chapter five

JOSIE

On Friday night, just as I’m about to head out the door on a Match.com date with a physical therapist named Pete, Meredith texts with a last-minute plea to babysit and a rant about a lying teenager. I hesitate before I write her back, actually considering the request because, frankly, I’d rather spend the evening with Harper than make small talk with a random guy, even if his profile picture is pretty cute. But I decide to soldier through with my plans because you just never know when you could be canceling on your future husband.

I do, however, decide that this will be it. My final, last-ditch, Hail Mary date. If things don’t pan out with Pete the PT, I’m officially done. Admitting defeat. Throwing in the towel on a traditional family and life. I’m not sure what that means, exactly—whether I’ll up and move to Africa to do my own goodwill work, like my faux beau Jack, or whether I’ll go the sperm bank, single mother route. But I won’t continue on this futile path. I’ve made such claims before, but this time is different. This time I really mean it.

I repeat all of this to myself as I drive up Peachtree on the way to meet Pete, realizing that I feel no pressure whatsoever. In fact, part of me actually wants the date to outright suck because a bad date is better than a date rating in that murky six-out-of-ten gray area—just enough to get your hopes up, hopes that are inevitably dashed by the second or third date, when you discover that he’s actually a four or five. Or worse yet, you determine by your second or third date that he’s really an eight or nine or ten—which is pretty much a guarantee that he’ll never call you again.

So instead of giving myself my usual pre-date pep talk, I focus on my preliminary petty criticisms of Pete the PT. For starters, there’s his overuse of emojis, our thread littered with cartoonish outbursts, including the decidedly dorky “thumbs-up” followed by a glass of red wine after confirming the details of our date. Then there is the matter of his Facebook profile picture: a close-up of a black cat (which I only know because he broke one of the cardinal rules of blind dating by friending me on Facebook before our date). And finally his choice of restaurants tonight is Brio, a generic Italian chain—not a bad place for a meal per se, but definitely lame for a first date. Incidentally, the old desperate-to-get-married me would be searching for excuses for Pete, such as: (1) Emojis signal lightheartedness; (2) Highly evolved men, who don’t need to be fawned over every second by a dog, tend to like cats; and (3) Brio is next door to Barnes & Noble and he also suggested that we peruse the store after dinner, a further sign of his enlightenment.

But that was the old me. The new me says here goes nothing as I pull up to the valet, then walk into the restaurant. I immediately spot Pete sitting at the bar wearing the red polo shirt he texted me he’d be wearing (followed by a winking emoji). He is looking down at his phone, which gives me a few seconds to scrutinize him and form a first impression. He isn’t a heartthrob by any stretch, but he is at least as cute as his photo—unfortunately a solid seven. I can’t tell how tall he is, but he has an athletic build and a strong enough chin to offset his slightly receding hairline. As I remind myself that his chin doesn’t change the fact that he picked Brio, we make eye contact, and he waves. I approach him with a smile and nothing to lose.

“Josie?” he says, standing when I arrive at the bar, confirming a height of about five-nine, maybe five-ten. He has a nice, deep-enough voice with no detectable accent, though I know from his Match profile that he is from Wisconsin. I like his teeth, and I really like his smile, which raises him a half a point.

“Hi, Pete,” I say.

He asks if I’d like to stay at the bar or get a table. I start to say I don’t care, but then choose the bar; if the conversation becomes painful, we can always include the bartender—a little trick I’ve learned along the way.

“So. It’s really nice to meet you,” Pete says as we sit on our stools and angle our bodies toward each other. I hang my purse on a hook under the bar, and am careful not to make knee contact.

“Nice to meet you, too,” I say, noticing the cleft in his chin. A plus, which I remind myself is really a minus.

“Glad this finally worked out,” Pete says, referring to our scheduling difficulty over the past few weeks.

“Me, too,” I say, and on a whim decide to share my observation that he’s in the minority camp of looking better than his profile picture.

“That’s funny,” Pete says. “I was just thinking the same thing about you.”

I smile back at him and say, “Always better to undersell, right?”

He laughs and says yes, good point.

“But while we’re on the subject of photos,” I say, “may I offer you some advice on your Facebook profile pic?”

“You mean the Facebook request you denied?”

“I didn’t deny it. I just ignored it.”

“Fair enough,” he says, smiling. “So what’s your advice?”

“Lose the cat.”

“What?” Pete says with an exaggerated gasp. “You don’t like Fudge?”

“His name is Fudge?”

“Her. And yes. Her name is Fudge. Because she’s black. Get it?”

“Wow,” I say, shaking my head, smirking.

“What?” Pete asks.

“Fudge?” I say. “That’s a really weak name.”

“My niece named her Fudge,” he says. “And now she’s dead.”

For a second I think he means his niece is dead—and I’m beyond horrified by my ultimate foot in the mouth. Then I realize that he probably means that the cat is dead. “Fudge died?” I say.

“Yes. My niece was devastated. It was really her cat, but she lived with me because my brother’s wife is allergic….It was hard on all of us, though. Fudge really was a good cat.”

