by Nella Tyler
“I can see that,” I told her, nodding. “Girl—sorry, woman—gets scared, cuddles close…”
“And all that adrenaline of course,” she said, nodding.
“So should we pick the horror movie they’re running?”
Natalie shook her head. “I said more than one train of thought, didn’t I?” she raised an eyebrow at me. I laughed.
“Okay, go on then,” I told her.
“The second train of thought is that it should be a romantic movie—a chick flick, basically. Get the woman in a loving mood, show off your sensitive side.”
“So do you want to watch that Shakespeare one? It looks like it’s probably pretty romantic.”
Natalie shook her head again. “First of all,” she pointed out, “this isn’t a real date. It’s a practice run.” I nodded, accepting that. “Second of all, I belong to the third school of thought on the issue: the best dates are comedies. Not the gross out stuff, not the eye rolling stuff, but a good, solid comedy.”
“Romantic comedy?” I suggested. “There’s a Seth Rogan one playing.”
“Ugh, no,” she said, shaking her head harder than ever. “No offense to him ,but the writing on those always makes me irritable. Let’s go for that one.” She pointed to one of the only titles left on the marquee, a comedy with Amy Schumer and Russell Brand in it, and I shrugged.
“All right, that sounds pretty good,” I agreed. I didn’t have very high hopes for it, but there were almost certainly worse ways to spend a couple of hours. I bought our tickets and we went inside together. I had to resist the urge to put my arm around her shoulders. “Do you want popcorn? Or a soda or something?”
“Big spender,” Natalie said with a grin. “That wasn’t sarcasm by the way—look at the prices here. Jeez.” I glanced at the display and saw that she wasn’t wrong.
“They’re getting fancier and fancier these days,” I muttered to myself. In addition to the usual popcorn and candy and drinks, the theater’s menu offered actual meals, though I wasn’t sure how good they’d be: chicken fingers and fries, hamburgers, things like that.
“If you’re up for it, I think a popcorn to share and a couple of drinks would be nice,” Natalie said.
“That’s what we’ll get, then,” I told her, and we got into line. She ordered a frozen Coke, I got a sprite, and we bought a large size popcorn to go with our drinks. We made our way to the theater where our movie was about to start and Natalie steered me towards a pair of seats near the middle rows, giving me a significant look.
When we sat down, she carefully set her flowers down, protected by the empty cup she’d asked for at the concession stand. She reached into her purse and I looked on in confusion as she took out a couple of what looked like movie theater candy boxes. She glanced at me and gave me a conspiratorial grin. “I never, ever buy candy at these places,” she murmured, settling back in her seat. “Considering you can buy the exact same stuff at a store for less than half the price, it is literally never worth it.”
“And here you had me buy the popcorn,” I said, clucking my tongue against my teeth.
“That’s different,” she told me in a whisper. “It would be way harder to smuggle popcorn into the building than a few boxes of candy.”
“Will you at least share with me?” She’d gotten sour patch kids and some kind of chocolate candy, and even though I’d never had much of a sweet tooth, I was tempted.
“Of course,” she said. She grinned at me again. “If I hadn’t intended on sharing, you never would have seen these.”
The lights went down and the previews started, so Natalie and I were left in the darkness, only occasionally able to murmur comments to each other. Somehow the enormous bucket of popcorn was almost completely finished by the end of the movie—which was better than I had expected—and we had basically finished off our drinks. We managed to have a few moments where we could quietly joke, and it actually felt a little bit like a real date—like a date that I would go on with anyone, not just a coach.
When the movie ended and we walked out of the theater, Natalie left my side for a few moments to go into the bathroom, and I decided to follow her example. I used the facilities and washed my hands, and thought that for a practice date, it was actually going really well. So well in fact that I would see how far I could take things.
“You know,” I told her as we walked towards the entrance and exit of the theater together, “there’s something that’s been sort of nagging me at the back of my mind for a while now.”
“What’s that?” Natalie stopped short of the doors, looking up at me. This time, unlike our first date, she’d remembered the flowers of her own accord. She had snatched them up as soon as the lights came up, and she had carried them happily with her. Apparently, it does make a difference if you bring the kind of flowers they like, I thought wryly.
“This is supposed to be dating practice, right?” She nodded, looking up at me quizzically. “Well, one of the big, important things on a date is the goodnight kiss.”
“I told you, it’s not a real date,” she said immediately. I raised a hand to forestall her adding anything to that argument.
“But practice makes perfect, right?” I raised an eyebrow. “And practicing the goodnight kiss could really stand me in good stead later on in the process.”
“You are the most clever, ambitious man I think I have ever met through the program,” she said, shaking her head.
“Does it do me any good?” Natalie shrugged. “Can I get that goodnight practice kiss?” She looked up at me for a long moment and I was convinced that I had pushed things too far. But she grinned.
