One Last First Date

by Kate O'Keeffe

  “Where are you going?” Marissa asked.

  “We’re just going for a drink at O’Dowd’s, all very casual and familiar. It was his idea. And I like it.”

  I thought of our usual Friday night grab-a-quick-drink-after-work spot. O’Dowd’s was rowdy and fun—not exactly a romantic spot—but then I knew Will’s taste. Unpretentious and fun, O’Dowd’s was totally his style.

  “And then we’re going to go out to dinner afterwards. I know it’ll be just perfect because . . . well, because he’s Will.” She beamed at us across the table.

  “Oh, Paige.” Bailey sighed. “You girls are amazing. You’ll all be married off, happily living with your hunky husbands. Well, not that I’ve met Parker yet, but I know Will’s a total hottie.”

  Paige turned to Bailey abruptly. “You’ve met Will?”

  I tensed up.

  “Yes, when he came in here with Cassie a while back. He is such a nice guy. You’re a lucky girl.”

  “You brought Will here? Why didn’t you tell me?” Paige asked, a hurt look on her face. Although none of us had ever said it out loud, we had an agreement that the Cozy Cottage Café was our place. You only ever brought another person here if they were really important. And so far, none of us had.

  “Actually—” I began, pausing to clear my throat. “Will was the one who brought me here after a meeting we went to together. He used to come to get his coffee here when he worked up the road.” I crossed my arms in front of me like a shield.

  “Oh,” was Paige’s only response.

  “It’s no big deal,” I replied, thinking of the Lady Gaga concert. Why was I keeping these things from Paige and Marissa?

  Bailey’s eyes darted from Paige to me and back again. “Did I put my foot in it?”

  “No, no,” Paige insisted with a toss of her hair. “It’s all fine. You’re right, Cassie. It’s not a big deal.”

  I smiled at her. “It was just coffee with me. He’s going on a date with you.” I bit my lip and consciously uncrossed my arms.

  “Exactly. It was just coffee,” Marissa said with conviction. “I have a good feeling about you two.” She rubbed Paige’s arm, who broke into a fresh smile.

  Bailey stood up, pushing her chair back from the table with a screech on the tiled floor. “I want to hear all about it, but I’d really better get back to work.” She gave Paige’s shoulder a squeeze. “I’m so happy for you.”

  With Bailey gone, Marissa asked, “What are you going to wear?”

  As Paige rattled off her wardrobe options, I took a few deep breaths, trying my best to focus. “You should definitely go for that shirt with the hearts. You look amazing in that,” I said, trying to get into the swing of the conversation. But try as I might, I couldn’t get rid of that strange knot in the pit of my stomach, the one telling me something I didn’t quite understand.

  * * *

  Back in the office later that day, Marissa grabbed a hold of my arm as I passed by on my way to the printer and dragged me into the kitchenette.

  “What the—?” I began loudly, my eyes huge with astonishment at being manhandled. I tugged my arm away from her firm grip and gave it a rub.

  “Shh!” she said, her finger to her lips. She poked her head out the door, and then back inside. “What’s got into you?” she asked in a loud whisper.

  “What’s got into me?” I asked, incredulous. “You’re the one dragging people around like you’re one of The Cavemen!”

  “Shh!” she repeated. “I don’t want Paige to hear.”

  My shoulders slumped. In a flash, I knew exactly what she was referring to. “Oh, that.”

  “Yes, that.” She looked at me with expectation.

  I let out a sigh. “I don’t know. I guess things aren’t that great with Parker.”

  “They’re not?” she asked, leaning in toward me as concern clouded her eyes.

  I shook my head, my face downcast. In hushed tones, so the world and its dog wouldn’t learn my sad love-life woes, I launched into the full spiel: how I’d accidentally told Parker I loved him in the car that day; how his mother treated me like some sort of interrogation project as his dad leered at me over the smoked salmon; how this new threat in the form of Sara, his ex-girlfriend, had seemingly materialized out of thin air.

  “I may be his rebound girl, not ‘The One.’”

  “Oh, my god, Cassie. I had no idea,” Marissa said, rubbing my arm. “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  I shrugged, played with the cuff of my shirt. “I don’t know. I guess I had this plan and the beach pact and everything. I mean, I said I was going to marry the next guy I dated, and I guess I didn’t want you to know it wasn’t working out the way I thought it would.”

