“Sasha and I broke up two years ago. Actually, two years and two months,” he states matter-of-factly. If there is any residual pain or heartache, he doesn’t let it show. “I’m over her.”
“Then why are you still discussing her two years later on a date?” The lady balls on non-date me are growing big, fast. I’m learning quickly that having an opinion has never been my issue. Sharing the opinion has.
Henry glares at the table, arranging his plate and utensils back into perfect order. It’s quite clear from his actions that he’s also trying to organize his thoughts.
“My professional life is fulfilled. So is my family life. My finances are secure. My health is in check. However, in my personal life, there is a void. One no matter how hard I try, I cannot fill.” He coughs gently, clearing his throat. “Perhaps I hang on to my memories of Sasha as some type of security. Thinking about her, talking about her, makes me feel less alone.” My heart pangs for him. What an honest answer. “But I am letting go.” I admire his gentle soul. And I understand the need for security when it comes to the heart. I think everyone wants that.
“I know it’s hard. Letting go sucks. But trust me, you can’t truly move on until you do.” Words of wisdom, even though they’ve yet to prove useful for me. Letting go of one asshole for another time after time has been exhausting. Although, they say you gotta kiss a lot of frogs before finding the prince, so I guess kissing multiple bad frogs is technically a good thing. It means I’m getting closer to amphibian-free royalty.
“I will do my best to stop discussing her. I’m going to work hard to move forward. Leave that part of my life behind.” He picks up his fork and returns to his steak. Whatever he’s feeling now, he doesn’t let it show.
I do my best to give him a reassuring smile. As much as this sucks for him now, I do believe this dating lesson we’ve got in the works will actually help him in the future.
I’m helping to pave the way for Mrs. Right.
And I am sure whoever she is, she will be very appreciative, because once Henry gets the ex out of his head and we work on a few of his minor, fixable flaws, this guy has got some serious good frog potential. I can already see it…
He’s definitely somebody’s prince.
A Phoney Trick
The posed pictures. Her cell and work line. Her email and social media connections.
Deleted. Erased. No more.
I’m a brand-new man with a brand-new phone.
All those lingering Sasha connections sitting idle on my phone are gone. And I feel…
Okay.
I place the phone down on my dresser and pace the length of my bedroom. I really feel okay. This new arrangement has forced me to get in my own head and do some long overdue searching. My love for Sasha really did end a long time ago.
After much rumination, I wonder if it was truly love at all. She fit well with my world. I included her in my future plans. She was cultured and smart. Good on paper. But was she good for me beyond a business standpoint? Probably not. Perhaps it was an illusion of happiness that I made myself believe because she fit in so well with my ideals of what a partner should be.
That same illusion could also be why I’m so analytical when choosing new dates. Researching their profiles and scrutinizing their social media accounts for intel. A certain look, a certain status, hoping to choose the best fit for my lifestyle.
Well, no more. I’m no longer looking for a match for me, the businessman but for me, the man. That’s where Trick comes in. My sister’s unwitting nickname for her has stuck. I find it less personal to refer to her as Trick versus Tina during this training arrangement. She is going to help me work on my romantic shortcomings and on myself. I’m going to fake date her with new eyes and a new mindset.
Now that I’ve deleted Sasha’s information from my phone, I add Trick’s. We need to plan a second date. The plan is for us to go on five dates over the next four weeks where she is free to advise me all she wants. When the four weeks are up, we will restart with date one, and she will let me know if I am tuned and ready to officially jump back into the dating world.
Her contact info is officially added, and I press send on her cell number. It rings a few times before going to voicemail.
“Hello, this is Henry. I hope you are well. I’m calling to set up our next date. Please return my call at your earliest convenience so we can make arrangements. Thank you.”
I set my phone down on the night table and return to my laptop. It’s less than three minutes later when an incoming text chimes.
Trick: Okay. Just let me know the details of when and where you’d like to meet.
It’s after 8:00 p.m. on a Tuesday. She should be home from work by now, and I assumed she’d be in for the evening.
Henry: I’m sorry, is this a bad time?
Trick: No. I’m just in bed reading.
Henry: Then why didn’t you answer the phone when I called?
Trick: It’s easier to text.
Henry: I’d prefer talking.
Trick: I prefer texting.
Henry: Is this a thing? Is it a flaw that I want to have an actual discussion?
Trick: I don’t know if it’s a thing. But I would say most people would rather text.
I click on her name and wait. She answers after two rings.
“Hello?”
“Why do most people prefer texting? It seems impersonal to me.”
“Seriously? You’re calling me to discuss why people prefer texting. Does that not seem like flawed logic to you?”
“But the whole point of us is to discover and fix my ‘flawed logic.’ So if you could explain, please. Why is texting better than calling?”
There is radio silence on the other end.
“You don’t have an answer, do you?” I say, biting back a grin. Some of these unwritten rules about my so-called flaws are nothing but bullshit.
“What do you want to talk about?” Her tone does little to hide her annoyance. “Just tell me where and when to meet you next.”
