by Monroe, Lila
“Nowhere.” I sigh.
Remy looks confused. “But you were flirting like Nick and Nora back there.”
I look at him blankly.
“From The Thin Man?” he tries. “Jesus, try watching something made before Julia Roberts was born, why don’t you?”
“Easy there, movie buff. And he was just being polite. No biggie.” I pause. “I actually have a date tonight.”
Remy studies me. “You sounded more enthusiastic when you went to get your teeth cleaned the other week.”
“It’s one of those online dates,” I say, trying to seem more upbeat. “Poppy and Natalie forced me now that I’m their third wheel. But maybe it won’t be so bad. Who knows, maybe he’s my Perfect Match hookup! Wouldn’t that be funny? Serendipity! We’ll laugh and have a great story to tell our grandkids!”
Remy gives me a look like I’m nuts. “What are you talking about? Dating is warfare. Expect the worst, and you’ll never be disappointed.”
“That, my friend, is why you’re still single,” I say, teasing.
“It’s also why I’ll be the last to die in a zombie apocalypse,” he mutters darkly. “You won’t be laughing then now, will you?”
I finish up at the shop, then freshen up before heading out to my date. We had a couple more customers come through before the end of the day, including a guy on his fortieth wedding anniversary and another about to propose to his boyfriend.
“We met on that app, Perfect Match,” he tells me, beaming. “Who knew we’d wind up here?”
Take that, Remy! I think, throwing in some extra-gorgeous irises for them. See: true love is out there, you just have to have faith.
Which, to be honest, has been getting harder for me these days. I’m twenty-seven now, which means I have my fair share of heartbreaks stacked up behind me, not to mention a few dozen (or is that hundred?) bad first dates. But I still believe the perfect person is out there for everyone, no matter how long it takes to find them.
I mean, just look at my mom. After my dad moved out and divorced her for Kristi, his personal trainer at the gym (originality was never his strong suit: he was a “gas-station roses” guy, through and through), she thought she’d never find love again. But I convinced her to get back out there, and soon enough she met Mike, the Lawn Care King of Springfield, New Jersey. Their eyes met over a can of fertilizer in the Home Depot, and voila! Instant chemistry.
They’ve been together ten years now, and they’re still madly in love. Plus, he knows that tulips are her favorite, and he redid the turf in the backyard, so they entertain there all year long. They’re so happy together; they give me hope that my special guy is out there too, somewhere. After all, there are over four million men in New York City. Even discounting the ones who are old, gay, Knicks fans, or think that John Mayer is some kind of romantic role model, there has to be at least one who’s perfect for me, right?
So why not my blind date tonight?
I reach the restaurant and pause, checking my reflection in the window. It’s a cute, bustling dim sum spot, with soft lighting and an all-you-can-eat buffet. Romantic and thrifty! And I know I was only kidding before, saying that this Heartthrob Seth might be my date tonight, but as I enter, I can’t help scanning the crowd for a familiar face.
I find one.
But it’s not the one I was expecting. Because inside, sitting by the bar, is Mr. Carnations himself—holding the offending bouquet in one hand while he scrolls distractedly on his phone.
You have got to be kidding me!
My first instinct is to bolt. But he looks up too soon and sees me. He looks at his phone, and then back at me. Recognition.
Damn it.
I paste on a smile, give a reluctant wave, and walk over. “Hi,” I greet him, hoping we just got off on the wrong foot before at the shop. A bad first impression doesn’t necessarily mean we’re doomed. Maybe he was distracted, or nervous, or stressed from work. Maybe he’s really a lovely, generous sweetheart once you get to know him . . .
But he gets up and looks me up and down. “It’s you? Huh,” he says, awkwardly thrusting the flowers at my chest. “Wait a minute, since I’m giving them back to you, does this mean I get a refund?”
Make that a bad second impression.
I guess my soulmate will just have to wait another night.
2
April
“I guess I can skip Pilates class this week.” I wince, dropping a box of what feels like lead weights in the hallway of our apartment building.
