodding along, occasionally saying something neutral, when I went through the ground rules—and at that I wasn’t even sure that he was interested in knowing what could and couldn’t happen between us. He considered me a tool, that much was clear. He wanted to get through the coaching and get on with his life. In that sense, he was like almost every businessman I’d ever worked with.
I sat down to work on my initial report for my boss on the subject of Zeke Baxter. It was only a little after seven, and I would have plenty of time to get it done before I went to bed for the night. On the one hand, he had a stable income, obviously more than he needed, and he was good looking. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure that he actually knew how to have a romantic conversation with anyone. Just how much work is it going to take him to get ready to date on his own? I shook my head and began to write. The issues that I could see right from the get-go were that he tended to only actively engage with those topics that interested him completely or topics that he thought were most relevant to his interests. If it was anything else, he tuned out. Masterfully, but I had been able to tell when he was and wasn’t paying attention to me throughout the date.
He was friendly, sociable, and even a little charming, but the listening skills were an obvious sign of broader problems. Fortunately, I wrote in my report, he doesn’t seem to objectify women as a general rule, but it will still take a great deal of work to teach him active communication skills and appropriate conversation dynamics. I finished the report with the idea that the initial few months that the matchmaking service had set for him might not be enough, unless he was—as he’d said—a fast learner, and emailed it to my boss for her to review.
I wasn’t all that surprised that Zeke had set our first practice date at a restaurant; it was a safe choice, a comfortable choice, and one that a lot of my clients in the past had gone with. I had looked up the restaurant online when his assistant had given me the name and address, and it was fairly fancy—I would be eating a dinner that would probably come out to the same amount of money I spent on groceries in a week. But I hoped that I could steer Zeke towards something more unique for our second session together; if he was going to stick with nothing but meal-dates, then I wouldn’t have any chance to properly get him in shape, and that was the ultimate goal.
I wondered if he’d gone to the matchmaking service as soon as he’d come to the conclusion that he wanted to date again or if he’d tried his hand at dating on his own and come up empty. Zeke hadn’t gi
ven me any real, solid idea of who he actually was underneath the charming businessman façade he wore, and that was another issue we would have to address. If he really wanted to make an impression on a woman, he would have to learn to be genuine and spontaneous. I made a note of that in my case file for him, reminding myself to talk to him about it on the date we were set to go on. I thought—based on how quick he’d been to respond to the few pointed remarks I’d made at our first meeting—that he might at least be fairly reasonable when it came to taking feedback from me. I could hope so, at least. There were tons of guys out there who would say “Oh yes, you’re absolutely right. I’ll work on that,” and then turn around and keep doing the same things over and over again without even the attempt to correct a behavior. I guess we will see what kind of guy he is when I give him his feedback in a few days, I thought to myself as I shut down my computer for the evening and set it aside.
I glanced into the kitchen; I’d left the dishes undone since I wanted to get Brady ready for his early bedtime. I would do them, get a bowl of ice cream, and watch a little TV before going to bed myself. As I stood up to get started on the rest of my night’s activities, I thought that I had both the most boring and the most exciting life of anyone I knew.
Chapter Four
Zeke
The alarm on my phone went off at six thirty, but I was already nearly on my way out of the office by then. I was surprised at how excited I was—almost anxious—for my first practice date with Natalie. At least you know there’s not even a need for a goodnight kiss or a question of whether you’ll go to your place or hers, I thought as I gathered up my things to leave. Since I’d set our date for a higher end restaurant, I’d decided that the suit I’d worn to work was just as good an outfit to wear to it as anything else I owned; it would save me time at least in getting to the place. I had to admit to myself, even as I tried to play off the significance of the date, that I’d been thinking about Natalie a lot in the week since we’d met. She’d emailed me a few things to look at, all of them computer-based tutorials about topics like “active listening” and “conversation dynamics.” I’d gone through them, but I didn’t think I really needed their advice; after all, on a real date, I’d have every reason to pay attention, ask relevant questions, and take an interest, wouldn’t I?
I climbed into my car and navigated out of the parking structure next to the building, thinking about the date ahead of me. Even if it was only practice, I intended to take it as seriously as possible; I wanted to prove that I could learn quickly and that I didn’t need all that much work to be ready to meet women for real. In fact, I’d met a woman at lunch earlier in the day—cute, with brown hair and long legs, her makeup subtle but effective. If it hadn’t been for the agreement I’d signed with the matchmaking service, I would have asked her out; but I’d promised that I wouldn’t ask anyone out on a date until I’d completed their “training” with the coach and I had always considered my word to be my bond.
As I drove towards the restaurant, I thought about the fact that I was dating for the first time in years, even if it was just practice dates with someone who would never actually end up forming a romantic relationship with me. She was essentially more like a friend that I was paying to catch me up on what women wanted to see and hear when they went out with a guy. How sad is it that I had to hire a matchmaking service to help me get a girlfriend? I shook that thought away.
