Nothing More Beautiful

by Lorelai LaBelle

  Andre, aka ThePortlandPirate, offered to pick me up, but just in case the night didn’t go as planned, I wanted my own ride. On the way to dinner, my mind pored over what ThePortlandPirate could signify, as Danielle’s words echoed in my head. I remembered that pirates and ninjas had been a fad a few years ago, so maybe it was a lingering name from those days, or maybe he owned a boat and that was its name. My guesses went on and on.

  I pulled onto Johnson Street, then turned on 13th, hoping a spot would be free. I got lucky again, parking in the same spot from Saturday. However, this time I only had to cross the street to reach my destination, Irving Street Kitchen, a place I’d dreamed about patronizing for years, but had never wanted to fork out the money. There was a 50/50 chance this way that I wouldn’t have to.

  Andre was waiting inside. He stood when the hostess brought me to him. Dressed in a fine gray suit, his smooth dark skin contrasted perfectly, almost glowing. My eyes locked on him, unable to turn away. At 31, he was a little older, but that was okay as he was even more attractive than his picture led on—a welcomed change from the last two dates.

  “You must be Maci,” he said, loosely wrapping his arms around me. He had an aura about him that eased my nerves.

  “Hi.” I returned the hug. “And you must be Andre.”

  “The one and only.” He let go and pulled out my chair, all his beautiful white teeth showing. He looked so much like Ryan: tall, short hair, muscular, but much better dressed. “I’m glad you agreed to the date,” he said, as I sat down. “Sorry we had to do it midweek. I’m going out of town this weekend, but I was too excited to wait.”

  “Oh, it’s no problem. I was very glad to get your message.” I touched his arm in a flirty way. Ryan once told me that that turned him on—the simple contact—so maybe it would with Andre too. “I was also happy you chose this place.”

  “You’ve been here before?” he asked, situating his napkin on his thigh under the table.

  I followed his example. “No, but I’ve parked across the street enough,” I said, trying to be witty.

  He flashed a brief, uneasy smile, as though he didn’t comprehend the joke. “Well, I like everything on the menu. I recommend it all.”

  “You come here often, I take it?”

  “All the time, especially for breakfast. I absolutely love their omelets.” Our conversation continued like that until our waiter came and presented the night’s specials. I wondered the entire time how much money he made, able and willing to regularly spend so much on his meals. Andre was relaxed and easy to talk to, and I couldn’t see a flaw in his personality, which I was carefully watching out for. What made the restaurant a little fancier was the two-course options, labeled “First” and “Next.” Although you didn’t have to order from both, it brought the level of dining up a notch. For my first course, I ordered the meatballs, and Mary’s organic fried chicken—on the waiter’s recommendation—for my second course. Andre ordered the gumbo and black squid ink risotto, one of the specials for the evening.

  He was charming all night, and funnier than Ryan—maybe even funnier than all of my past boyfriends—and it was nice that he made eye contact instead of being glued to his phone. When the check came, he immediately snagged it.

  “Want me to drive?” he asked as we left. “The movie starts in twenty.”

  I was having such a great time that I decided against my getaway vehicle. “Sure.”

  “I’m parked around the block.” We walked beside each other, the conversation flowing as he led me to his polished Beemer, a silver coupe that looked fast and stylish and very expensive.

  We made the 8:50 show time at the Fox Tower 10 for the comedy-drama he wanted to see. Andre was confident enough to put his arm around my shoulder, which no one had done since high school, but I thought it was sweet. His touch didn’t electrify me like Vince’s had or make my heart patter in quite the same way, but it was nevertheless an exhilarating experience.

  Even though the date was going better than I could have dreamed, I wasn’t quite sure if I was ready to take the next step like Danielle and Bridgett had urged. It wasn’t that easy to forget a person, especially when you dated for seven months, and thoughts of Ryan continued to haunt me. But maybe sleeping with Andre was the exact impetus I needed to leave those thoughts behind.

  “I love Amy Adams,” I said after the movie, walking into the lobby, entangled in the crowd.

  “She does seem to keep getting better and better,” he replied, our hands intertwined, making sure we didn’t lose each other.

