I get to the restaurant and call him to tell him I’m there.
“I’m here, in the front,” he says.
I look around the outside and in the lobby area. There are no single men. A couple and some teenagers waiting for seats. That’s it.
“I don’t see you,” I say, still looking. I peer around the hostess area to see if maybe he went ahead and got seated.
“I’m here. In the front. In the lobby,” he says.
“No, you’re not. I’m here, and you aren’t. I’m in the lobby.”
“Wait, what was the name of the restaurant?” he asks.
“Boudreaux’s.”
“Oh shit,” he says. “I’m at the wrong restaurant.”
I shake my head. “Where are you?”
He tells me where he is and I say, “Hang on, don’t go anywhere. I’ll go meet you.”
I hop in my car and drive the short distance to the other restaurant. Everything in Bon Chance is a short drive away. The town itself is less than ten miles long. We don’t even have a stoplight.
I find him in the lobby. He’s cute. Dark hair, dark eyes. A nice smile. No complaints there.
I get nervous and hog the conversation the entire meal. I know I’m doing this, but I can’t stop. It’s like my mouth has a mind of its own, and not in a good way. I complain about work. Talk way too much about past relationships. I do everything they say not to do during a first date. I don’t even know why.
There’s no spark. No butterflies. And I’m pretty sure I blew a second date with this guy. If he could find me for a second date. Jeesh.
I go to meet the pool team after an awkward parking lot goodbye with Tate. You know those one-armed hugs, and the “I’ll call you later” you know is not going to happen? That’s what this was.
It’s almost a relief to run away to the safety of my guys. Ryder is there, of course, and he’s on the team. When he sees me, he comes up to me and makes that cute little growl sound in my ear that I love. He tells me he got his growl back. How this happened, I’m not sure I want to know.
“I’ve missed it,” I tell him. “I’m glad you got it back.”
“I’m not. It gets me into trouble.”
I laugh at that. Ryder’s never been one to run from trouble. Ryder usually gallops right toward it. “I’m not going there with that comment,” I say.
He finishes his game and tells me he has something for me in his car. Intrigued, I follow him outside to the parking lot. He hands me a signed Travis Matte CD. Travis is one of my favorite local singers. He’s young and his songs have titles like Booty Call and BBQ and Drink A Few. Definitely fun to listen to.
“Thank you,” I say, and lean up to kiss his cheek.
We begin to walk back into the bar, and he asks me a question that damn near makes me freeze in my tracks.
“When are you going to let me read your book?”
Nooooo. I thought he had forgotten.
“Well, it’s not done yet. Then I need to proofread it.”
“You don’t need to do all that for me. I just want to read it.”
“I’ll let you know when I’m done,” I say. I may drag this damn book out ten years rather than let him read it.
We go back in and sit at the bar. His turn is over, so we sit and talk. I enjoy just sitting there with him.
“What are you doing Sunday?” I ask.
“Going to 31. Why?” There is always a Cajun band at 31 on Sunday afternoons.
“I wanna go to Pat’s.”
“I’ll be there. But I’ll be with her,” he says, and he shows me a name on his phone. It’s the same name from the poem he showed me a few nights ago.
“Who’s that?” Yes, I’m nosy.
“That’s the girl I’ve been seeing. Sorta. That’s the girl I’ve been bitching about being in love with in my poems.”
That doesn’t sound like fun, I think. I don’t say it though. I can’t say too much, I’ve been borderline bitching about dating for three weeks now.
I spend the rest of the evening sitting next to Ryder, who is apparently writing his own novel in text message format. Occasionally, he asks if something sounds right, and I give him my opinion.
I was beginning to think he was emotionally unavailable, like Jack. But Ryder’s not emotionally unavailable, he’s just not interested in me.
Ouch.
I wonder if my problem is that I’m attracted to unavailable men because of the challenge. That’s what all the books say about men. Men like women who are not always available. Maybe it works both ways.
Who knows? For now, I’m looking for a real good man who is emotionally available. I’m still using the funnel theory, but there must be a butterfly factor. Actually calling or texting preferred. Must pay for dinner and/or date. Should own and know how to use GPS. No stalkers. No games.
Chapter Seventeen
Friday, December 9
16 Days Left
Morgan asks me to go with him to his company Christmas party, so I go along. And of course, afterward, we go to the Wahoo. It’s Friday, but not too crowded—it’s like that during the holidays. People are getting together for company parties and other family celebrations. We say hello to everyone. Morgan goes to play pool, and I order a drink before excusing myself to the ladies’ room. I get back to the bar and notice that the bartender hasn’t brought my drink. There’s only, like, five people in the bar, and I’m drinking beer, nothing to mix, shake, or pour. Where is my drink? And where is the bartender?
I start looking around the bar, and finally see her. She’s crying. I go around the bar to see what’s going on. Her boyfriend has broken up with her. No one likes a bawling bartender, so I go grab my own beer and go to my seat to try to console her. I do everything, including serving drinks for the other patrons. It’s no use. Every time I get her calm, she starts sobbing again. I send her home, and I take over her shift.
