The Blind Date

by Landish, Lauren

  Viktor winks, and his wisdom does make sense. Especially given the smiles on everyone’s faces.

  My brain flashes back to Noah and our kiss last night. Was it sugar or salt? Or maybe some combination I’ve never considered, like chocolate-dipped potato chips? Which is apparently a thing because I saw it on a blog challenge and did it for my page as part of a series about ‘trying new things’.

  Is that what Noah is?

  Not a potato chip covered in chocolate but an experiment in being open to things I’ve never imagined?

  The only question is . . .

  Do I want more?

  I glance at Arielle, who’s got her own contemplative look on her face. Forgive me, Arielle, but . . . yes, I do.

  Not of the chips. But of . . . your brother.

  * * *

  “You ever miss the food court?” Eli asks when Arielle and I come into McGillicutty’s, the Irish tavern that’s taken over as the unofficial meeting place for The Crew. The Mall Rats is what we used to call ourselves, but over the years, as that has become a distant memory for many of us, we became The Crew. Friends by circumstance, family by choice.

  Eli looks around the over-themed bar with wait staff wearing green T-shirts and aprons with pins and buttons all over them. The long length of hardwood bar gleams with a mellow internal light but is pock-marked from years of usage, and the chalkboard announcing the weekly specials hasn’t changed in so long I don’t remember the last time it wasn’t Three-Dollar Drafts on Wednesday nights. Too bad today’s special is Saturday Stouts, and I’m not feeling the Guinness love.

  “Baby, please,” Loretta says. “The onion rings here kick ass. Way better than anything the food court ever had.”

  Six feet two inches tall, Loretta joined The Crew when a second torn ACL made her realize that perhaps playing college basketball wasn’t what she really wanted to do with her life. She worked mall security, putting her intimidating size to good use while finishing her business degree. After she finished school, she promptly quit the mall gig, but not The Crew, and followed her heart to her true love . . . dogs.

  Specifically, grooming. Something about making every dog she meets as absolutely adorable as possible lights up Loretta like there’s no tomorrow. She can happily spend her days putting bows on the ears of basset hounds, brushing out Samoyeds, and giving poodles pedicures.

  She’s damn good at it, too, which is why she’s the only groomer allowed to lay hands on my Raffy.

  “I’ll see your onion rings and raise you a bourbon chicken,” Eli counters wistfully.

  Loretta scoffs. “Ew, that stuff was nasty. Mostly dark meat—now, don’t get me wrong, I love dark meat—but they’d let that chicken dry out under those warming lights all day, then dunk it in more sauce and steam it to make it ‘moist’ again.” She does air quotes with the word ‘moist’ and then shudders, her face screwed up in distaste.

  “Don’t ruin it for me. Some days, that’s all I have time for, even now,” Eli complains with a vehement head shake.

  Now that he mentions it, he does look a little tired, which makes me wonder how things are going at the bank. But before I can ask, the last two members of The Crew arrive.

  “Hey, honey! How’s the jewelry business?” Loretta asks Becky.

  “Good,” Becky says. She looks happy, and she should be. The youngest member of The Crew, she’s also the only one of us who’s married. Then again, considering her husband, Simon, is part of The Crew as well, I take a little pride in that.

  All of us knew Simon and Becky were into each other. Becky worked part time at the mall because she was in school, all big eyes and a bigger heart.

  Simon was several years older and her manager, and they fell for each other pretty hard, even if they were blind to it. It wasn’t until Becky graduated and was literally about to move on to the next phase of her life that he finally asked her out.

  But we knew from the start.

  “I think,” Eli says as he gets up from his chair, “I owe Simon a Guinness. Come on, let’s let them bitch about men for a minute without feeling like we should guard our junk.”

  Simon kisses Becky on the temple, and she beams like someone lit her soul on fire. But not some out of control inferno, more like a warm beacon that draws Simon back to her no matter what. They’re adorable.