  I glanced at the exit ahead and saw familiar brown curls. The next thing I knew, I was staring at Vince’s profile as he spoke with a woman who had mocha-brown skin and was wearing a dazzling blue dress that stopped just below her butt. Alarmed, I squeezed Andre’s hand.

  “Something the matter?” he asked in a husky voice.

  “No. Sorry.” I couldn’t control my rushing heart rate. “I—I.” The woman leaned up and kissed his cheek. My face flushed with anger and surprise. He had a girlfriend. Of course he did! He was as attractive as Emma from the gym claimed, so it was logical—and I was on a date with another man trying to get over the past, so what did I care? “I wanted to know if you wanted to go back to your place.” Seeing Vince with another woman gave me all the convincing I needed that this was the right move.

  “A bit forward,” Andre said, smiling. “How do you know I’m one of those guys?”

  “Aren’t all guys one of those guys?” I halted him in the lobby, distancing us from Vince and his girlfriend, who were now lost outside the theater.

  He was biting his lip in anticipation. “True.” His smooth, sexy baritone enticed me, pushing Vince from my thoughts. “My place it is.”

  “But you’ll have to take me back to my car now. I have to work at 5.”

  “You bakers are crazy people, you know that?” he laughed. “Sure, you can follow me back to my condo … it isn’t far.” Outside, neither Vince nor his girlfriend were within sight, and I sighed in relief, spared from the picture. Andre dropped me off, and I followed him in Eddie west on Glisan, up 24th, and then left back onto Irving, all the way to a colossal brick building. He opened up a steel-linked garage door and parked a few rows in. “You can park there.” He pointed three spaces down from his. “It’s never used.”

  My hand in his, he led me up to his fourth-floor condo, which had a great view of the city. He poured two glasses of white wine and sat down on his leather sofa. “Cheers,” he said, and we clinked our glasses together. After a sip, he slid his tongue across his lips and leaned into me.

  The kiss was hot. A rush flooded my veins as my heart sped up.

  We put the wine glasses down and he fought to unbuckle his pants. I hoped he had the length that Ryan did, but with a little better blood flow.

  He stood up suddenly.

  “Everything all right?” I asked, nervous that I’d done something wrong.

  “No, I just thought I’d put on something for the mood,” he said, which sounded like a line a woman would use in a porno. He grabbed the TV remote and powered it up. I could hear a disc spinning as he turned on the DVD player. “My favorite movie is Pirates,” he added as the TV warmed up. “I think it’s paused at the perfect spot.”

  Just as his last word rolled off his tongue, two women filled the screen, both nude, sweaty, and in what looked like uncomfortable positions. The DVD began playing without sound.

  As Andre fiddled with the universal remote, he turned to me and said, “You’re into girl-on-girl, right?”

  My jaw had dropped when the women popped on screen, but now it fell to the floor. Angry beyond words, dismayed beyond belief, and shocked at a level only reached twice in my life, I rose from the couch, silent.

  I swept out the door so fast, he barely had time to gasp. I heard, “It’s cool if you’re not.” But the door slammed before another word reached my ears.

  I drove home, disappointed and frustrated yet again.

&n
bsp; 6

  WHEN MACI MET DAVID

  Running on fewer than four hours of sleep, I forwent the gym and took a nap after work. I lay there for hours until a rap on my door woke me. “Maci, you feeling all right?” Danielle asked, worried. “Bridgett called me and said your date didn’t go well. You want to talk about it?”

  “No,” I groaned. “I don’t.”

  “Can I come in?” she asked.

  “No.” Even though my door had a lock, we worked off the privacy system, meaning we only entered if the other permitted it, so I never bothered to lock it. Danielle broke that rule, cracking the door, a stream of light blinding my eyes. I squinted at her and the harsh light. “What are you doing? Go away.” I tossed a pillow at the door but missed.

  “Hey, it’s me,” she said, opening the door all the way and sitting down on my bed. She peered down at me with concern. “What happened?”

  “I’m never fucking dating again,” I screamed into my pillow. “Men are such fucking jackasses.”

  She rubbed my back. “What’d he do?”

