by Nella Tyler
Zeke considered that. “Probably not,” he admitted, smiling slightly.
“You’d want her to be friendly, engaging, and open, right?” He nodded.
“So you’re saying I’m going into this with a transactional mindset,” he suggested.
“A little bit,” I agreed, holding up my thumb and forefinger with maybe a quarter inch of space between them. “And, I get why that’s your comfort zone, but if you really want to connect with someone, you do need to learn how to interact with them as just…” I shrugged. “Normal people. Like a friend, or eventually—hopefully—a girlfriend. A wife.”
“And, you think you can teach me that?” Zeke’s lips twitched with amusement.
“I hope I can!” I laughed. “It’s not that I want to change everything about you—there’d be no point in that. You can’t change your entire personality in any permanent way; the real you will shine through. But learning how to get out of that business mindset will help.”
“So how do I do that?”
I took a bite of the food on my plate and gave myself a moment to actually savor it. If nothing else, I couldn’t deny that Zeke had picked a great restaurant for our date.
“Start thinking about the personal,” I suggested. “Talk about stuff that doesn’t actually matter.” I grinned. “The weather. Music. How good the food is here, or what you did on the weekend.”
“Small talk?” Zeke looked slightly doubtful.
“Oh come on—you have to have made small talk before,” I said, shaking my head.
“I have, but it’s annoying.”
“Only if it’s bad small talk.” I thought about how to prove my point and glanced around the room until my gaze fell on one of the couples seated at another table. “What do you think their story is?” I pointed carefully so I wouldn’t alert the couple to my notice. Zeke glanced quickly in their direction and then turned his attention back onto his plate for a moment to cover his look.
“No idea,” he said, shaking his head.
“You have to play along,” I told him teasingly, keeping my voice low enough that it would travel beyond the table we sat at. “Let’s see…hmmm.” I glanced at the couple again. “My guess is that they’re European royalty, slumming it at a private restaurant like this, fitting in with the upper-middle class. They’re trying to see ‘how the other half lives.’” Zeke snorted.
“Or maybe they’re an old couple who saved money all last year, and now they’re doing a tour around the US, hitting all of the restaurants on the list of the best restaurants within their price range,” he suggested.
“Good one!” We kept going, picking out different patrons at the restaurant and making up stories for how they’d ended up there, and I found myself relaxing more and more as Zeke got the hang of how to actually have a conversation with someone that wasn’t business-oriented.
By the time Zeke paid the bill for the tasting menu meal and we started towards the door to part ways, I thought to myself that maybe it wouldn’t be so difficult to get through to him. Obviously he could learn, and he could listen. Plus, he didn’t seem to be taking himself as seriously as I originally thought. “I’m looking forward to our next session,” I told him outside the entrance into Phenomenon.
“Me, too,” he said, reaching out and giving my hand a quick squeeze. I still had the bouquet of roses—I’d almost wanted to “forget” them at the table, but he had made a point of handing the bouquet to me as we got up. “I’ll get in touch to confirm the next date,” he said.
“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Get home safely.” I watched him turn and walk away and went off in the opposite direction, heading towards my car. I waited until I turned the corner—I didn’t even want to risk Zeke seeing me—before I tossed the roses into a trash bin. He didn’t need to know about it, I figured, and there was no way I was going to keep the roses in my apartment.
Chapter Six
Zeke
A few days passed after my first practice date with Natalie and her reaction to the roses I’d bought for her stuck in my head. I’d anticipated her being thrilled—flattered, even—by my thoughtfulness, but instead, she’d told me that if I was going to buy flowers for a date, I should find out what kind she actually liked and get those. At first, it had felt almost like an insult: I had done something thoughtful, and she was telling me that it wasn’t good enough?
But the day after the date, with some distance behind me, I realized that I had been a little bit stupid. After all: I’d been trying to game the system. I’d only wanted to show off how little I really needed her help—I hadn’t actually put much thought into the gesture. She was right. And after all, she was supposed to be teaching me how to be better at dating. She wasn’t insulting me, she was helping, offering a suggestion. I was still sure that there were probably plenty of women out there who would have been completely thrilled to get a nice, big bouquet of roses on a first date with a guy, but obviously Natalie wasn’t one of them—and if she wasn’t thrilled, then not every woman I would ever date would be, either. Why should I ruin my chances with a potential girlfriend or future wife with a bad first impression?
I wasn’t sure exactly why Natalie stuck in my head. She was beautiful and charming, but I’d met plenty of beautiful, charming women who I hadn’t wanted to date. She was smart, but I knew plenty of smart women. There was just something about her—something that was different, something I couldn’t help but admire whenever I thought about her. And because of that, I found myself going back again and again to the comments that she’d made about the flowers I’d gotten her.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket and sat back at my desk. Part of my arrangement with the matchmaking service was that I could text Natalie at almost any time—within reason—or call her with specific questions related to dating or any of the information she’d given me. I smiled slowly to myself; other than arranging our first date, I hadn’t really used the privilege of being able to text her. I decided to put that arrangement to the test. Hi, Natalie, I wrote. I was wondering, since I’ve been thinking about what you said about buying flowers for my dates: what kinds of flowers do you actually like? I set my phone aside so I wouldn’t be tempted to keep checking on it every few minutes like a teenage girl waiting on her crush to reply.