Scratch that: my apartment building, since my former roomie, Poppy, is moving out today. She’s leaving me for the uptown, luxury comforts of her boyfriend Dylan’s swanky penthouse, so I can’t really hold it against her. But still, I’m sorry to see her go.
Poppy shoves the box into a pile with the others. “Why do I have so much stuff? I’m beginning to see the appeal of that whole minimalism thing. Donating all my worldly possessions to charity and living a simple life with two T-shirts and a toothbrush.”
“Or, you could just wait for the guys to show up and start the heavy lifting,” our other friend Natalie suggests.
“Good point.” Poppy grins. “So, come on, April, you were telling us about your big date.”
“My big nothing-burger of a date.” I sigh. “He was cheap and boring. He insisted we split the buffet, and then he refused to tip!”
The girls gasp. We’ve all done our time in the service industry trenches, so how a guy treats the waitress speaks volumes to us. “I had to run back and leave extra on the table just so I can ever show my face there again,” I say, gloomy.
“Well, let’s say no more of him,” Poppy agrees. “Maybe we need to change your search criteria. Be more selective.”
“You mean, more selective than ‘attractive, great sense of humor, good person, with no deep hang-ups over their childhood and/or exes’?” I ask. “I do want to have a date in the next million years, you know.”
They both laugh, as Dylan emerges from the stairwell. “More boxes?” he asks, taking in the haul. “I thought you said we were nearly done.”
Poppy beams. “We are. There’s only the bedroom and my closet to go!”
Dylan chuckles, but he drops a sweaty kiss on her lips and grabs another load of stuff without complaining. “It’s a good thing I love you,” he says, heading for the stairs. “And that my building has an elevator!”
Poppy watches him go. The minute he’s out of sight, she turns back to us. “Help,” she says. “Give me a reality check, please. Am I really doing this?”
I gasp. “Wait, what? You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
Poppy bites her lip. “I don’t know. Maybe? I love Dylan, but are we making a massive mistake, moving in so soon? It’s been six months. I still keep the bathroom door locked when I pee! Tell me I’m being crazy.”
Natalie smirks. “Yes. Totally crazy that you’re moving out of your tiny, creaky, leaky—” She looks at me, apologetic. “No offense, April.”
“None taken,” I laugh.
“—shitty apartment to move in with a rich hotel magnate dude with a doorman and housekeeper,” Natalie finishes. “Not to mention you’re head over heels for said dude who feels the same for you and regularly bangs you into next week to prove it. You must be insane.”
“Certifiable,” I agree, grinning. “Besides, we’ve seen that penthouse. How many bathrooms does the guy have?”
“Two,” Poppy admits, smiling. “Plus the hall powder room.”
“There you go,” I tell her, feeling—OK—maybe a little envious at her bathroom options. None of which, I’m guessing, leak like crazy. “You’ll have all the privacy you need.”
Poppy breaks into a smile again. “Well, when you put it like that . . .”
“Seriously,” I add. “If you don’t want that life, let’s trade! You can stay here and find a new roommate who isn’t a serial killer.”
Poppy winces. “I’m sorry to be leaving you in the lu
rch. You know I’m happy to pay rent until you find someone new.”
“It’s fine.” I shrug. “I’ll figure something out.”
“But we’ll help,” Poppy insists. “Right, Nat?”
“Of course.” Natalie starts taping another box together. “But you should definitely get someone who cooks.”
“Ooh. A pastry chef,” Poppy brightens. “Or . . . oh, that woman who owns the coffee shop around the corner. They have the best cinnamon rolls. We should see if she needs a place. You could get your carb on daily.”
“You know, she doesn’t bake,” I say. “The apron is all a ruse. It’s the guy in the back who makes the magic happen.”
“You mean Biceps?” Poppy asks, using our nickname for the baker (for obvious reasons).
“That’s the one.”
“Oh, then you should definitely have him move in. Those arms, the baking, the . . . arms!”