  “You wouldn’t fucking believe it.” I sat up, looking at her. “In the middle of making out, the sicko goes and turns on a porno.” Her mouth dropped. “He didn’t ask me, didn’t clue me in on what was happening until Pirates was on the screen.”

  “I told you all usernames have meaning!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s what you’re focusing on?” I shot her a nasty scowl. “Really, Danielle?”

  “Sorry, I was just saying.” As if realizing her mistake, she waved her hand for me to continue. “So he turns on a porno, and…?”

  “And?” My face contorted, puzzled. “And I fucking left.”

  “You just left?”

  “Just left. Didn’t say a word to him.”

  “Pornos aren’t so bad, you know,” she said, with a slight grin.

  “You and Ashley watch porn?” I asked, nonplussed. I stared at her for a moment, unsure how to move forward with the news.

  “We have, sure. Softcore ones,” she answered.

  “But they’re disgusting and degrading to women,” I countered. “How could you sit through it? It’s virtually prostitution, Danielle.”

  “Not every porno is the same, Maci,” she defended. “They’re not all graphic, hardcore raunch-fests. Some have actual dramatic plots, where the sex is tasteful, and are shot very professionally. I don’t know anything about Pirates, but maybe if you’d given it a chance …”

  My eyes lit up with fire, my lips pursed, and I balled my fists, my nails digging into my palm.

  She must have seen my fury. “Granted, he should’ve asked you, definitely. There, he was a jerk.”

  “A fucking douchebag.”

  “Right,” she acknowledged, “and you’d every right to walk out on him, but for the future, if you talk about it beforehand, you might want to give it a try.”

  I was shaking my head. “Don’t you feel like you’re not enough then? That you’re not really turning the other person on?”

  “In your situation last night, yeah,” she agreed. “That guy definitely has some problems, probably an addiction. Turning it on in the middle of a make-out session—that’s weird. But, if you watch it beforehand, it can help get the juices going, you know? There’s a reason why sex sells. People want it. Not just lonely, depressed men, either. It can be very arousing in the right context.”

  “Ugh! I don’t want to go through it again. I’m fucking done.”

  “You can’t be done, Maci. What about the hunt for Mr. Right?”

  “Mr. Right? Mr. Right doesn’t exist,” I growled. I lay back down into my pillow. “It was a dream and that dream is dead.”

  “Hey, come on. It’s not as bad as you think,” she said, rubbing my back again. “I’ll invite Ashley and Bridgett over, and when you’re done with this pity party, we’ll have some ice cream and watch Forgetting Sarah Marshall. That’ll cheer you up, I know it.”

  She gave me a few reassuring pats, then left me in the dark, as I indulged in self-pity.

  “SO, YOU’RE JUST GOING to ignore all the messages you get?” Bridgett asked a week later as we sat in the office.

  “Yep,” I replied, leaning back in my chair. Work had absorbed me all week, and I did little else, except fill out crosswords while drinking Split Shot Espresso Milk Stout with Colby-Jack warming my lap.

  “Why don’t you just delete your profile?” She cocked an eye at me. “Doesn’t that make more sense?”

  I was staring at the cat’s eye marble on my desk. “You’ve got a point.” I straightened, pulled out the keyboard, and brought up my NorthwestMingle profile. My inbox blinked at me, saying Hey! Click here, you have 27 unread messages. I navigated to the first deletion point.

  “You’re really going to do it? Give up?”

  Her shocked tone gave me pause. “What if I am?”

  “That doesn’t sound like you, Maci,” she said. “You’re a go-getter, not a quitter. You’re the one who convinced me to start up this place with all that I had. You’re the one who wouldn’t let me drop out of OCI. You’ve always been the aggressive, doesn’t-take-any-shit-from-anyone personality, but lately, I don’t know, you …”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well … you just seem like you’ve lost your confidence, and it hurts to see you like this because you’re so spirited, so strong, and young. Too young to be giving up on relationships.”

  “I keep trying, Bridgett, but they keep knocking me down. You can only take so much.”

