The Undateable

by Sarah Title

  “Let’s see. She’s done the casual dinner, the adventurous dinner, the artsy date, the sporty date. . . .”

  “Ugh, too many categories,” she said. “Don’t you people ever go on regular dates?”

  “Who’s ‘you people’?”

  “You dating people.”

  “Honey, you’re one of those people now, too.”

  “Ugh. Just what I wanted.”

  “You signed up for it,” Dave reminded her.

  “Under threat of death from you guys!” And all of her other friends. And neighbors. And coworkers. She would bet if she had polled random people on the street she would have gotten the same threats.

  The whole world wanted to see Bernie matched up with someone.

  Including herself. She really really hated to admit it.

  Or at least see Bernie capable of getting herself matched up with someone.

  Ugh.

  “We’re going to that new fusion place in SoMa.”

  “The one run by the yogi or the one with drag queen waitresses?”

  “I’m not sure. Colin and Pia do all that stuff. I just show up.”

  “And who’s your guy?”

  “Again, Colin knows.”

  “Someone who can afford a trendy, overpriced restaurant in SoMa.”

  “Remember when we first moved here and there were still abandoned warehouses in SoMa that held illegal raves?”

  “Those were the days,” Dave said. “When building code violations meant nothing.”

  “I hated those raves,” Bernie said.

  “That’s because they were fun.”

  “No, because they were loud and late and everybody was on drugs.”

  Marcie just shrugged, neither confirming nor denying.

  “You really are a party pooper, you know that?” Dave said. “But we love you anyway.”

  * * *

  It was tricky to dress for San Francisco weather, or so Colin had been told. Depending where you were in the city, it could be hot and sticky or foggy and windy, no matter what time of day it was. He’d never had a problem with it. But then, he’d grown up here. Maybe he was born meteorologically flexible.

  He sent a quick text off to Steph, telling her that no, he was not going to get her a doggy bag from Gastrique. He wasn’t even going to be eating. His plan was to get Bernie set up, then find a spot at the bar and nurse an eighteen-dollar beer until the date was over. With the way things had been going, he didn’t think it would be that long.

  Bernie really wasn’t very good at dating. She was clearly nervous, she constantly fiddled with her new clothes, and when she wasn’t thinking about it, her face defaulted to that Disapproving Librarian look that had gotten her into all this trouble in the first place. Well, he supposed he had gotten her into this most recent trouble. But she started it.

  But to be fair, it wasn’t entirely her fault. On paper, the guys that he and the girls had picked looked good. They mostly had jobs, they had interests, they were good-looking. Fine, so Chad the Personal Trainer wasn’t going to work out. That one was kind of mean, Colin could admit to that. But the other guys . . . after hearing Bernie talk about why the guy was no good, and taking out the sixteen thousand grains of salt needed to decipher a Bernie complaint for the rest of the world, he could see what she meant.

  Makeda told her that he just hadn’t set her up with the right guy yet, because Makeda was one of those silly people who believed in the zap of true love. When the right guy came along, Bernie would know and that would be it. Magic! Oh, she’d still go on the rest of the dates—Clea had made it clear that quitting early was not an option, even for true love. Especially not since the stories were making Bernie something of a celebrity. Not Bernie, per se, but this ferociously independent librarian who had been swept aside by romantic society because she refused to play by its rules. And now she was a champion to the underdog. Also, she brought in a lot of ad revenue. The fact that it was a daily story helped.

  What didn’t help was Pia breathing down his neck to take over the story. She wanted to take it in more of a Bachelor-style direction, turn the focus to finding Bernie’s Prince Charming. Finding the man who made Bernie zap. The idea was laughable. If Bernie met Prince Charming, she’d feed him to the dragon.