“I’m sorry,” I murmur, duly noting both his kindness to animals and his closeness to family. “Still. You really should have vetoed the name Fudge.”

He stares at me a beat and then says, “Oh, yeah? Well, you should have vetoed Brio. So there.”

I burst out laughing. “And why’s that?”

“Because…it’s Brio,” Pete says with a trace of Gabe-like food snobbishness. “Most girls in your zip code cancel altogether when I pick a chain.”

“You wanted me to cancel?” I say, noticing the bartender hovering near us. We don’t give him an opening, and he moves on to another couple.

“I like to weed out the snobs,” he says. “I’m from Wisconsin. Snobs and I don’t mix.”

“There are no snobs in Wisconsin?”

“Maybe two or three.”

“Well, I’m not one,” I say with conviction. “But my best friend is—and he accordingly advised that I cancel on you based on your restaurant choice.”

“Gay foodie?” Pete says.

“Don’t stereotype,” I say, smiling.

“Okay. But am I right?”

I shake my head. “No, actually. He’s a straight foodie.”

Pete raises one eyebrow and gives me a circumspect look. “Straight male best friend?”

“And housemate,” I say.

“Hmm…Interesting.”

“You’re threatened already?” I say, feeling bolder by the second. “Red flag.”

“Trying to make me jealous already?” he retorts. “Red flag.”

A coy staring contest ensues until the bartender reappears. This time we look up and order. I go with a vodka martini, straight up, Tito’s if they have it, Belvedere if they don’t.

The bartender nods, his gaze shifting to Pete. “And for you, sir?”

“I’ll have a Miller Lite….And we’ll order a flatbread, too,” Pete says, scanning the menu. He asks if I have a preference, and I tell him to pick something with meat.

“Sausage?” Pete asks.

I nod, and as the bartender steps away to put in our order, Pete says, “Good. You’re not a vegetarian.”

“Or gluten-free,” I say, thinking of my sister’s latest obsession. “I’m not even sure what gluten is, actually. Is it wheat? Or something else?”

“No idea,” he says. “But you know how you can tell that someone’s gluten-free?”

I shake my head and say no.

“Because they’ll fuckin’ tell you,” he says, with a very cute smile.

I laugh, as he looks pleased with his joke. “So you’re a teacher?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say. “First grade…I love it. I love the kids.”

He nods, his eyes slightly glazed. I try to think of something more interesting to say and then remember that I’m not trying to be interesting—or at least not more interesting than I really am. Instead I ask a question that I’d never dream of under normal first-date trying-to-make-a-good-impression circumstances. “How do you feel about kids?”

He hesitates, knowing a desperate, late-thirty-something question when he hears one, but keeps a poker face, as he says, “Kids are great.”

“So we have a lot in common,” I say as our drinks arrive. “We both like meat, gluten, and kids.”

Pete laughs a genuine laugh and raises his glass. “To meat, gluten, and kids.”

Our glasses touch, then our knees, before we both take a sip. I swallow, wait a beat, then really go out on a limb. “So,” I say. “This is my final date.”

He looks at me, appearing both amused and confused, and says, “Are you saying you won’t go out with me again?”

“Pretty much. No offense—I decided this before I even got here.”

“And why’d you decide that?” Pete asks.

I clear my throat, then say, “Well. As you know from my Match profile, I’m thirty-seven. Almost thirty-eight. So I think it’s time to throw in the towel on the whole dating and trying to find a husband routine. On top of that,” I say, now on a roll, “my ex-boyfriend’s six-year-old daughter is in my class. A painful daily reminder that I am way behind and seriously running out of time. So unless you end up being ‘The One’ and then the father of my children, this is my final date before I go secure the sperm of a stranger. Or, alternatively, move to Africa and devote my life to the poor.” I smile. “No pressure or anything.”

TWO AND A half hours later, our date is over and we are both standing by the valet, waiting for our cars. Although the evening was more fun than I expected—a solid seven—neither of us mentions Barnes & Noble.

“So?” Pete says. “Was this your last date, after all?”

I smile, then say, “Yeah. I think so.”

“So I shouldn’t call you?”

“Did you want to call me?”

“Only if you want me to?”

I carefully consider his question, then tell the truth. “I don’t know…Maybe…”

He laughs. “Can you give me a little more guidance?”

“Well,” I say. “I enjoyed the evening, and I like you, but I don’t think we have that…spark….”

Pete nods and says, “So…does this mean you’re headed to Africa?”

“Or a sperm bank,” I say, as I catch the valet giving me a double take before getting out of my car, the engine running.

“Well, good luck with that,” Pete says.

“Thanks,” I say, handing the valet four singles, then getting in my car. I can feel Pete looking at me, so I open my window and say, “By the way, the cleft in your chin is cute.”

Pete smiles. “Is it enough to get me a second date, even without a spark?”

“You can try,” I say, hedging my bets, though I’m really not going to hold my breath. I wave goodbye, then drive back down Peachtree, not even waiting to get home before giving Gabe the update.

He answers on the first ring. “How did it go?”

“The seed of solo motherhood has officially been planted,” I say. “Pun intended.”