I know it wasn’t very nice of me to laugh at my best friend over her latest sexcapade, but honestly, it’s hilarious.
Poor Becky. She can’t catch a break.
I run a hand through my hair, fingering my long curls before setting them with a spritz of hairspray, fluffing out the bottom to add a tad more volume before the hairspray sets.
My thoughts wander to our impending trip to Vegas as my hair settles into itself, and I tilt my head to each side, checking for strays.
Vegas.
Sin City.
Hookerville. Miles of strippers. Glitter Gulch.
“What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas,” Vegas.
With Becky.
I’m not going to lie; I’m a tad bit nervous that the trip is going to be a train wreck, although we have plenty of time to prep and plan it. Fortunately, if there’s one thing I know about my best friend, when Becky can anticipate what’s going to happen, Becky is a happy camper.
Besides, what could possibly go wrong?
Famous. Last. Words.
Glitter Gulch. Just the name makes me smother a laugh as I fill in my lips with sheer pink lipstick, puckering at myself in the mirror, and grab an extra tube for my purse, just in case.
I grab an apple, protein bar, and my lunch when I breeze through the kitchen, and make it to work just in time for my mid-morning meeting. I breathe a sigh of relief when I’m finally able to settle into my office just after eleven o’clock.
My phone buzzes on my desk, the vibrations causing it to hop along the hard wood.
Hard wood.
Vibrator.
Crap, my desk gets more action than I do these days.
Becky: I was just Googling Vegas…
Me: Stop right there! Horrible idea! It’s way too early for that. Put the computer away.
Becky: Whatever. When you have five kids, by eleven in the morning you’ve already been up for six hours.
I pop a carrot in my mouth and chew as I tap out Fine, hot shot, you Googled Vegas. What did you find?
Becky: Some of the hotels are really, really pretty. And you can get some good deals!
Me: Just say it. I know you already found one. So spill.
Becky: You’re gonna think it’s lame because it’s apparently well known.
Me: Probably. Tell me anyway.
Becky: Fine. The Grande Rivaldi
Me: You’re right. Total cheese fest. They do weddings there, for goodness’ sake.
Becky: They ALL do weddings in Vegas.
Me: True, true. Hold on, I’m looking.
As soon as I press send, the calendar of events for the weekend we’re going pops up on my screen. Is that what I think it is? Well that’s interesting.
Me: Sold! I’ll let you be in charge of booking it. Let me know how much I owe you.
This is going to take some coordination and sneaking around on my part. And Becky’s going to flip her lid, but that’s never stopped me before. Besides, everything I do for her comes from my heart.
I pause typing when there’s a knock at my door. Bonnie pops her head in.
“Hey, Bonnie, what’s up?”
Bonnie’s eagle eyes do a quick scan of my office, sizing up my knick-knacks, framed photos, and the half-dead fern in the corner of the room before clearing her throat.
“You wanted me to remind you about your lunch meeting. So I’m reminding you about your lunch meeting.” The old bag actually chuckles at me.
Oh yeah, that’s right! My lunch “meeting.”
“Thanks, Bonnie! I actually forgot all about it. I set my phone and my calendar but thought I might need the extra reminder. I’ve been so scatterbrained lately.”
“You have?” She makes a rude hmph sound that’s just shy of a snort.
“Yup.”
She taps the doorframe with her reading glasses and continues to study me. “Well, you better get moving if you’re going to make it by noon. Freeway’s bound to be bumper-to-bumper.”
Have I ever mentioned how nosy and bossy Bonnie is?
I grab my phone, power down my laptop, and arrive twenty minutes later at my destination with a few minutes to spare. I take this time to give myself a quick primp in the mirror behind my sun visor, freshen up my gloss, and blot the grease off my complexion.
Perfect.
I pull the heavy door handle of the famous but fashionable food chain, and nervously smooth down the wrinkles from my slacks as my heels click across the hard marble floor of the restaurant.
I give the hostess my name; she points me to a man nearby, seated at the bar with his back to me. He has broad shoulders, dark blonde hair that could probably use a trim, and hands that are tapping nervously on the bar top in front of him.
My date.
Jason.
Jason: equestrian nurse, avid horse racing enthusiast, and shy but witty man scorned by love. Since he’s divorced and a workaholic, this lunch date was the easiest way to coordinate our schedules after a week of exchanging funny and easy banter that made me really want to meet him in person.