  Besides, the idea that there was just one man for one woman, or one woman for one woman, or one man for one man, or whatever, that was a myth perpetuated by greeting card companies and women’s magazines. Kind of like the one he worked for. But the idea that, at some point in your life, you’d meet the last person you’d ever sleep with . . . that did not inspire good feelings in Colin. Steph said he was cynical. He thought his little sister was delusional. If he believed her every time she came home in love with a new girlfriend, Steph had met The One at least six times since college.

  But their parents, she always pointed out. Yes, their parents had been together since middle school. But their parents were not normal. They still held hands in public. He had yet to see any other couple still madly in love after thirty-five years like that. He still didn’t understand how they stood each other all the time. What did they do all day at their condo down in SoCal? Just stare lovingly into each other’s eyes?

  Never mind. He didn’t want to know.

  The point was, to assume there was some divine hand playing matchmaker for each individual in the world was ludicrous. How did that account for the high divorce rate in this country? And what if your perfect match lived on the other side of the world, and you weren’t destined to meet until you were too old to enjoy any of the fun stuff that people in love got to do? Especially when you could be doing those things with people you weren’t necessarily in love with?

  The whole system was messed up.

  But that didn’t mean people should stop dating. They should stop trying to force this idea of destiny and love into what was just good old-fashioned chemistry. And they should put on their nicest clothes and go to expensive restaurants and try to get laid.

  “Is this it?”

  And then Bernie was standing in front of him, wearing a flowy dress that hit just above her knee, and sandals revealing toenails painted bright turquoise.

  Painted toenails always did something to him.

  He looked up into her face.

  She looked good. He didn’t know why he was always surprised by that. Probably because he was always half expecting her to show up in one of her old sack dresses and give the finger to him and his story. Which wasn’t fair at all; she’d been a surprisingly good sport this past week or so.

  Her hair wasn’t straight—it would probably never be straight after she’d washed it, or so Jack said—but she’d managed to tame it into soft waves that fell around her face. Whatever tricks Jeanaeane had given her were working, because her brown eyes popped, and her lips looked eminently kissable.

  Not that he wanted to kiss her.

  “Hey,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek.

  That was weird. He didn’t normally kiss her cheek.

  And she smelled good, too.

  Damn.

  “Hi,” she said, accepting the kiss and then stepping back without biting his head off.

  Progress.

  “Are you sure this is the right place?”

  He understood her confusion. Gastrique had a door that was designed to look like part of the brick facade. There were no windows that faced the street. In any other town, that would be the sign that it was a dingy strip club. In San Francisco, it was hip.

  “It’s here,” he said, and pointed out the discreet door handle.

  “Weird.”

  “I believe the word you’re looking for is cutting edge.”

  “That’s two words.”

  He rolled his eyes. He should have known he couldn’t get through an evening without an argument.

  “Is the date going to be able to find it?”

  “I hope so. He’s one of the investors.”

  “Oh. A fancy guy.”

&nb
sp; “Well, I was going to try to find a fishmonger to take you here. . . .”

  “What’s wrong with fishmongers?”

  “Seriously?” The woman had a fight for everything.

  She shrugged.

  “Oh, ha ha, you’re joking. I get it.”

  She smiled at him. She was even sort of laughing. He had no idea what she’d been doing with her afternoon, but it had worked some kind of magic. She seemed relaxed. She seemed actually happy.

  “Okay, Amy Schumer, let’s talk about your date.”

  “Yes, please. What does my date do when he’s not doing laps in a swimming pool filled with hundred dollar bills?”

  “His name is Salvatore Kristofferson, and I’m pretty sure I know him from somewhere, but I’m not sure where.”

  “There are so many Salvatore Kristoffersons out there.”

  “He’s twenty-five, runs a venture capitalist firm.” Colin soldiered on over her newfound comedy routine. “He says he works too much and he needs to be reminded that it’s important to take time for dating. Hence the date with you.”

  “That’s it? That’s all you’ve got for me? That he works too much?”

  “Sorry, babe, you’re just going to have to get to know him the old-fashioned way.”

  “Ah yes, the old-fashioned way. Become the subject of an unfortunate meme and then become the subject of a human interest series on the dating life of the modern spinster. That old-fashioned way.”