  Noah’s kiss flashes through my mind again. It was definitely not warm-beacon style, but he wasn’t out of control either. I don’t know if Noah could ever be out of control. Everything I know about him—from River, Arielle, and even from our messages when I thought he was Mark—says he’s a skinny hairsbreadth shy of a control freak. But that kiss was an inferno, one he stoked intentionally, built expertly, and let sear my soul.

  And as much as I hate to admit it, I liked being under his control. His hand on my head, guiding me where he wanted me. Moving in slow, giving me time to think about what he was about to do. His tongue not forcing inside but teasing to make me hungry for him.

  “With them gone,” Loretta says, pulling a dollar out of her pocket and laying it on the table, “Riley, Arielle, Becky . . . it’s game time.”

  “Oh, God,” Becky groans even as she grins. “Have you been practicing?”

  “Who, me? I don’t need to practice,” Loretta retorts smugly. “Unless you count paper in the wastebasket at work?”

  “For you, trashcan shots totally count,” Becky asserts with a laugh, but as we always do, we make our way to the far side of McGillicutty’s where a remnant of a previous marketing attempt as a sports bar remains. The hoop shoot game survived because nothing else fits so well in the narrow nook that’s just big enough for two games side by side.

  But it isn’t about the score, or at least not totally. It’s about our time while the guys have their time, forging those bonds that are going to last the rest of our lives.

  “So, how’s my baby boy?” Loretta asks as Becky and Arielle take the first pair of games. “You know it’s not a good month unless I get my Raffy snuggles in!”

  I laugh. She spoils Raffy every time I bring him by . . . with deep conditioning treatments, pawdicures, and beef jerky. Not to mention the scratches, hugs, and petting. But I have to admit Raffy looks great and smells better after a day at Loretta’s doggy salon. Plus, the before and after posts on his IG are some of my most popular posts. It seems everyone loves a glow up, Raffy’s fans included.

  “How about I bring him by next Friday?”

  “Sure, that’ll work. Not like I’m doing anything exciting, anyway.” Loretta’s usual wit has gone sour and her smile falters.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to assume,” I say quickly, trying to backpedal.

  Loretta pats my hand and tsks. “No, baby. It’s not you, and Friday’s fine. I just had a date last weekend that was a shitshow from start to finish.”

  I think about telling her that her date couldn’t have been worse than mine. But I guess mine ended better.

  “What happened?” I ask carefully, noting that Loretta’s gotten Arielle and Becky’s attention now too.

  “A new client brought his Great Dane in for a groom. I was sitting at the front desk to greet him, and we got to talking and then flirting. When he came back to pick up Harold—that’s the Great Dane—he asked me out and I said yes. Mama didn’t raise no fool, so I met him at the restaurant.” Her lips press into a thin line and her eyes roll. “Hmph, I could tell something was wrong as soon as I walked in.”

  “He’s married?” Arielle guesses.

  Loretta shakes her head. “No, he met me in my work clothes. Scrubs, tennis shoes, hair pulled back, covered in fur. But it was a date, so you know I did it up right. Hair and makeup on point, hot dress, and heels.”

  I’ve seen Loretta done up. She’s stunning and makes an impact. Everyone notices when she struts into a room.

  “He realized he was out of his league?” Becky asks hopefully.

  “Man stood up to greet me blinking like he’d developed a tic, and then he kisse
d me on the cheek. I sit down thinking I got this fine thing on my hook. So he starts talking about basketball, and you know I was all over that. Wanna talk teams, play history, stats? Loretta’s gotchu,” she says with a pat of her own chest. “This fool says some smack about the women’s NCAA not being as good as the men’s, and I was not having that. Nope, told him exactly what I thought about that. He starts talking about his ball days, like college was a minute ago when it definitely was not, and giving me his stats. Like I give a single shit. Turned out he was a forward too, and my stats were better than his.” Loretta’s glee at that factoid fills her eyes with satisfaction.

  “Love it,” Arielle says, missing her shot and then not even pretending to play the game anymore in favor of listening to Loretta.