I had decided to go with the service instead of doing my own legwork in finding a girlfriend because it made the most sense. Online dating obviously wasn’t much of an option—Tinder, Ok Cupid, and the like all seemed to be people angling to get laid or too poorly-adjusted to be in a healthy relationship of any kind. Trying to ask women out or going out to bars to pick them up would take too much time and would just frustrate me. Better by far to have the service set up a few meetings with women that they had already figured out were compatible with me and go from there; I wouldn’t have to do the weeding out myself, and I was just about guaranteed a good time, even if individual dates or individual women didn’t work out in the long run.
I spotted a florist as I came to a stop at a light and an idea lit up in my head. Women loved flowers, didn’t they? It was such a tradition to get them on a date that it would make sense for me to come with a bouquet for Natalie. She’d appreciate it, and I was certain based on what she’d said the other night that almost none of the other men she’d worked with during her time at the company would have thought about it. Get those bonus points in early and she’ll let you out of training early, I told myself, doing a U-turn at the next light and doubling back towards the florist shop. I’d get her a bouquet, she’d be impressed with my taste, and in a matter of a few weeks, I’d be going out with women that I actually had some chance of having a life with.
I stepped into the shop and looked around for a moment. “Can I help you, sir?” I looked up from an arrangement of big, bright flowers and saw an older woman hovering at the entrance to the back of the shop, where I guessed the bouquets were made up.
“Yes,” I told her. “I’m meeting a beautiful woman for our first date together, and I wanted a bouquet that will just knock her socks off.” The woman nodded and came out onto the floor to help me.
“Do you know if she has any preferences? Or allergies?” I shrugged.
“I think she likes all flowers,” I said. I had no idea that women had any particular attachment to one type of flower over another. My mother had never seemed to, and my dad bought her flowers constantly.
“Well,” the woman said, pursing her lips as she considered, “roses are classic, but you’ll want red ones—not white or yellow.” She plucked a big, stunning bouquet out of a bucket of water and showed them to me. “We use roses that are bred with their scent glands intact, so these will make a really great impression on your beautiful woman.”
“I didn’t know there were roses without scent glands,” I told her. “Thank you so much for your help.” I paid for the bouquet and for a vase to put it in, and the woman gave me her card in case I wanted to come back for a special occasion or just a second or third date. I was feeling pretty sure of myself when I got back into my car and started back in the direction of the restaurant, looking forward to the reaction from Natalie with I gave her the beautiful flowers. I’d have to think of something at least a little clever to say at the same time; I began considering that problem as I came to a stop at another light.
I decided that I would stick with being direct. Anything I thought of saying as I handed her the flowers came across as either cheesy or creepy in my mind, and if it was that way in my own head, I could only imagine what it would be like to Natalie. Better by far to do what I did best and just make it a gracious gesture.
As I drove, I thought about the fact that I was going on practice dates with a woman who wasn’t going to fall in love with me. In a certain way, it made total sense. I’d been out of the dating scene for years, and the matchmaking service not only wanted to make sure that I wouldn’t ruin their record by being an asshole to the women they set me up with later on, but also wanted to make as much money off of me as possible, as with any client. I didn’t begrudge them the opportunity, and the system seemed pretty fair all around.
Natalie seemed like a tough, but mostly fair-minded woman, and I could imagine that if she really did find that I was ready for real dating, she’d turn me loose and let me go on with my life. I’d been worried that I’d meet the woman who was supposed to coach me about dating and she’d turn out to be a little bit desperate or greedy, only going to the sessions so that she could get an expensive meal on someone else’s dime and rattle off a bunch of phony shit about embracing my inner child or being more mindful and “in the moment” about my life. While I hadn’t paid as much attention to the rules that Natalie had given me at the beginning of our first meeting as I should have, I had read her well enough to consider her a no-nonsense kind of person.
Of course, there was also the fact th
at she was gorgeous. Her red-brown hair was stunning, and I wondered if maybe—just maybe—she would wear it down that night. Did she ever go on dates that weren’t work-related? She’d mentioned that she’d gotten into the line of work because she’d wanted to meet more people. It only made sense that she would have a rule about not forming anything other than a working relationship with her clients—too many guys who’d gone too long without having the female companionship they wanted would assume her friendliness was a sign that she actually was into them, and they’d make fools of themselves.
I had to wonder what her life looked like outside of the practice dates. She had mentioned being single, so obviously there was no boyfriend or husband, and it didn’t seem like she was really, truly looking for one. Was she just one of those people who preferred being single? I’d been like that until about three months before I’d signed up with the matchmaking service. I’d never had enough time to really devote to a relationship in my life before, which was why I hadn’t even tried until I did. But her whole life revolved around dating; I had to think that a real date with someone would be like a busman’s holiday for her. So how would she go about finding someone she could love if she couldn’t go on dates without getting into professional territory?
My thoughts circled around once more to the fact that I was actually on my way to a practice date with somebody. It seemed like the very definition of twenty-first century decadence, that people like me could hire a matchmaking service not only to find them a woman that they could possibly grow to love, but also hone the skills and abilities that it took to make them datable. I wondered what Natalie’s “rougher” clients were like and how she managed them. She’d certainly done well enough with me on the one occasion we’d been together so far. I could remember the sound of her voice and the expression on her face from different points in the evening we’d spent together. I wondered what kind of system of accountability the matchmaker had. I wondered if Natalie had found a way to ask people on a date that didn’t make her look like the idiot that I was as soon as I tried to get a date with someone.