I heard my phone buzz as I finished up an email to one of the partners I was working with. I clicked send and grabbed my phone, unlocking the screen quickly to see the message. I think maybe that’s something we should leave for later on, Natalie had written, adding a winking emoji at the end of the sentence. Anyway, it’s not all that important what kind of flowers I like—you’re not actually dating me, remember? I rolled my eyes and typed a fast reply.
But I am practicing with you. You should give me a chance to do these things the right way—especially after telling me what the right way is. I promise I won’t show up to our next date with armfuls of flowers for you. I set my phone aside again, but I didn’t have time to even move onto the next order of business on my plate before it buzzed with Natalie’s reply.
Okay, fine! As long as you promise. I like tulips and daffodils. I grinned to myself; I’d at least managed to get that much out of her. I pressed the call button on my desk phone and punched in the extension for my personal assistant, Trevor. “Come into my office real quick, Trev,” I told him. I turned back to my cell phone.
While we’re on the topic, I wrote, what’s your favorite color? Your favorite bands? Movies? Trevor knocked on the door briefly and then came in. “What’s up, Mr. Baxter?”
“Just a moment, Trevor,” I told him, setting my phone aside to check my email again while I waited for Natalie’s reply. My phone buzzed again, and I looked to make sure that she wasn’t simply refusing to tell me what I wanted to know. My favorite color is green. My favorite bands are Hot Hot Heat, The Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, and Franz Ferdinand, and movies…well, there are too many to list. “All right, Trev,” I said. “Take a list.”
He began writing every
thing down as I listed it off. “What’s this list for, Mr. Baxter?”
“It’s a list of preferences for my dating coach,” I told him, setting my phone aside. “I want you to keep them on record for me, in case I need to arrange for gifts or things for her.”
“I can do that.” He gave me a quick look. “These seem like the preferences of a girlfriend, not a coach.”
“She’s a dating coach,” I pointed out. “We go on practice dates. The same kinds of gifts apply, even if we’re not in an actual romantic relationship.”
“I will keep the list for you,” he said, shrugging it off. “Anything else you need?”
“Not right now,” I told him. “I’ll meet with you before I leave for the night, debrief you about the next few days.” Trevor nodded and left my office as I went back to work.
The more I thought about it, the more it made perfect sense to me to get presents for Natalie in the course of our practice dates. I wanted to see the look on her face when I brought her a bouquet of flowers that she actually liked. Instead of that look like she wanted to avoid hurting my feelings, she’d light up—I knew she would. I would see her smile, and she’d get that soft, sweet look that women got when they were truly pleased and thrilled.
Why do you want to see her truly pleased and thrilled, though? She’s a coach—she’s not your girlfriend. I shook my head. It was hard to say specifically why I wanted to impress Natalie that way; there was something about her that brought it out in me. You’re being an idiot. She’s not interested in you that way. Why invest feelings in her at all?
I sighed and turned my attention back onto my work, trying to ignore my phone and the temptation to ask her more questions. It was supposed to be for questions and for clarification and advice, not to get to know her better as some kind of friend or prospective girlfriend.
The matchmaking service I’d gone to had assigned Natalie to me after I’d done an evaluation—a questionnaire with a bunch of weird things on it. I’d also let the owner of the company interview me over lunch and gone on what she’d called “an evaluation date” with someone else. I had no idea why they’d specifically picked Natalie to work with me, but I liked the fact that they had. It was obvious that she was smart, that she was determined, and had a good background in education, even if I’d ignored most of what she’d told me during our first meeting.
Thinking about our date again, I pulled up the tutorials she’d sent me after our first meeting. Obviously she thinks I have trouble actually paying attention, and a big part of that is my fault, I thought, going through them again. I considered the other things that she had said to me at the end of the date, the feedback she had given me. She was right about one thing: I did tend to treat everything as business. I wasn’t sure why I did or when I had become that way, but it was obvious that it wasn’t working. Apart from a handful of one-off dates with women to corporate events or to dinners with charity managers, I had pushed any idea of a romantic life out of my radar view for years. I didn’t have time for it…until I suddenly did.
I went through the tutorials again on company time, telling myself that all the normal work of the day was done, anyway. I thought about the tips and advice that they provided and decided to try and implement some of the things that they recommended. If I was going to get anywhere with Natalie, I had to show her that I could accept criticism and work to improve myself.
But then I asked myself again why I was so interested in proving myself to her. Because she’s your coach…and you’re not going to get a chance to date anyone else until she clears you. But that wasn’t it. At least, that wasn’t all of it. I wanted to impress Natalie, to put any negative impression she’d ever gotten about me so far in the past that she couldn’t even remember it anymore. I wanted to prove that I was a good man—a better man than even her other clients.