  “You’re really on fire tonight, aren’t you?”

  “Besides, what’s the point of getting to know him? He’s clearly not very memorable. You didn’t even remember where you remember him from.”

  “Yes, but unlike you, I meet a lot of people. I probably interviewed him for a story.”

  “I hope it wasn’t ‘Help! I’m attracted to a serial killer!’”

  “Oh, so you do know my work?”

  “It was very insightful. Tell me, where do you keep your Pulitzer?”

  “Save your charming banter for the date,” he warned her. His phone dinged, and he pulled it out. “Even though he’s going to be late. Come on. He said to meet him at the bar.”

  “Do you know the password to get in?”

  “Ha ha.” He pushed in on the palest of the red bricks and a door handle popped out.

  “Whoa,” she said.

  “Impressive, right?”

  “Mmm . . . more like excessive. Do they serve state secrets in here?”

  He figured if he ignored her bad comedy, she’d get it out of her system. He was pretty sure Salvatore Kristofferson didn’t want to date someone who sounded like she came straight from the Reno nightclub circuit. Instead, he ushered her inside what was the smallest restaurant he’d ever seen. They might as well be eating in his kitchen.

  Except it smelled a lot better.

  There was no hostess—there was no room for one—so he put his hand at the small of her back and guided her to the bar. There was one open stool on the corner, and just enough space for him to stand next to her if he didn’t breathe.

  He had no idea where he was going to go when Salvatore Kristofferson showed up. There didn’t seem to be an available square foot anywhere. At least he wouldn’t have any trouble spying. Observing. Reporting.

  Whatever.

  “Hi,” Bernie said to the bartender, who nodded at them, which Colin supposed was the signal for them to place their orders. Bernie asked for water, and Colin wanted to kiss her because he was pretty sure he was paying for this round himself. In the time it took her to pick from a list of artisanal waters, both fizzy and flat, he’d ordered his beer and prepared to nurse the hell out of it.

  “This is . . . this is quite a place.”

  He watched her look around the restaurant. He could see her taking it in with sardonic interest. He could just imagine her inner monologue, skewering the faux-folksy decor that kind of looked like one of those home-style chain restaurants, but with higher ceilings. It was painfully hip. But the food was supposed to be amazing, and apparently the water selection was unmatched.

  The small space was a mixture of large, community tables in the center with smaller, two-person tables tucked into the corners. The dim lighting did make it romantic, although the dull roar of bright conversation diminished that somewhat. He wondered if it was quieter out on the patio. A wide bank of windows, which looked left over from the building’s previous life as a warehouse, looked out onto a large brick patio, lit with tiny white lights and a generous number of outdoor space heaters. It was no less crowded out there, but maybe the sound carried up the walls of the courtyard and disappeared into the night.

  He was aware that they looked like two suburban bumpkins, out in the big city to take in the fancy eatin’ places. Although he supposed an actual bumpkin would be even more bewildered by the rough-cut wooden tables and the artfully shaggy decor. It was a five-star restaurant dressed up like a crappy dive. Very San Francisco.

  A waitress walked by with a plate of food and Colin was immediately impressed and jealous. Unlike other overblown fancy places he’d been, Gastrique seemed to have actual, reasonable portion sizes. His stomach growled. He wondered what he would have to do to bribe Bernie into snagging him some leftovers. Maybe when Salvatore went to the bathroom, he’d sneak over and raid the bread basket. Maybe he could afford an appetizer.

  The bartender returned with their drinks, and actually smiled as he put them on the steel-and-concrete bar. “Mr. Kristofferson!” he exclaimed.

  Ah. So the smiles weren’t for them, the common people.

  Geez, he was starting to think like Bernie.

  They both turned to face the man who could make hipsters smile. He was a good-looking guy, with dark eyes and neat, dark hair, and a very expensive-looking suit. Colin snuck a look at Bernie. She looked pleased.