  “That is the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard in my life,” she pronounced, her hands on her hips.

  “Gee, thanks for your support,” I shot back, wounded.

  Marissa took me by the arms, forcing me to look directly at her. What was with this manhandling today? “Look. Just because you agreed to this One Last First Date thing doesn’t mean you have to go through with it. It was just some stupid thing we did on the beach after one too many wines.”

  It took a moment for what Marissa was saying to sink in. Not be with Parker? Abandon the whole thing? Forget about the beach pact? I opened my mouth to speak. All I managed was, “But, I—” before I closed it again.

  “Cassie, look at me.”

  I did as instructed; I didn’t want to be grabbed again.

  “Date Parker if that’s what you want to do, but forget about any of that ridiculous beach pact stuff. None of that matters.”

  I nodded. Not dating Parker—the man I knew was my future husband, the future father of my children, fellow pet owner, and Volvo owner—was so far away from what I was sure I had wanted. I let out a long, slow breath. “No. It’s good. I want to be with him. We’re just having some speed wobbles, that’s all.”

  “As long as you’re sure.”

  “I am.” I sounded about three hundred percent more convinced than I felt.

  Chapter 21

  AND THEN DISASTER STRUCK. Well, not quite disaster, more the potential to ruin my life irreparably forever. So yeah, disaster.

  On Friday night, I was out on my own date, back at the club we’d had one of our first dates at all those months ago. I’d endured ninety entire minutes of incomprehensible noises coming out of the lead singer’s mouth as his bandmates seemed to play whatever they felt like on their respective instruments. Cacophony didn’t even begin to describe the racket. So yeah, we were at the jazz club.

  When the final set was over and the band had mercifully left the stage, Parker wrapped his arm around my shoulders, beaming at me. “I’m so happy you like The Scat Cats, Cassie. They have such a great sound, don’t they?”

  “Yes, they’re very”—I searched my brain for the right word, like a frantic mother hen looking for her lost chicks—“uniquely talented.”

  Parker seemed more than happy with my response. “They are, aren’t they? I’m so pleased you’ve learned to appreciate jazz. It means a lot to me.”

  I shrugged, enjoying the compliment.

  “You’ve come a long way since the ‘cat’ debacle,” he added.

  “Ah, yes. A long way.” He had to go reminding me how I thought “scat” was “cat” because the people who do it sounded like cats to me, yowling and carrying on. I wouldn’t say it to his face, but I stand by my mistake. The Scat Cats front man sounded like a feline in need of emergency vet treatment, if you were to ask me.

  Parker reached across and took my hand in his. He looked into my eyes. “Cassie. You’re amazing, you know that?”

  My mouth went dry. Was this the moment? The moment I’d been waiting for?

  “Thanks. You’re pretty amazing, too.” I smiled at him, my lips trembling, my heart hammering away like it had a couple of carpenters in there, bashing nails into floorboards.

  He looked down and began to play with my fingers.
“I—” he began. He cleared his throat. “That is, I wanted to say that—” he hesitated, looking up at me.

  Oh, my god. This was it! This was the moment he was going to say, “I love you”!

  “Yes?” I encouraged, swallowing hard. I opened my mouth, ready to respond with an equally emphatic “I love you, too.” He paused.

  Say it. Say it.! SAY IT!!

  “Sara?”

  What? Sara? Had the man lost his mind? Against my better judgment, I was about to correct him when, in one fell swoop, he abruptly pulled his hand away from mine, dropped his other hand from my shoulder, and stood bolt upright, his chair crashing to the floor behind him.

  “H-hello,” Parker stammered.

  Rooted to my seat, I looked up at him, dumbfounded, my mouth gaping wide. He was about to tell me he loved me—I was sure of it—and now he was standing, looking like a starstruck teen, deep in shock, staring at a woman who was not me. With a superhuman effort, I pulled my eyes away from him to look at the object of his attention. What I saw stopped my heart for several beats, possibly more. Sara. Beautiful, elegant, slim, Sara. With her long auburn hair, chic strappy top and slim-fitting black pants, and her long string of old money pearls.