  “Hey, I know that better than anyone,” she said, walking over to me and sitting on the edge of my desk with only half her butt. “After Jake left, I felt like it was all over. And you’ll probably be knocked down a dozen more times, but in the end, I think you’ll find Mr. Right just like you’ve always talked about. You just gotta keep getting back up. I mean, I really don’t see you as an old, lonely grouch, do you?”

  I took a moment and reflected on her question. The wave of bad dates had taken their toll on me, but she was right, I believed in love too much to let the ideal slip through my fingers. “No, I don’t, but it’s starting to look like my future,” I said, half-joking.

  She glared at me, but it quickly changed into a silly smile. “Give the online dating one more shot, please, for me.”

  Her big, begging eyes prevailed. “Fine. One more, but I’m telling you, after that, I’m done.”

  “One more may be all you need,” she replied. She scooted off my desk and took over my keyboard and mouse. “Let’s take a look at your pursuers.” Clicking on the inbox icon, she scrolled through the list of messages. “This one sounds good.” She opened up a message from Sir-Do-A-Lot. His profile flabbergasted me so much that I concluded there was no way he was real.

  I regained mouse control and browsed for myself. “I was thinking something more like this. I clicked on HereForYou. His faultless profile promised a high compatibility.

  “Sure, he looks nice, but can he get the job done like Sir-Do-A-Lot?” she laughed. “You still have that goal, don’t you? To have an orgasm?”

  I banged my head against my desk. “Oy.”

  “Love and orgasms.” She patted my back. “Right?”

  I ignored her comment. “How should I reply?” I opened up his message and read it a second time.

  “Tell him you’ll agree only if he’ll bone you.”

  “God, Bridgett!”

  She smiled. “And buy you flowers, of course.”

  I shook my head. “You’re just like Danielle, you know that?”

  “That’s because we’re trying to help you,” she said, her smile widening. “You gotta break out of your old shell.”

  “What should I say?” I bore a serious, no-nonsense face. She yielded and helped me write out a response that agreed to meet HereForYou Saturday night for dinner. He was my last shot. If he fell through, I was resigned to throw in the towel.

  DAVID, WHO WENT BY HereForYou on NorthwestMingle, lived on the eastside, so w
e settled on HUB—Hopworks Urban Brewery—for dinner. He was into craft brewing, which meant he was one up on the last three guys. Saturday night arrived and I had frantically gone through my entire closet in search of an outfit. Danielle and Ashley were out, leaving me without any backup opinions. My New Year’s resolution was turning into an utter failure. I found my tightest pair of jeans in the dryer and they fit just the way I wanted. I paired them with a green sweater and a patterned scarf.

  I drove Eddie down into the lower parking lot and talked myself up in the rearview mirror. I kept repeating, last chance, last chance. About six minutes late, I found myself sitting alone at the bar. He wasn’t as punctual as the last three, but I didn’t dwell on that since I had no room to talk.

  Twenty minutes passed. My nerves were amped up from the wait, and I had downed a 7-Grain Stout in an attempt to attenuate them, but to no avail. I guess I didn’t like waiting. At thirty minutes, I got up to leave when a slender man walked up to me, and said, “Maci?”

  “Uh—yeah, I’m Maci.”

  “It’s me, David,” he said, as if I should recognize him.

  “Oh, I’m not the best at faces, sorry,” I lied. The truth was I hadn’t had any food to go with my stout and he was a little fuzzy.

  “No worries,” he said. “Sorry about my late arrival. My car died and I had to bum a ride from a friend.”

  His story sounded genuine, and he did make the effort to get here, so I gave him a chance despite my irritation. He was tall, dark, and handsome—and my last chance. “Want to get a table?”

  “Sure, yeah, sounds good.” The bar was full except for my lone stool, and so was the rest of the level, but they had a table available upstairs, which we snagged. We found out it probably would have been worth it to wait for one in the bar, as the small upper section was where they put the families with little kids. Toddlers were scuttling around screaming, uncontrolled by their parents, who couldn’t have cared less what they did. One little blond boy was climbing up and down the two steps that connected a section to the main scaffold area, eventually tripping and smashing his nose into the floor. His screams filled the whole restaurant until his parents got him outside. Thankfully, they never returned.