  “Call me Salvatore, my man. I told you,” he said to the bartender, shaking his hand. He ordered a drink Colin had never heard of, and almost before he finished the order, the drink was in front of him.

  Finally he turned to them. “Melissa, right? Salvatore.” She stuck out her hand, presumably to shake, but Salvatore took it and turned it and kissed the back of her hand.

  Colin managed to hold back a snort. Especially when he saw Bernie with stars in her eyes. That must be some magical water.

  He wanted to fade into the background, both to watch the date and to figure out where he knew this guy from, because he did look familiar. The problem was, there was no place for Colin to go. If he took a step back, he’d be sitting on the long table behind him. If he took a step to either side, he’d be sitting in someone’s lap. He supposed he could just sit under the bar. That would be totally inconspicuous.

  “You want this seat?” Colin came back to life as he realized Salvatore was offering him Bernie’s bar stool. So they were going to get to actually sit at a table. While he nursed his full-paycheck beer at the bar in his regular-guy clothes.

  * * *

  “I always feel overdressed when I come here,” Salvatore confessed, nodding at a few of the diners who were all wearing casual clothes that Bernie now recognized as very, very expensive. “Is outside okay?”

  It took Bernie a minute to catch up. Her senses were kind of on overload. The constant thrum of conversation made it hard to hear, and trying to weave through the packed-in tables was making her feel self-conscious about the size of her hips. But Salvatore led her confidently to the back of the restaurant, where an inconspicuous big guy opened the door to the patio for them.

  The night was chilly, and Bernie was glad she’d brought a cardigan, even though Makeda had said it was a major fashion no-no. But this was San Francisco. Dressing in layers was key. And hadn’t she already compromised by wearing sandals? So she could show off her pedicure? Surely that was enough.

  Salvatore steered her toward an empty table at the back of the courtyard that was somehow, miraculously, unoccupied. And it was close to one of the tall space heaters, so, really, she didn’t n
eed the cardigan. So there, Makeda, she said to herself.

  “You look beautiful,” he told her when they were seated and drinking.

  “Thanks,” she said, and tucked her hair behind her ear. Compliments still made her self-conscious, though she was doing better at not taking them as veiled insults. Maddie would be proud.

  “So, have you eaten here before?”

  Bernie managed not to snort. “Nope.” She also managed not to add, “It’s a little out of my librarian price range, dumbass.” Because he wasn’t a dumbass. At least, he’d given her no evidence of dumbassery. A little bit of a frat bro, but nice enough. As much as she hated to admit it, she was impressed with the restaurant and with him. The hipness of the restaurant was painful, but Salvatore seemed genuinely kind to the people who, essentially, worked for him. Of course, the night was still young.

  She gave herself a mental headshake. Give the guy a chance. Be in the now. Practice normal dating habits.

  “Everything looks delicious,” she said into the menu, where everything looked unfamiliar and there were no prices listed. Still, if her artisanal water was anything to go by, it would be delicious.

  “Thank you,” Salvatore said to the waitress who brought them a plate of crudités. Ooo . . . vegetables. “Tell Marco to send us whatever is good tonight.”

  “Yes, sir,” she said, and scooted back inside.

  “Marco is a genius. You won’t be disappointed.” He indicated the plate, and she took a carrot. Ooo . . . carrots.

  “You don’t have any eating restrictions, do you?” he asked, just when she had a mouthful of carrot. “Not a vegetarian or gluten free or . . .”

  She shook her head. She’d eat anything. And this was somehow the best carrot she’d ever eaten.

  “Good. Try the dip,” he said, and she picked up a slim cracker and dipped.

  “Holy shit.” Which was not meant to come out of her mouth. But holy shit, that dip was good. She wondered if it would be rude to ask for a straw.

  Salvatore laughed. “It’s very popular. Some people come here just for this appetizer.”

  Maybe because that’s all they can afford, she thought. But maybe not. The dip was amazing.