“Go for it then,” she said. “But remember: this isn’t a real date and I’m not your real girlfriend.” I leaned in, and just barely brushed my lips against hers. A feeling like an electric current tingled along my nerves, from my lips all the way through my body. I didn’t want it to stop—not in a million years. I deepened the kiss for a moment, letting my hands come to rest at her waist, tasting the lingering flavor of Coke on Natalie’s lips. After a few moments, I finally made myself pull back, stepping away from her. For a moment, she was absolutely silent. “You actually don’t need very much practice there,” she said finally, her cheeks going a deep, dusky pink. I laughed.
“Good to know,” I told her. “Until next time?”
“Yeah,” Natalie said, still sounding faintly stunned. “Until next time.”
Chapter Nine
Natalie
Days after my second official practice date with Zeke, I still couldn’t quite believe that I had actually let him kiss me. He made a good point, I told myself weakly. At some point when he actually goes on real dates, he’s going to have to kiss a woman. And, he’s going to want to impress her. But I knew that it wasn’t actually a real reason—and it certainly wasn’t one that would hold water with my boss. It would have been easier to get it out of my head if Zeke hadn’t been such a good kisser; I could have laughed it off, at least once I was out of his company, and considered it one of those gaffes that just happens.
As I made my way to another practice date with another client—a man by the name of Asher—I tried to push Zeke out of my mind completely. Zeke was just another client; like about a dozen clients I’d worked with since starting with the agency, he’d tried to push for more than he should have. But in all those cases, you were able to disengage and explain why they couldn’t get what they wanted from you and keep things professional, I thought. What was it about Zeke that had made me give in, despite every last professional scruple I had against the idea of kissing a client? At least Asher is unlikely to try and pull the same thing, I thought optimistically. And even if he got up the nerve, it would be beyond easy to tell him no.
Asher had predictably chosen yet another restaurant for our practice date. That seemed to be the only thing that he ever wanted to do for our sessions, in spite of my careful advice to him that when he moved onto dating women for real he should think of differen
t things that might be interesting to his paramours: museums, poetry readings, art exhibits, pottery classes. He was the quiet, shy son of an old money family, a couple of years younger than me and recently out of college. Since he had a trust fund to rely on for his income, he didn’t have to worry about a job. He wanted a wife and a settled family life so that he could dedicate himself to his writing and academics.
I sat at the reserved table and waited for my client to arrive. Asher was chronically about three or four minutes late, but I always made sure to arrive to our dates ten minutes early, just in case he chose to show up on time. I perused the menu while I waited for him, and thought about the fact that Zeke had shown greater improvement between date one and date two (or technically, considering the “virtual” session, date three) than Asher had in five dates. Where Zeke had demonstrated—probably purposely—that he’d heard my feedback and wanted to apply it to his manner, Asher was always full of excuses as to why he couldn’t do something I suggested.
Finally, I looked up when I saw movement in the corner of my vision and saw Asher approaching the table with the hostess. At least he’s better dressed this time, I thought as I took in the sight of him. Asher was average height, with messy curly brown hair and eyes. He had a heavier frame, which he did nothing to help with his clothing choices, usually poorly-fitted designer sweaters and jeans, maybe the occasional blazer with worn elbows in off-fashion fabrics like corduroy or tweed. He somehow always managed to look like he had borrowed his clothes from one of his grandparents, in spite of the fact that he had plenty of money to dress himself properly and well.
“Good evening, Asher,” I said, standing up from the table. I shook his hand—still slightly clammy, in spite of the number of times that he’d met me—and we both sat down at the table.
“How has your week been?” Asher’s gaze shifted from my nose to my forehead without quite hitting my eyes before he glanced down at the menu.
“It’s been good,” I replied. “How are you?”
“I’m okay,” he said, with a faintly Eeyore-like whine in his voice. “When do you think I’ll be ready to go on real dates?” I bit back an impulsive, teasing retort.
“You’ve been hard at work, and I know it’s probably starting to get frustrating to keep the training wheels on,” I said instead, keeping my voice carefully level. “But I can’t clear you for dating until I start to see some progress on the things we’ve talked about.” And talked about, and talked about, and talked about, I added very, very quietly in my mind.
“I just don’t get it,” he said, finally looking up from the menu. “I can’t understand what you’re trying to get me to do.” I took a quick deep breath and reviewed the list of cocktails that I’d perused while waiting for my client to arrive.
“The goal I have is to make sure you’re able to make the most of any dates that you have with the women the agency sets you up with,” I told Asher—for what felt like the hundredth time. “Once you’re in a position to maximize your chances, then you can go on dates and find someone who can help you form a meaningful relationship.”
“I’m starting to think my dad was right,” he said morosely. “Maybe I should just buy a wife from Russia or something.” I took a deep breath and counted to three in my mind.
“The trouble with that is you need to be able to form a meaningful bond with even a wife you’ve bought or else you won’t be able to have the serene, comfortable home life you’re looking for,” I pointed out. “So let’s get started. What are you working on lately?”
