The lady looks a lot less posh than she did just a few weeks ago. Correction: she’s still fashionable, only in a sportier way rather than glamorous.
But the puppy is the real showstopper. I can’t help myself; I squat down and pat the dog, asking, “Who is this beauty?”
“Her name’s Chevron,” the redhead gushes. “I found her at a gas station the other day, and now I’ve adopted her. Co-adopted, rather, with my boss. Isn’t that crazy?”
And before I can answer yes or no, she continues. “Richard is supposedly a commitment-phobe, but would a true commitment-phobe offer to share custody of a dog? I mean, it’s a multiyear undertaking, isn’t it?”
Am I expected to answer? I straighten up and get back to eye level with her. Well, not really, since she’s about a foot shorter than me.
“And now we’re flying to LA, tonight. It’s completely professional, of course.” She air-quotes professional. “But don’t you think it’s weird he’s asked me to go to a Hollywood gala instead of Ada, when she’s the one in charge of entertainment? It would’ve made more sense, wouldn’t it?”
She framed it like a question, but I’m certain she’s not expecting an answer. Sure enough, she keeps rambling.
“Wow, this week has been crazy. First the dog, then going to jail, and now this impromptu work trip to the west coast.”
She air-quotes work, like the nature of her west coast trip should be the focal point of her story, when all I want to know is how the heck she ended up in jail. But I’m scared to ask, should my query prompt another stream of nonsense.
Then the redhead stares me directly in the eye. “Do you think LA is more romantic than New York?”
And since this is a direct question, I feel compelled to give my two cents. “Is your boss the tall man with the British accent?”
Her eyes go wide—with surprise, or with fear? “You know Richard? You didn’t tell me you knew him!”
“I don’t, I’ve just seen him in passing,” I say. Heck, if I were a woman, I’d probably be lusting after him, too. “Anyway,” I add, “it’s never a good idea to have a crush in the office, especially not on the big boss.”
Her cheeks catch fire and turn a shade of red that matches her hair. “I absolutely do not have a crush on my boss.”
The freight elevator finally stops on the ground floor, and the doors magically open on the object of our conversation, Mr. Tall and British. The woman’s cheeks grow redder, if that’s even possible.
“Blair,” the man greets her with a sheepish smile. “Glad I could catch you before you left.”
I excuse myself and walk past them, thinking, well, at least the crush is reciprocated.
***
On Saturday afternoon, I whistle happily as I moonwalk into my bedroom to get changed for my date with Vivian. Old Time Rock & Roll by Bob Seger is playing on my phone, and I do a silly dance a la Tom Cruise in Risky Business as I yank clothes off the hangers in my closet. Today has been a stellar day. I ran 10k this morning, ate a healthy salad for lunch, and took a power nap. But I’m hoping tonight will be even better.
For our second date, I’ve vowed to get to the restaurant on time—ahead, even—and I want to have enough of a buffer to pick up flowers on the way.
Too much?
Nah, Vivian deserves roses by the dozens.
I’m about to pull off my sweatshirt when my phone rings. I’m half-tempted to let the call go unanswered but check the caller ID just in case.
My heart stops. It’s the one person in the world I can’t hang up on.
Twenty-nine
Vivian
Fifteen past eight, and still no sign of Lucas.
For someone who takes pride in being such a good-mannered gentleman, he sure has a knack for showing up late to dates.
When, another ten minutes later, a server comes asking for the third time if I’m doing okay and if I would like to order something to drink, I ask for a glass of white and check my phone—dead, out of battery.
How long has it been this way? Has Lucas tried to call me?
Impatient, I get up and go to the bathroom, where I discretely plug in the charger to a socket near the sinks and wait for the phone to power up.
The moment the screen comes to life, a million notifications pop up—all from Lucas.
I read the first text.
Sorry, something came up, a work emergency. I’m going to be a little late
At once, my bullshit radar goes off. A work emergency? On a Saturday night? Lucas is a couples’ therapist—I don’t see any circumstance that would require him to meet with clients on a weekend. What did he have to do? Stop a plates-throwing fight between spouses in the name of saving fine china?
I don’t think so. Makes no sense.
The second text is even worse.
This will take longer than expected, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to make it at all
The time stamp of this last message reads 7:30.
Did Lucas cancel our date by text thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet?
So much for good manners. I wouldn’t show so little respect, not even for Roger’s mother.
After a steadying breath, I read the rest.
I’m so sorry, I was really looking forward to spending tonight with you
I promise I’ll make it up to you
Ah, he’s sorry. Because that makes everything okay. Want to prove you care? Show. Up.
I’m so mad, I’m tempted to delete his last messages without even reading them. But I’m not that firm, so I read on.
Vivian? I tried to call you but your phone is off
I hope you’re not at the restaurant already
I’m doing my best