“No, first I’d like to know, how was your day?”
“Uh. It was fine.” She follows with a laugh.
“I don’t ever answer with the word fine. Closed-end words don’t lead to conversation. And didn’t you say we needed to learn things about each other through organic conversation?”
“Okay.” She sighs into the phone. “So then tell me how your day was.”
“Excellent. I cleared a new company and gave the firm the go-ahead to take them on as clients. Months of hard work and diligent research paid off.”
“What does that mean, you cleared them?” she asks.
“I conduct the ethical background checks on companies before the firm signs on to work with them. I make sure they are compliant with all the laws and regulations necessary.”
“I didn’t even know that was a thing.”
“It is most definitely a thing. An important thing in the finance world,” I inform her. “I’ve been with Faulkner since the beginning. I worked my way up over the years, became a partner, branched out, and found my niche. I have a passion for fine details and gathering information.”
“That’s really interesting.”
“It is. And now you just learned more about me, and on grows our relationship,” I say. “Should we try again about your day or was it still just fine?”
“Sure, we can try, but my day was not as interesting as yours,” she says. “Let me see… there was a box of donuts in the breakroom, but by the time I got there, they were all gone. Except for one half of a blueberry one that looked like someone had picked at it. I mean, why would someone do that? Just take the whole donut. No one is going to eat a piece of a donut that looks as if it’s been manhandled by someone else. And of course I didn’t even want a donut, but now that I saw that there were donuts and I didn’t get one, all I can think about are donuts. I’d kill for a chocolate-glazed donut.” She laughs. “Geez. How’s that for ethics? Donutcide.”
“Th
at does sound problematic. I agree that a person should take the entire donut.”
“I know. It’s barbaric. What’s wrong with these people? They did the same thing over the holidays. I brought in this huge tray of brownies and within an hour it looked like it had been attacked by vultures.”
“You baked the brownies?”
“I did.” She sounds bashful then proud. “It’s like the one thing I’m good at in the kitchen. Baking brownies.”
“Brownies are my favorite dessert.” They are one of the only sweets I still indulge in after a s’mores incident that happened two summers ago. A batch of tainted marshmallows had shit on any chances I may have had with my cousin’s friend, Lori. Another first date setup gone wrong. And where I do find most issues with women to be a mystery, that one I do not. When it comes to intestinal distress and first dates—it is not a winning combination.
“I have a secret ingredient when making them,” she brags in a singsong voice.
“Do I get to find out what that ingredient is?”
“Nope,” she teases before proceeding to let me in on her culinary secret. “Crushed candy canes.”
“Oh.” I turn up my nose. “I’m not a huge fan of mint.”
“That’s what most people say, but think about it, have you ever had Girl Scout cookies? Which one is the most popular?”
“I can only think of one kind,” I say, picturing the green box.
“And is it the mint one?”
“It is.”
“Trust me, you would love my brownies, even if you aren’t a big mint fan.”
“I trust you.” I get up from my desk and walk over to my bed. I lie back and bring my feet up, sinking back into my pillow and grinning up at the ceiling. “So, tell me, when do I get to taste these brownies?”
I’m sitting up against the wall, my phone attached to a cord attached to an outlet.
I am plugged in.
My phone was dying, but the conversation wasn’t.
I learned a lot. He has a sister and a brother. Is an avid runner who has completed and even placed in multiple marathons and has an enthusiasm for golf that has me actually looking forward to my company’s next outing.
I also shared a lot. We discussed my two younger brothers who are both away at college. He now knows I’m a bit book obsessed, and he even let me blather on about the last novel I devoured. And I told him all about my gal pal, Jessicat, the curious kitty batting at my phone cord while I sit in my unusual position on the floor.
In a way, talking on the phone is like a date. Who knew?
“So where are you taking me next?” I glance at the clock on my night table. 10:59 p.m. When the hell did that happen? He called me at eight thirty.
“I was thinking Thursday night? Sip N’ Stroke?”
“Excuse me?” I let loose a fit of giggles. Even though I’m sure what he’s suggesting isn’t dirty, it sure sounds like it.
“The Sip N’ Stroke. I’ve never been before, but from what I understand, they take you step by step through painting a picture. You bring wine and sip while stroking. With a paintbrush.”
“Oh, yes. I’ve heard of that.” Lots of similar places had opened up around here the past few years. Trendy in the beginning, now mostly a wild night out for bored middle-aged moms.
“So what do you think? They have a 7:00 p.m. session. It’s called Warm Up in Winter. We’ll be painting a beach landscape.”
It sounds like a weird second date. Boring and awkward. And that’s what I should tell him. That is the purpose of this entire thing, after all.
But when I open my mouth, I can’t. Instead I close my eyes and try to envision the night and when I do, it really doesn’t seem all that bad. I actually look forward to spending Thursday night with the guy I just spent the last ninety minutes on the phone with. No matter what we do.
“Sounds great,” I say.
“Really? Because when I suggested this place another time, the response was quite different.”