The waitress came and took our order, and I made sure to get one of the stronger cocktails on the signature drinks list. Asher talked about his projects, and I made every appearance of paying attention, asking questions and feigning interest as he detailed the research he was compiling for a longer essay. As the meal went on, in spite of the fact that I had told myself on multiple occasions that I wouldn’t think of Zeke at all—and despite my general rule not to compare specific clients against each other—I couldn’t help but remember the dinner I’d had with the other client with the meal I was sharing with Asher. While Zeke had started out displaying a kind of blithe disregard for the process of “learning to date effectively,” he had a kind of innate charm that I was certain was a major factor in his success as an executive.
Then there’s the fact that he actually dresses very well and takes care of himself, I thought, surveying Asher’s general appearance. My client had managed to clean himself up a bit for our date, more so than he had on previous occasions, but there was still something faintly dusty-looking about him: his hair wasn’t cut in the most flattering way, and the stubble on his cheeks looked less rakish and more unconcerned. I had suggested on the second or third session with Asher that we could use one of our dates as an opportunity to go shopping for a “dating friendly” wardrobe, and he had countered mildly that he didn’t see the point in buying clothes specifically for going out in. I didn’t think that Zeke did, either; but then, his wardrobe seemed to be geared towards looking clean-cut and successful anywhere he went, and he also seemed to know what colors and cuts looked right on him.
Asher went on about another project of his—a story he was writing under the guidance of one of his former professors—and I tried to keep myself engaged. I knew that his work was basically the only thing in life that excited him other than online gaming, but somehow none of that enthusiasm translated to any kind of exciting description or engaging conversation. From previous sessions with the man, I knew that if I let him go on, Asher would take up the entire session with nearly-monotonous recitals of details for this story or that one, backstories for characters, world-building exercises he’d done, and philosophical questions that his stories were supposed to both pose and answer.
Zeke, on the other hand, could make even the relatively boring subject of brokering agreements and contracts for charities seem like a fascinating subject. It was obvious to me that both men threw themselves completely into their work of choice, but that Zeke was somehow better at getting the people he spoke with to understand his enthusiasm and feel it. Probably because part of his work is essentially sales-driven in mindset, I thought to myself idly. I wondered if Asher would have more polish to his manners and presentation if his father had—somehow—forced him to work for part of his life, to be a salesperson or to at least get involved with a company. Everything for Asher seemed cerebral and remote.
“What do you think of that?” Asher’s question cut through my abstracted thoughts and I forced myself to try and think of what he’d been talking about when I’d gone on my mental tangent.
“It sounds very interesting,” I said to cover my inattentiveness. “What else do you have going on in your life these days? It seems like you’re loading yourself down with a lot of work. Have you taken the time to try some of the activities I’ve suggested?” I’d hoped that by getting him into activities where he’d have to interact with other people on the basis of something other than games or writing, he might get a more varied conversational style.
“I tried,” he said with a sigh, pushing around a bite of fruit tart on his plate. “But I just couldn’t make myself go to any of them. It seemed too boring or too tiring or too…just not me, you know?” I suppressed my urge to sigh at yet another excuse from the man.
“Well, certainly I didn’t expect you to try all of them in one week, Asher!” I smiled as broadly as I could. “But trying one or two of them—even if they’re boring or too tiring or whatever—could give you a new perspective. Hell, maybe you’ll be rewarded with another idea for a story.” I kept my smile plastered on my face in spite of the fact that what I really wanted to do was give him a good shake and tell him that if he kept rejecting advice from me, we were both going to be stuck practice-dating each other forever.
I went over the same list of items to do with Asher as I had at our four previous meetings and left the restaurant feeling disappointed in both my client and myself. How was it possible that I
could have one client who got the gist of what I was trying to explain to him almost before I finished explaining it, and another who showed every sign of at least comprehending the words out of my mouth but not the meaning or the use of my advice?
Unbidden, the memory of kissing Zeke floated up into my mind, and I pushed it ruthlessly aside. I was not going to dwell on how much more charming Zeke Baxter was than any other client I had, and I certainly wasn’t going to ever let him get past my defenses again. We are going to nip that “practice the goodnight kiss” thing right in the bud. No more of it. It was obvious that it had only made things worse, at least when it came to me managing my other clientele. I couldn’t let Zeke jeopardize my professional life.
Chapter Ten
Zeke
“You wanted to see me, Mr. Baxter?” I looked up from my computer screen to see Trevor coming through the door to my office. I frowned until I remembered that I had texted him, asking him to come by as soon as he was done at the drycleaner’s.
“Have a seat, Trev,” I said, sitting back from my desk slightly. “I want to make some plans.”
“What kind?” Trevor took out his notepad and sat down across from me, slipping his phone out of his pocket to consult it in case there were conflicts in schedule.
“I want to get the ball rolling on the next few dates I’m supposed to be taking Natalie on.”
“I can definitely put together some preliminary plans,” he said, opening up my calendar on his phone. “What did you have in mind?”
“One of the things Natalie wants to see is me paying attention to the things my dates like,” I explained. “So I want to try and schedule some future dates for the kinds of places she would like to go.”
“Well, what ideas do you have?” He glanced up from his notepad and phone.
“She likes movies and music—see if any of her favorite bands are on tour or have concerts in the area in the near future. I think I already gave you the list on that, right?”