While I’ve been consoling the bartender and serving the others, another man I’ve talked to in the Wahoo has come in. His name is Jameson. He is another hottie. He’s got the Cajun complexion. He’s tall, tanned a mocha color, and handsome. He’s a contractor, so he’s got great arms from swinging hammers and hauling stuff around all day.
I’ve left my phone and keys on the other side of the bar. Morgan is still playing pool so he hasn’t been watching them, and Jameson has picked up my phone. I see him with it.
“What are you doing?” I ask him.
“I’m trying to program my number into your phone, but I can’t get it to work.”
He can’t get it to work because I dropped my phone in beer and now some of the numbers stick.
I grab my phone and go about my business. Later, my phone rings. It’s Jameson. I look at him, then look down at the phone, but don’t answer. I turn to chat with another customer.
I hear him laugh, and it makes me smile. The phone signals a voice mail, and I listen to it. It’s Jameson’s deep voice.
“It’s Jameson. I’m standing here across the bar looking at you.” Okay, stalker. “I don’t know if you’re dating anyone. I’m not, but I’d really like to take you to dinner. I’m not going to stalk you.” Woo-hoo! “And I’m not calling you back. If you’re interested, call me.”
Damnit. Isn’t that an intriguing message?
I’m wound up when I get off work, so I give him a call. We talk for a bit, and I ask if he wants to go grab breakfast at the diner. He says he’s not going back out; he’s at home in his pajamas. He invites me over. I laugh then. I tell him of course not. I know what men want when they invite a woman over at two a.m. He says it’s not about that. He just wants to hang out and laugh.
I finally give in but don’t go without establishing ground rules. If he tries anything, I will beat him with my boot. We do end up hanging out, laughing, and having a good time. No mocha cheesecake for me though. As I leave, I tell him to call me for dinner. He says he will when he has a babysitter. Jameson is a single dad, and has custody of his boy. We�
�ll see. I don’t believe men when they tell me that. Not about the babysitter part, but about the calling.
Another interesting prospect. But is he Prince Charming?
Chapter Eighteen
Saturday, December 10
15 Days Left
No call from Jameson. Imagine that. But it’s really only been a day, so I can’t be that aggravated. I think there’s some three-day rule anyway. I couldn’t keep up with that. I’d have to have a calendar or something, then probably forget to write down when I was supposed to call.
This search isn’t going well. I think I’m trying too hard. Glinda said the other day that it will happen when it happens and that I’ll know. It’s kind of like, “You find love when you’re not looking for it.” That could be true.
But how do you know you’ve found what you’re looking for if you’re not looking for it to begin with? I’m not ever going to be cleaning house and then find a million dollars laying around. I’m not looking for a million dollars. I’m loading the dishwasher. Granted, I know that I’m not going to find a million dollars lying in the sink, but shouldn’t the same theory apply?
If I don’t know what I’m looking for, or even that I’m looking for something, then how do I know when I find it? Makes my damn head spin.
It’s the same with, “You’ll just know.” How? How will I know this? Why are there so many mysteries and things you’re just supposed to know? I read that Dating for Dummies book, and I don’t know a damn thing more about dating than when I started. And after writing this book, I’m still not sure I’ll know more about love than when I started.
It doesn’t make sense. Why can’t people just be honest and say what they feel?
All this thinking makes my brain hurt.
Chapter Nineteen
Sunday, December 11
14 Days Left
Dear Carly,
Here’s your singles love horoscope for December 11:
Let someone else realize how much he or she needs you. Jumping up to answer someone’s unspoken demands just turns you into a performing seal. This is your chance to make a positive change in your love patterns.
Performing seal? What kind of horoscope is that? But I do need to let someone else realize he needs me. And I definitely need to make a positive change in my love patterns. Something’s gotta give.
Needing advice, I decided to do a Google search for some love articles. One in particular caught my attention: Keys to Effective Communication.
Effective communication? That’s a new one. This is how it works. When you ask someone to do something or make a request of them, you get three types of answers. The first is, “Yes, I will do that.” The second is, “No. I will not do that.” And the third is Mush. Mush includes all those answers that sound like a positive answer, but really aren’t. Examples: “That sounds good,” “We’ll see,” “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” and, “Maybe so.”
While I’m reading this, I realize that Mush is the kind of communication that Jack and I have. I ask mushy questions and get mushy answers.
Example:
Me: I would like to have drinks some time, will you call me?
Jack: That sounds good.
The question doesn’t require a definite answer, so I get Mush. Makes a lot of sense. After reading this, I decide to try this out. On Jack, of course, because I’m an idiot. I plan it all out in my head. “I’m off Tuesday night, I want to have drinks. Can you make it?”
It’s a simple enough request. Unless someone’s voice mail is full and they don’t answer the phone.
***
I will get an answer. I call back. This time he answers the phone. I make myself ignore the tingly sensation I always get at the sound of his voice.
“Are you busy?” I ask.
“Just getting something to eat.”