  “Final nail in the coffin? Boy tried suggesting that heels and makeup made me look like a drag queen.” Arielle is instantly in protective mode, ready to go to war to defend our friend and sputtering in anger, but Loretta smiles evilly and holds up a staying finger. “I handled it. I told him that if he didn’t want someone on or above his level—because let’s be clear, in my heels, I was taller than him and big boy could not handle that—that was his prerogative. But I don’t make myself small for anyone.”

  “That’s right,” Becky agrees with her. Surprisingly, she adds, “Besides, height doesn’t matter when you’re horizontal.”

  We all gape open-mouthed at her. Did sweet Becky just make a sex joke? She giggles, hiding her blush behind her hands.

  “Ooh, girl. You got that right,” Loretta laughs, holding up a hand for a high-five. Becky slaps her palm to Loretta’s and then turns and sinks her last shot.

  “Nothing to it,” Becky says. About her joke or the winning shot? Could be either or both, but her bold confidence is fresh. It’s cool to see how she’s growing before our very eyes from the previous shy, quiet girl into a strong woman who knows herself and isn’t afraid to share that knowledge.

  Loretta and I play next, and she sweeps the game quickly. I consider it a win that I got a few successful shots that actually swished through the basket because I can’t hit the broadside of a barn, but Loretta’s score is more than triple what mine is because she’s got deadeye aim.

  Becky and Loretta play the final knockout game, and now that things are serious, Loretta goes quiet as she concentrates. It’s a matter of pride at this point, and she won’t risk losing.

  In the end, though, Becky has no chance. Loretta goes into Steph Curry mode, draining shot after shot.

  “Great game,” Loretta tells Becky. Loretta’s still undefeated but is always a gracious winner.

  Becky smiles and suggests, “Food?”

  We all cheer, marching our way back to the table to meet the guys as we hold up Loretta’s arm in victory.

  “Holding on to the title?” Eli asks Loretta, and she nods. We all sit down around the table, Simon pulling Becky’s chair out for her. Again, I think how cute they are and how much I’d like to have someone in my corner like that. It seems Loretta feels the same. I glance from Eli to Arielle, trying to judge what’s going on between them these days too, but there don’t seem to be any lovey-dovey vibes today.

  We order a round of drinks, and when the waitress delivers them, Simon stops us from sipping. “Wait, I’d like to propose a toast.” We hold our glasses up high and wait for him to continue. “Here’s to years of friendship, of Mall Rats becoming family, and of families growing.”

  We clink glasses and take sips, but Simon has paused pointedly, a large grin stretching his face and telling us to look through the words for something important. Becky’s smiling wide too, and finally, it clicks. “Are you pregnant?” I whisper, afraid to be wrong, but Becky nods excitedly.

  “Just a little,” Becky says, and we all cheer. I hug her tightly, glad that she’s sitting next to me, and I get to show her some love at the awesome news.

  Eli scoffs, amused. “There ain’t no such thing as a little pregnant. Either you are or you aren’t.” He holds his right hand out wide and then his left, way far apart.

  “Then I am,” she concedes. “And there’s more. Simon, tell them the rest.”

  At her urging, Simon once again draws our attention. “I also got a promotion to regional manager. I start next month.”

  “What?”

  “That’s awesome!”

  “Way to go, man!”

  We all celebrate their good fortunes, truly happy for them. “Thanks, everyone,” Becky says, smiling at Simon, who smiles back at her.

  I want that.

  I can see that now. I’ve been putting off dating and relationships for years, focusing on my work, and that’s been great, getting me to where I am. But it’s okay to reprioritize and make a little time for dating or more now that I’ve got a steady lifestyle. Even with Arielle pushing me, I wouldn’t have even considered joining the BlindDate app if I weren’t open to the idea.

  Noah asked me to think about it, about him. To really give him and us a chance. And seeing Simon and Becky together is making me think long and hard about what I’m willing to risk and what I’m willing to walk away from.

  Earlier today, Mabel talked about picking up her husband’s dirty socks for fifty years and how it made her happy and broke her heart when she couldn’t any longer.

  Could I be happy picking up Noah’s dirty socks? Is he that kind of guy? Is this that kind of relationship?

