Feeling a lot less smug, I stare back at the restaurant entrance and sigh in relief when I see the same hostess from before heading my way with a tall man in tow.
They reach me a minute later. The hostess smiles and leaves, giving me my first unobstructed view of the guy the agency selected as my potential Mr. Right.
Mmm.
Mr. Tolstoy is tall, but more in a lanky way than hunky. His hair is unruly and on the longish side, and while the style might’ve worked for him a few years ago, it doesn’t anymore now that his hair is thinning out. He’s wearing a pair of dark jeans, scruffy leather shoes, and a white shirt that either has not been ironed or that has been worn too long already. The pale-blue linen suit jacket that completes the outfit is equally wrinkled, and is that a coffee stain over his breast pocket?
I try to keep an open mind and get up to greet him with a smile.
“Hi,” I say. “I’m Vivian.”
He clasps my hand in a clammy handshake. “Christopher. Sorry I’m late, but I got lost in a creative bubble. You know how it gets.”
Actually, I don’t know, since we’ve never met. Is he a painter?
“It’s okay,” I say as we both sit. “Are you an artist?”
As Christopher unfolds his napkin and places it on his lap, I try not to notice how my date seems to be the store-brand package compared to the name-brand sitting next door. His hair a drab, mousy brown to Lucas’ lustrous, glossy black locks. The clothes a poor replica of Lucas’ pristine white dress-shirt and shiny Italian leather shoes. Even their eyes are the same color: blue. But Lucas’ are deep and vibrant, while Christopher’s are a vapid, transparent color and red-rimmed like an old man’s.
But, I remind myself, the package is of little importance. I’ve already witnessed firsthand how misleading appearances can be with my reverse-ogre of a neighbor. So, I won’t judge a book by its cover, and I’ll keep an open mind.
I stare at Christopher with a friendly smile, waiting for his answer. He finishes smoothing the creases out of the napkin on his lap with a bit too much flare, and finally looks up at me.
“I’m a writer,” he says with self-importance. “An artist of the written word.”
“Wow. That’s amazing. Have you published many books?”
“No, I’m not trying to be a commercial bestseller. I create literary art. That requires time.”
“Oh, okay, what do you write about?”
“It’s not so much what as it is how. The craftsmanship that goes behind sedulously assembling words to produce a harmonious symphony of text.”
Sedulou—what? Could this guy be any more pretentious?
Thank goodness the monolog is interrupted by a server arriving to take our order. I had plenty of time to study the menu, and I was set on getting an appetizer and the risotto, but I have a hunch I’ll want to cut this date as short as possible. “French toast, please,” I order. Sugar is my friend.
“Anything to drink?” the server asks me.
Yeah, alcohol could help, too. “A Bellini, please.”
The server jots my preferences in his pad and turns to Christopher.
The next great American novelist is studying the menu, his nose upturned as if smelling something unpleasant.
I watch him, the server watches him, but he keeps staring at the, frankly, limited brunch menu, as if he had to choose the right word for one of his precious manuscripts. After what seems like forever, he finally raises an unimpressed stare to our waiter, saying, “I’ll take the rib eye steak and eggs, and a glass of your best red.”
The server walks away, leaving me once again alone with Mr. Tolstoy Wannabe. I hope at least they’ll be quick in bringing our drinks. My gaze unwisely drifts sideways toward Lucas. Our eyes meet for a brief second, and he winks at me before returning his attention to his date.
The little gesture makes me blush, and causes my stomach to do a silly, unwarranted flip.
Oh, gosh. Where is that drink?
Eighteen
Lucas
After casually eavesdropping on Medusa’s date for a while, I feel secure in my professional housing situation. No way Vivian will go out with that pompous windbag a second time. Not if she has an ounce of sanity in her. Unfortunately, my own date isn’t going much better.
“What do you do for a living?” I ask Sonia.
Not because I care, but to keep a basic conversation flowing until the meal is over and I can politely excuse myself. Once again, I’m in the middle of a date with a woman I have no interest in seeing again. Sonia’s constant word confusing is annoying—but that alone wouldn’t have been enough to toss her in the “never again” box. But she’s kept her phone on the table the entire time we’ve been seated and hasn’t gone more than ten seconds without checking it. A huge no-no for me. She probably doesn’t understand half of what I say because she’s only partially listening to me between composing texts.
To prove my point, Sonia finishes typing something on her phone before answering my question. “I’m a lifestyle blogger. At least, that’s how my business started. Today, you might call me an ‘influencer.’” She air-quotes the last word.
“Is it a difficult job?” I ask.
“Not so much once you have a solid base of followers, but I constantly have to engage with them on all my socials.”
“Sounds demanding.”
“Exactly,” Sonia says. “Many people don’t understand, but I’m glad you get it. And I’m lucky I haven’t had to deal with too many trolls so far. People can be mean online.”
“Oh, trust me, people can be dreadful also in real life.”
“Sorry, you’re right, I can only imagine what awful things you saw in prison.”
Before I have a chance to reply, her ten free seconds expire and she picks up her phone again.
Whatever, I give up.
Constantly being connected is part of her livelihood, I get it, and I have nothing against