I laugh. “Do you need a moment alone so you can finish that fantasy?”
“What fantasy would that be?” Dylan quips as he walks back in.
Poppy grins. “You, obviously,” she says, “holding a box of gooey, warm, iced cinnamon rolls.”
Dylan laughs. “OK, then. I have a few ideas for our next date night.”
Poppy pulls him close. “That’s my man. Making all my sweetest fantasies come true.”
“Get a room!” Natalie hollers, so Poppy drags Dylan toward the kitchen under the pretense of packing up her favorite spatula, leaving Natalie and I to pack up the rest of her room. It’s bittersweet—I really am happy for her, but I’ll miss our late-night movies and gabfests on the couch.
“You should get a guy roommate this time,” Natalie suggests. “For a change of pace.”
“I don’t know.” I pause. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable wandering around in my PJs and no bra. Besides, what if he’s hot? I don’t want a hot guy seeing me first thing in the morning. Or worse, while I’m bawling on the couch with PMS and a bloated everything.”
“Good point,” Natalie agrees. “But it would be convenient for hookups if he was hot. Who wants to leave the house in this weather?”
“Also a good point,” I concede. “But what if he’s a slob? Or doesn’t put the seat down? Or we break up?”
“Don’t worry, babe, we’ll find you someone perfect,” she promises.
I can only hope she’s right.
Poppy and Dylan eventually head out in the moving van, off to their new blissful, cohabitating life together, leaving me in an apartment that feels weirdly empty.
I look around. It’s the end of an era, for sure, and the start of something new for Poppy. And while she may have her trepidations about moving in with a boy, I can’t help but feel a little envious—and not just of the multiple bathrooms and doorman service. Because Poppy has found her soulmate. Both my best friends have. She and Natalie are blissfully in love with amazing guys, and even though they do their best not to make me feel like the odd single girl out, it’s hard to ignore the wistful ache I feel watching them all together.
But my perfect guy is out there, too, I remind myself. I just need to be on the lookout for when fate decides to throw him in my direction.
All that talk of cinnamon rolls has made me hungry, so I decide to walk down to the coffee shop on the corner and grab a pick-me-up sugar fix. I take my place in the line just as the stereo starts playing Dolly Parton’s “Jolene.” I hum along, smiling. Now, there’s a good sign.
“Extra-large caramel cappuccino with whip for Seth!”
Seth?
I look up as the barista hollers out the order. I look around, hopeful. I mean, if the universe can deliver Mr. Wrong on my blind date as a coincidence, then what’s stopping Mr. Right from materializing right in front of me, too?
But I’m so busy scanning the crowd, I don’t notice someone hurrying out. They knock past me, sending me reeling—
Right into a guy walking by who’s holding a giant iced something or other—
Which spills. All. Down. My. Front.
“Argh!” I exclaim, hit with icy, coffee liquid. “What the hell?”
“I’m so sorry!” The guy whose coffee is now decorating my chest exclaims. “Look at you! Let me help.”
He grabs a giant stack of napkins and moves to start mopping up the mess. “Umm, let me handle it,” I blurt quickly, grabbing them before he can start dabbing my breasts.
His face turns red. “Uh, of course. Sorry. Again.”
He thrusts the stack at me. “I’m not usually such a klutz,” he adds. “At least, my patients don’t think so.”
“Uh huh,” I mutter, distracted.
“I’m just on break. I’m a resident, over at New York Pres. Pediatrics,” he continues. Then he pauses. “Hey, I love this song. Don’t you?”
What? I shake my head. “I need to go rinse this,” I say, looking around for the bathroom. No line. Yes!
“Let me get your coffee,” he says. “I insist. It’s the least I can do!”
“Sure. Fine. Um, a latte,” I tell him, before bolting for the back of the store. I lock myself in the tiny bathroom, yank my sweater over my head, and run it under the cold faucet to stop the stain from setting.
Just my luck.
There’s a tap at the door. Standing there in my bra, I freeze. “Um, occupied!”