  I think it could be. We’ll have to figure out the River and Arielle complications eventually, but I do think it’s worth trying.

  I don’t overthink it, don’t analyze it to death. That’s not who or what I am. I check my gut once more, focusing on anything that gives me pause, but I only find fear of getting hurt, and I won’t let that stop me. I never have before and won’t start now. Fear is what makes great people into so-so people.

  So, I pull my phone out while everyone else is talking about Simon’s new role and Becky’s pregnancy. I open up BlindDate and click into my messages.

  R: Okay. I’m in to see where this goes.

  In seconds, he responds.

  M . . . or Noah: Where are you? Can I come over now?

  I smile at his eagerness, letting it soothe over any residual worries.

  R: Not tonight. I’m out with friends. But tomorrow around seven?

  N: I might die before then, but I guess I can wait the 21 hours, 9 minutes, and 45 seconds.

  R: Did you really count that up?

  N: 21-9-7 now.

  R: See you soon.

  “Everything okay?” Loretta asks me, and I realize that I’ve been smiling at my phone for a few minutes now. I look up, afraid Arielle is going to ask me who I’m messaging with, but she’s oblivious to my phone distraction. She and Eli seem to be caught up in a private conversation that’s not using words. Instead, they’re glaring at each other, lifting their brows, and huffily turning away from one another.

  What is it with those two?

  “All good,” I tell Loretta, and then a thought occurs to me. “Hey, you should try out this app.”

  I tell her about River and Noah’s BlindDate app and how you can put in your preferences, including height, and it’ll match you up. She says she’ll think about it, but she doesn’t look convinced. I’m sure she’s thinking that if it were all that awesome, I’d be telling her about the amazing man I met.

  I did. I just can’t tell her. Or anyone else, for that matter. Not yet. Not until I see how things go with Noah.

  But the conversation has finally gotten Arielle’s attention and she jumps in. “Riley had a ninety-six percent match! You never did say earlier . . . how’s that going?”

  “Uh . . .” I stammer, no idea how to answer that. “I mean . . . it’s good?” My heart is racing. I can feel the nervous sweat starting in my pits, and I’m fidgeting like a toddler who needs to pee.

  “Good?” Arielle repeats, not looking convinced.

  I can’t say more, though my tongue is a moment away from
saying, “He’s awesome and he’s your brother and I don’t know what to do about it!” To prevent that from happening, I shove a nacho in my mouth, nearly choking on the sharp chip and messy cheese and beef combo topped with hot jalapeños.

  My eyes water, tears leaking down my cheeks, and I cough harshly, but I try to nod in answer. It only chokes me up more, and I have to give up in favor of sucking down some water. It’s still not enough, and Loretta pops me on the back, which makes me cough again because her taps are more like body slams. But it gives me something to think about other than telling Arielle about Noah . . . and that kiss . . . and how he said please.

  God, I can picture that text, hear him saying it when he came over. He’s not a man who says that, which he confirmed if there were ever any doubt.

  I’ve managed to get the nacho down and drink some water to soothe my throat, but I’ve been quiet too long, and Arielle, the bestest best friend ever, saves me by drawing the attention away with a joke. “You’ll find the right guy, Riley. Some people just can’t set aside the clouds to see the sunshine.” She holds her hands out wide, gesturing to me and waving jazz hands in an imitation of my Sunshine Salute.

  Everyone laughs because I’m the epitome of sunshine, but not everyone is ready for that, especially on a daily basis and in big doses. I’ve learned that the hard way, and I hope Noah is ready for me.

  Funny thing, I don’t feel particularly sunny right now. I’m excited about Noah, but I can see a thunderstorm gathering in the distance as Arielle throws me a wink for saving me. “You okay?” she mouths, and I give her a subtle thumbs-up.

  “Thanks,” I whisper.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter 10

  Noah

  Last night, when I saw that I had a message from Riley, my heart had jumped into my throat. For a split second, I was already preparing for the worst, expecting it. But also, hoping I was wrong.