“She’s never going to actually date you, she told you that,” I said out loud, shaking my head. She had been clear on the fact that it was company policy that she couldn’t date clients—not really. I could see the wisdom in that policy for a matchmaking service: they were charging people to set them up with prospective husbands and wives. They wouldn’t want their employees snagging the best clients away. I sighed and considered calling Trevor back into my office to tell him to go ahead and delete the list I’d given him, but I decided not to. I needed practice to become the perfect date, and the premise I had given Trevor was perfectly valid: if I was going to be a better date, I had to learn.
I put my phone away and turned my attention fully onto my work, telling myself that I would end the day strong. I would get through the coaching with Natalie, and I would get the clearance to actually date women who were interested in me, interested in being my girlfriend and maybe my wife. I pictured an imaginary woman in my mind: she would be tall, but curvy like Natalie. She would be accomplished and intelligent, funny and charming, and she would call me on my bullshit—not that I would have as much bullshit for her to call me on once I got finished with my coaching sessions. I would have the final piece of my ideal life, with the job already in my hands and a family in the future. I thought I would probably continue to stay in touch with Natalie and maybe even introduce my future wife to her, explaining how Natalie had helped me to become a better man.
I won’t bring flowers to my next date with her, but I’ll find a good time to show up with them. When she least expects it. Tulips or daffodils, exactly what she likes. I grinned to myself at that thought and finished out my workday, deciding how I was going to put the information I had to good use on our next practice date together. I made a mental note to talk to Trevor about date ideas and get his feedback on them to come up with something that would really impress Natalie. The more I impressed her with my progress, the sooner I could get on to real dating.
Chapter Seven
Natalie
“Mama, tummy hurts,” Brady told me for the fourth time that afternoon, and my heart twisted inside of me.
“I know, baby,” I told my son, smoothing his hair back from his forehead. “I wish I could make it go away.”
“It hurts, Mama,” Brady insisted, his voice taking on the tearing, whining tone of toddler suffering.
“I’m so sorry, little man. Let’s get some Pedialyte into you, okay? That’ll make your tummy feel better.” I got up off of the bed and hurried into the kitchen. I checked the time on the stove; it was only about an hour before I had to meet Zeke. I wasn’t going to be able to make it to our date. That much was clear. There was no way that I could leave Brady with a babysitter when he was so sick. I wasn’t even sure what it was that he had, other than that he’d been throwing up for three hours and had been running a fever for four. I would have to cancel my date and cancel the babysitter who was supposed to watch Brady while I was out.
I poured some Pedialyte, watering it down a little bit to make it even milder. If he got much sicker, I would need to take him to urgent care, maybe even the hospital. I found my phone where it was plugged into the wall, charging, and found Zeke’s contact details in my address book. Hey, Zeke. I am so, so very sorry to do this to you, but I really have to cancel tonight’s date. I know that it’s short notice, but I can’t avoid it. I texted the babysitter, telling her that I would have to cancel on her. Brady’s really sick, and I just can’t bring myself to leave him when he’s down like this.
I grabbed the Pedialyte and went back into Brady’s room with my phone in my pocket. “Hey, little boy,” I said, sitting down on the edge of his bed. “Sit up for me and let’s get some of this yummy juice in you.”
“Okay,” he said, nodding weakly. I set the cup down and helped him sit up in the bed. My poor little boy was flushed, his hair damp around the edges with sweat, his eyes glassy. I held the cup for him and Brady swallowed down a few gulps of the Pedialyte, pulling back to take a deeper breath.
“When you get to feeling a little better, we can get you some ice cream. How’s that sound, bud?”
“Bad,” he
said, frowning. “Tummy will hurt.”
“No, silly,” I said, soothing him as best as I could with my hands and getting him to take a few more sips of the drink. “It’ll be once your tummy stops hurting.”
“It stops,” he told me. “And comes back. Why it comes back?”
“Because you’ve got tiny little critters in you,” I told him. “And, your little body is trying to fight them off.”
“But it hurts, Mama.”
“I know, sweetie, I know it does,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “Let’s finish up your juice and you get some sleep. You’ll feel better, okay?”
“Okay,” Brady said doubtfully. But he drank down the rest of the Pedialyte, anyway. I made him sit up for a few moments; I didn’t want to jostle his stomach any more than I had to. But when I thought he would probably keep the liquid down—at least, for a little while—I let him lay back down on the bed.
“Now if you start feeling bad again, you’ve got a bucket right here, okay, little bud?” I showed him the bucket I’d cleaned out earlier—it was better than him puking up in his bed, at least. “So try and aim for this, got it?”
“Yes, Mama,” he said, nodding weakly. I felt my phone buzz once—twice—in my pocket.
“I’m going to be right outside, if you need me, okay? Just rest up, little bug.” Brady didn’t argue with that idea. He curled up on his side and pulled his pillow closer, closing his eyes.
I stepped out of his room and slipped my phone out of my pocket. The first message was from Alicia, the babysitter I’d texted; she said that it was fine, she understood completely, and that she was grateful that I’d let her know as soon as possible. The second was from Zeke. Why did you need to cancel? I put a lot of thought into tonight’s date. I twisted my lips into a wry smile, looking back at my son’s bedroom. I sighed. I hadn’t told Zeke about Brady—I never told any of my clients about my little boy, unless I absolutely had to. But I would have to give him a reason.