“Well, we really can’t rule something out that we’ve both never tried. In order to learn from it, we need to try it for ourselves.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he says, and I dig my teeth into my bottom lip as it stretches across my face into a grin. “That’s why you are the perfect person for this non-dating experience.” My happy lips fall, and my teeth dig in deeper.
“Okay, well I better go, it’s late. I’ll see you Thursday night,” I say, suddenly wanting to wrap this call up quickly. Ew, seriously, why am I frowning? No. no. no. There is nothing frown-worthy happening here. I force the smile back onto my face.
“Wait, before you go, should I pick you up this time?” he asks.
The reminder of how he knows where I live makes my face flush. That was not a good first encounter.
“No. It’s easier if I just meet you there,” I say for reasons I’m not sure of.
“Great. I’ll see you on Thursday. And Trick,” he pauses, using his silly nickname for me. “Aren’t you glad we talked instead of texting?”
“Yes,” I say. And mean.
“See, and this arrangement works both ways. I’m also preparing you for the next guy. Take a note.” He chuckles. “Talking is better than texting.”
“Yeah.” I mimic his chuckle. “Okay. Goodnight.” I disconnect feeling a tad... disconnected.
My frown is back. But I’m sure it’s only because I’m tired. I leave my phone plugged in and walk over to my bed, grabbing my book from the night table and cracking it open to where I had left off. But instead of focusing on the crisp pages in my lap, my gaze travels over to the vase of wilting white flowers on my dresser.
Yeah. I’m just tired.
A Trick Up My Sleeve
I dab my brush of white paint gently in circular swipes across the blue sky. A cloud appears. It looks good. I paid careful attention to the instructor, and although this is my first stab at the arts, I must say my painting is on par with hers. This could very well become a new hobby for me.
“Next, we are going to add a bird into that beautiful sky. Dip your brush into the brown paint, go about three to four inches away from your cloud, and swoop downward and gently back up. Like this.” The instructor demonstrates on her canvas and I methodically follow her lead, stepping back to admire it once I’m done.
Nailed it.
I check out Trick’s painting. Her bird is nothing but a sloppily painted V. No arch to the wings, no natural curve suggesting where the head is. She glances at my painting, and her nose lifts up in an air of disgust.
“What? No good?” I study my perfect bird for a flaw. There is none.
“No, it’s perfect. The entire painting is.” She turns her head, but I still catch the raised-brows eye roll.
“If it’s perfect, why the face?” Is this another lesson? Am I really that clueless?
“Okay, everyone.” The instructor prevents me from getting an answer. “This is where we’re going to stop and take a small break for those of you who brought snacks to nibble and wine to sip or a giant basket.” She gestures toward my picnic basket on the back table amongst the plastic grocery bags filled with potato chips and screw-top wine bottles. “We’ll resume in fifteen minutes.”
I carefully clean my paintbrush while Trick dumps her brush into a plastic cup of water to soak before we make our way over to the back table.
“I’m not really sure I want to drink wine this late on a work night.” The small group of cheer moms next to us feels the opposite. A second bottle of wine is already being twisted open.
“I thought you might say that.” I open the top of the basket and retrieve a thermos. “Coffee?”
“I’d love a cup, but it’s a little late for coffee.”
“It’s decaf,” I inform her, pulling out a travel mug, a sugar packet, and a small container of half and half. Exactly the way she made her own coffee that day at the cafe.
“Wow. The only thing missing is….”
“A chocolate-glazed donu
t.” I finish for her, taking a bag out next and carefully setting the donut onto a paper plate. Her lips round into an O of surprise.
“I was going to say a plastic stirrer, but this is way better. I can’t believe you remembered.” She picks up the donut and takes a bite. “Can I ask you something?” She finishes chewing, eyeing my basket with curiosity. “What if I had wanted regular coffee?” I smile and pull out a second thermos. “And wine?” I pull out a bottle of cabernet next. “White wine?” She tilts her head, her eyes two slits waiting to see if I have it. I do and present her with a chilled pinot.
“And, here you go, one plastic stirrer.”
“Unbelievable.” She shakes her head in disbelief. The raised brows are back.
“I’m confused. Is ‘unbelievable’ a good thing or a bad thing?” I have to ask, even though how could my preparedness be a bad thing?
“Do you ever get tired of being perfect all the time? Because I imagine it’s exhausting.” She sticks the donut in her mouth and stirs her coffee. The cheer moms are getting louder. Too loud to have a normal conversation without needing to yell. Trick takes her coffee, donut still hanging from her lips, and goes back toward our paintings. I place the lid back on the thermos and pack up before joining her, giving me more time to process her words.
“So, now perfect is a bad thing?” I say once we’re both back in our corner away from the rowdy women.
“Sometimes.” She shrugs.
“Let me get this straight—my latest flaw is that I have no flaws?” This is ludicrous. How can I be both flawed and perfect? I’m done with women. Why couldn’t I have been the gay one in the family? My life would be a lot easier.
Whiskey Trick Page 4