I doublecheck that the lock is secure. The last thing I need right now is to give the entire coffee shop an eyeful of my laundry-day sports bra.
“It’s just me,” the doctor calls. “Everything OK?”
“Yeah, I’ll just be a minute,” I call out. “Almost done!”
There’s a pause. “Do you want my shirt? I’m heading back to the hospital and can grab another.”
I look at my soaking wet rag of a sweater and exhale. The thought of squelching three blocks in that is not exactly appealing, but still, I hesitate. “Are you sure?”
“Of course. This is my fault, after all.”
It’s actually the fault of whoever streamrolled past me and didn’t stick around to see the mess, but I’m not about to look a gift shirt in the mouth.
“And here I thought chivalry was dead,” I quip. “If you could, you know, just kind of pass it through the door?”
“Sure thing.”
I crack the door open an inch, and the guy passes his scrub top through the gap. “I’m James, by the way,” he says. I pause, taking him in for the first time. Because James-the-klutzy-doctor is actually . . . cute. He’s got sandy-brown hair and a friendly smile, with a whole preppy look going on.
“Thanks, James!”
I slam the door, tug the scrub top over my head, and check my reflection. It’ll do. I wring out my sweater, dump it in my bag, and open the door again.
James is standing on the other side with a coffee in his hand and a smile on his face. “Wow, you look much better than me in that.”
“Thanks again,” I tell him.
“It’s no trouble.” He presents me with the coffee. “One latte, for the lovely . . . ?”
“April,” I tell him.
“I also grabbed the last couple of cinnamon rolls,” he adds. “If you’d like to join me for a minute?”
“Sure, I just—”
Something catches my eye outside.
Seth.
I blink, but it’s for real, this time, and not just a hopeful figment of my imagination. He’s crossing the street away from the café, strolling casually in the crowd.
I jolt to life. “Sorry! I’ve got to go!” I blurt to poor James.
“Well, maybe I could get your number?”
“Uh . . .”
I try to get around him but he does that awkward you-go-left-I-go-right dance side to side about four times before I grab his arms and dash past. I hurtle out of the coffee shop and look frantically around.
But by the time I make it out there, Seth is gone.
3
Seth
“I don’t know what happened,” James says, looking de
jected. “I did everything you said!”
“I know, but—”
“I bought her another coffee, I offered her my shirt . . . I even said I liked that silly country song!” he continues. “But she just rushed off without even looking. I didn’t even get her number. What went wrong?”
I’m wondering the same thing.
We’re in the break room at James’s hospital, doing a postmortem on what was supposed to be the perfect first encounter with April. But postmortem is a good term for what went down, because he basically murdered that meet-cute, despite me giving him all the info he needed to hit a home run. Her favorite music, her old-fashioned-romantic-type vibe . . . I never send my clients in blind, but even with all the right preparation—and a perfect opening line (thanks to me paying that bike messenger ten dollars to literally shove her into his path)—James still struck out. Big time.
It might just be the worst first meeting I’ve seen in my years doing this job, but I can’t exactly say that to him. Time for some pep talk-slash-damage control.
“It wasn’t a complete bust,” I tell him, upbeat. “You got in front of her. She saw you’re a good, stand-up guy. Ready to offer her the shirt off your back—literally. It’s just the first step. Don’t even worry about it. Not everyone falls in love at first sight. Sometimes, it takes a second or third try.”
James pauses. “I don’t know. Maybe hiring you wasn’t a good idea. Setting up this whole meet-cute thing, it seems like a lot of effort when I could just introduce myself and ask her out.”
“Sure, you could be direct, but what if she turns you down? You’d be leaving way too much to chance,” I argue. “Why leave things to fate and coincidence when you can engineer destiny instead? People make their choices for a million different reasons—and it’s my job to set the stage to guarantee your romantic success. And I will.”
“I guess so . . .” James still looks on the fence, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to wave a lucrative client goodbye all because he couldn’t take things to the next step.