  She looked like me, only better. A whole lot better. I tried to swallow down a rising lump in my throat.

  “Parker.” Her face lit up, rendering her even more beautiful than before. Unlike my boyfriend, who now looked like he could throw up, Sara appeared relaxed and at ease. Bumping into him had clearly not rattled her one iota. “How lovely to see you.”

  “Yes, ah, Sara. I should have known you’d be here tonight,” Parker mumbled, not taking his eyes from her.

  Action was needed. And fast. I stood up and stepped next to Parker, sending a clear message: he’s mine. “Hello. I’m Cassie. It’s nice to meet you, Sara.” I stretched my hand out toward her. She took it and smiled at me.

  “Hello, Cassie. It’s lovely to meet you, too. This is Justin.” Sara gestured to a man I hadn’t even noticed standing next to her. He reached out and shook my hand, then shook Parker’s.

  We stood in uncomfortable silence for what felt like a week before I asked Sara, “Did you enjoy the band?”

  “Oh, she would have,” Parker answered for her, smiling at me with his eyes virtually popping out of his head. “Sara always loved The Scat Cats.”

  Sara lifted her long, elegant hands into the air in surrender. “Guilty as charged.”

  “I haven’t been to one of their gigs in a couple of years. I really liked the block chords, didn’t you?” Justin said.

  “Yes, they were brilliant.” I had no idea what block chords were—and doubted I ever would—but I wasn’t about to look like a jazz ignoramus in front of Sara. “I liked all the chords, actually.” I smiled at everyone, ignoring the tension emitting in waves from Parker’s head.

  Justin shot me a look that questioned my sanity. “Yeah, great. Anyway, I thought it had integrity, great dramatic meaning, right, Sara?”

  I blinked. He’d got “great dramatic meaning” from the noise we’d all just sat through?

  Sara agreed with Justin, said something about the musical progression, all the while still smiling her dazzling smile. And still being stared at by an unblinking, unmoving Parker.

  I slipped my hand into his and gave it a squeeze. He turned and looked at me. Finally, he snapped out of his perfect, jazz-literate, ex-girlfriend-induced haze. “Well . . . it’s been great to see you again, Sara. Hasn’t it, Cassie?” He didn’t wait for my response. “And it’s nice to meet . . . you.” He nodded and smiled at Justin—he clearly had no clue what his name was. He’d been too busy gawping at Sara. He tightened his grip on my hand until it was almost vice-like.

  “You, too,” Sara simpered. She leaned in and kissed Parker on the cheek. I couldn’t help but breathe in her scent—an intimidating mixture of Chanel and the aroma of flawlessness—and watched with dismay as Parker stood stock still, unmoving, a hard, steely expression plastered across his face.

  “Take care, Parker. It was wonderful to see you again. You’re looking great.” Sara turned to me. “Bye, Cassie.” She smiled at us both before floating away into the dimly lit club, Justin at her side, spouting on about sharp riffs and open voicing—or something.

  Still gripping my hand, Parker looked around the room, his chest heaving. His face was pale, his nostrils flared.

  I’m guessing that didn’t go so well.

  “Ah, Parker? That kinda hurts.”

  He looked down at my hand. Something in him seemed to change, and suddenly my Parker was back. I pulled my hand away from his and tried to shake off the pain.

  “Are you all right? God, I’m so sorry. Did I hurt you? Here, let me take a look.”

  With reluctance, I let him take my hand in his. He inspected me, and then put my palm to his mouth and kissed it. “Let’s sit down. Okay?”

  “Sure,” I replied uncertainly.

  He righted his seat, and we sat at the table together. I went to speak, but he held his finger up and drained his glass of red. After a moment, he sighed, took my injured hand in his once more, and kissed it again. “I’m sorry about that,” he repeated.

  “It’s okay. Nothing broken.”

  “No, I didn’t mean your hand. I meant about bumping into Sara like that. I . . . I wasn’t prepared.”

  I shrugged. “It’s hard to bump into an ex. It’s only natural to get a little freaked out by it.” I was trying to be the kind of mature and together person I read about in magazines, able to allow my life partner to have feelings for another woman yet still feel comfortable in our own relationship. Or some other such total bull.