“Listen, I’m off Tuesday—”
He cuts me off. “Hang on, let me call you back.”
“Okay,” I say.
“I’ll call you right back.” Click.
I throw my phone across the room. Luckily, it hits the couch, because after dropping it in that beer, it can’t take much more damage.
“Stupid phone!” Why I blame the phone, I have no clue. Really.
I go to the Wahoo to drown my stupidity. I vent to Morgan. He tells me the same old, “It shows up when you aren’t looking for it. It’s natural.”
The natural gets me. None of this has been natural.
I delete Jack’s name again. I hope for the last time. Again.
I am worthy of at least a phone call.
Glenn is in the bar again and keeps looking at me. He tells the bartender that he’s interested in me and that he thinks his friendship with Crystal is screwing it up. Of course, the bartender immediately comes to tell me what he said. I guess that’s right. I don’t know if it’s his friendship or my friendship with her that’s messing things up. I have noticed that this time, he has not shown any real interest in her other than to be kind. No flirtatious gestures, no looks, no nothing. But I am still hesitant to attempt anything with him.
Jameson comes in then. Seeing those great arms of his makes my stomach do flip-flops. We hang out as a group. There are a few other friends there. He stands by me most of the night, touching my leg or arm a few times. He’s still interested, I can tell, but it’s not going to be that easy.
We talk about music and it shocks him that I like Metallica and Guns N’ Roses. He says that makes him like me more. When we talk later about another group, one he doesn’t like, he says, “I knew it was too good to be true.”
“Most things are,” I say.
He walks away after that, and I wonder if I was too harsh. Is there a line I need to find between harsh and honest?
When he comes back, he’s a little quiet and distracted. I ask him what’s wrong, and he says he’ll tell me later. He stays a little while after that and leaves. He texts me later to ask me to call him when I get a chance.
When I get home, I text him and tell him we can talk now.
He calls, and we talk for a good two hours—which is good for me because I hate talking on the phone. He tells me that his friend is interested in me and that makes him uncomfortable with pursuing a relationship with me. I swear, I’m about to start calling the bar General Barroom, or One Life to Drink, or Drunk and the Restless.
We go on to talk about our past relationships, but don’t get too deep. We talk about what we’re looking for. It’s a good conversation, and I laugh a lot. Jameson has a really great sense of humor, and I find that almost as attractive as his arms. He doesn’t ask me out, and I don’t think he’s going to. I tell him I will call him, and I will. There could be some potential. Could he be Prince Charming?
An hour after the conversation with Jameson, my phone beeps. My hope is that it is not Jack.
It’s from Ryder. Ryder has not answered a single text message I’ve sent in weeks. And now he’s initiating contact? I shake my head and see what he has to say.
He’s written a poem about loving and losing. The general tone is sad, and I think that it must reflect what happened with him and the woman he bitches about being in love with. I respond with,
We’ve all lost in love, but the lesson to be learned is not to lose faith that one will love again.
Me, Carly, the love guru.
He doesn’t respond. He worries me, and I wonder why he sent me that text message.
Finally, I text him again.
Me: Are u okay?
Ryder: Yeah, bad day at work. Drank 2 much. Don’t even remember sending u that msg.
Great, the one message he sent me in weeks, he didn’t even mean to send. Here I am making a big deal out of nothing.
Swish, Ryder falls through the funnel again.
Chapter Twenty
Monday, December 12
13 Days Left
Sick, so I lie in bed and watch TV. I find an old show called Temptation Island. I watch as three couples test their rela
tionship on a beautiful island surrounded by gorgeous people. What would make someone want to volunteer to do that? I can’t even find a relationship. When I find one, I can’t imagine purposely trying to test it.
I watch as these six people go on dates with the single people who are on the island. By their own admission, they form connections with these people. Is it really that simple? Can you form a connection that easily?
In a cold medicine induced haze, I doze off before I see the finale, so I don’t know which couples made it and which ones didn’t. I really don’t care. In my opinion, if you feel the need to go on dates with others, you probably shouldn’t be in a relationship to begin with. But that’s just my opinion, I could be wrong.
I wake up later to the sound of one of my favorite Christmas programs playing, Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I’m snuggling with Sammy, who, despite her normal grumpiness, is sweet. I couldn’t be more content.
I doze off again, to be awakened when my phone rings at two thirty in the morning. It’s Jameson. I answer.
“What are you doing?” he asks me.
Um, I don’t know. Saving the world? Pondering world peace? Competing for Miss America? What the hell does he think I’m doing?
“I’m sleeping.”
“What are you doing sleeping?”
“That’s what a lot of people are doing at two thirty in the morning. What are you doing?”
“I’m laying here all by myself.”
“Maybe you should get a dog,” I say, and laugh.
“You’re not very nice. I’m hanging up.”
I shrug my shoulders. Nice is not a word used to describe me when I’ve been woken up. He doesn’t hang up, so I ask him if he went out.
“Yes. I went and hung out at the Wahoo for a while with the guys. Then we went for breakfast.”
Oh really?
Catch And Release (Fleur de Lis) Page 6