  “That’s exactly it!” He looked like he might pop with exhilaration. “I didn’t expect to see her, I wasn’t prepared, she had that . . . guy with her, and that’s it!”

  I played with the stem of my wine glass. “Yes. And it doesn’t mean you have any feelings for her or anything,” I lead.

  “No. Of course not.” He squeezed my injured hand.

  “Ow!” I squealed in pain. What is this man trying to do to me?

  He dropped my hand to the table like a hot coal. “Sorry, sorry. God.” He buried his head in his hand. “I’m really messing up here.” He looked back at me, his face a study in dejection. “I’m sorry, Cassie. I really am. I’ll get myself together. Don’t you worry.”

  I nodded at him, clutching my hand to my chest. There was no way on earth I was going to offer it to him again tonight. If I was entirely honest, an infinitesimal part of me wanted to enjoy this moment, a moment in which Parker was the one feeling embarrassed instead of me. But I couldn’t. Witnessing his reaction to Sara tonight, my heart sunk deep, deep down into my belly.

  “You and me?” He pointed from himself to me and back again. “We’re solid. We’re good. Right?”

  “Sure. Yes. Totally.” I smiled weakly at him, even though all I wanted to do was cry. Cry until I couldn’t cry anymore, until my eyes were swollen shut, my nose a blob of red, my throat raw.

  He wrapped his arm around my shoulder. “Good. You’re what matters to me, Cassie.”

  “Sure,” I breathed, trying to swallow the rising lump in my throat.

  A pile of heavy bricks joined my heart in the pit of my stomach.

  Parker was in love. And it wasn’t with me.

  * * *

  And those bricks stayed down there all weekend. They sat, heavy and foreboding, telling me things were wrong wrong wrong. Try as I might, I couldn’t get that look on Parker’s face when he first saw Sara out of my head. He looked like he’d been struck by lightning. And not in a good way.

  And Sara. Every time I thought of her, I cringed from my toes right out to the ends of my hair. I simply couldn’t get past the fact she looked so much like me! Or rather, as I was quickly realizing, the fact I looked so much like her. Until Friday night, I had thought Parker’s dad, Dickie, was just bad with names, mixing me up with Sara. Now, I could easily see
how he would have confused me with her. Really, lose ten pounds, gain a few inches in height, throw on a string of Mikimoto pearls, and I could easily be Sara Winston-Smythe. That was her name: Sara Winston-Smythe. Of course it was. She was the queen of golf and tennis, jazz aficionado and art collector. And to top it all off, she was a doctor. A doctor! How could I ever have a hope of competing with her in Parker’s eyes? I mean, come on! The woman was hardly playing fair.

  Parker spent the rest of the weekend telling me how important I was to him, how much he loved being with me, how he could see a future with me. In a nutshell, everything except those crucial words: “I love you, not Sara.” He apologized close to a gazillion times for his awkwardness in seeing her at the jazz club, saying he wasn’t expecting to see her, she’d caught him off guard, next time he’d be prepared. Yada yada yada.

  I tried to believe him. Oh, how I tried. But I was there, I saw how he’d looked at her, I saw how stricken he was. It was as clear as a summer day to me he wasn’t over her. In my darkest moment, at three in the morning when I lay awake, staring at the ceiling, I realized the painful truth: Parker was still in love with Sara Winston-Smythe, and he’d chosen me, her look-alike, as a consolation prize.

  * * *

  “Come on, Cassie. You have to come,” Paige pleaded with me, standing at my desk on Monday morning, looking super cute in a new princess blue dress and the biggest smile I’d seen in days. “I need to tell you about my big date!”

  I sighed. “Sure. I’d love to hear about it.” I forced a smile, trying to appear happy for my friend. Which was a big ask when my own love life was in the proverbial toilet, about to be flushed away by Sara-I’m-Parker’s-perfect-ex-girlfriend-Winston-Smythe.

  “Good.” She stretched out her hand to help me out of my chair, somehow intuiting I could barely manage it myself.

  “Wow. You really look like you could do with some caffeine therapy,” Marissa commented as we greeted her at the elevator. “Rough night?”