His singular online physical description mentioned nothing about spectacularly good looks, but based on our conversations, I’m willing to take a gamble that he is exactly as he described himself. You know, tall, sandy-brown hair, infection smile.
“Jason?” At the sound of my voice, another man turns to face me and…
Yeah. His profile mentioned nothing about being short and balding.
Loud sigh from me. Yes, I actually sigh loudly. Out loud. To his face, which makes me feel like a horrible human being.
Dammit, Jason!
Immediately, I get irritated, but manage to squeak out a smile. Barely. I flick my gaze to my wristwatch and start the clock ticking.
“Nina?” He smiles, and his large teeth look wooden, like something that would have filled George Washington’s mouth, and I draw an uncharitable comparison of him to Mr. Ed, the famous talking horse.
I forgive myself for being such a bitch, because I don’t say any of this out loud, but what the hell? Who is his freaking dentist? Whoever it is, the man should be shot. And yes, I’m assuming it’s a man, because no female doctor in their right mind would let the guy walk out the door looking like this.
“Wow. You’re a knock-out!” Jason tries to draw me in for a hug, but I sidestep him and take charge. Time’s ticking, Mr. Ed.
“Uh huh. Thanks.” I flip my hair over my shoulders and motion for him to follow me back to the hostess station, where I exchange our buzzer for menus.
We’re seated at a small private table.
Lovely.
“Thanks for meeting me here today. I must say, your description online didn’t do you justice.” He takes a sip of the water that’s already been placed at our table. “Did you recognize me right away? Do I look how I described myself?”
Are you fucking serious? I want to ask. No. You don’t look anything like your shitty description describes you, jackass, and you damn well know it.
But I don’t say that. I don’t say anything close to that. “Honestly, you look a tad different than I pictured, but I would have known it was you.”
This seems to perk him up. “You know, Nina,” Jason starts. “My mother designed this place. She’s a restaurant designer.”
I look up at the ceiling, surveying my gilded, delicious surroundings, then back at Jason, trying to ascertain if he’s telling the truth or if he’s full of shit. I take in the hand-painted columns, rococo ceilings, and stenciled molding. Large potted plants pepper the room, adding height and character. The lighting is dim, lending an air of intimacy that would normally be welcomed—if my date didn’t have wooden George Washington Mr. Ed teeth.
“It’s really beautiful. You must be proud.”
“I am. Real proud of my mom, although she really liked my ex-wife a lot, so I don’t get a lot of emotional support from her. My mom bought us all our bedroom furniture. But at least I got to keep the bed in the divorce. It’s huge.”
Jason gazes up at the rococo ceiling for a few pensive, reflective moments before taking one pink sugar packet, lining it up between his thumb and forefinger, and shooting it at me. It hits me in the neck, bouncing off and landing on the table.
“Oops, I didn’t mean to hit you. You were supposed to put your fingers out like this.” Jason takes his giant, meaty sausage fingers and makes a makeshift goal post. “Here, do it again.”
I absolutely refuse to put my fingers into the shape of goal posts, so a second pink sugar packet flies towards me, this time sailing past my shoulder and landing with a soft pfft behind me on the floor.
“You’re not seriously going to—”
I’m caught off guard as a third packet whizzes through the air, nailing me in the chest. I raise my unamused brows and stare at my ridiculous date.
Dammit, Jason, why are you so clueless?
He grins that stupid, cartoony grin. “Did I mention that my mother designed this place?”
“Yes, you did,” I grind out, plucking the packet off my silk blouse and throwing it on the table. “It’s beautiful.”
“You don’t want to play finger football?”
I almost laugh out loud, but, not wanting to encourage him, stop myself. “No, I’ll take a pass.”
“Hmm.” He taps his fingers on the table, at a loss for words. “So… Nina. Do you like horses?”
Thank god I used an alias online. I could do without this gem of a man knowing my real name. I could do without the small talk; I don’t care about his mom, his job, or his hobbies.
“Do I like horses? Well, I don’t not like horses.”
“So, Nina,” he says again. “Any interest in the Kentucky Derby?”
What did he just ask me? Something about… “The Kentucky Derby?”
“Yeah. Do you want to go? My friend has a plane and we’re flying down there…” He fiddles with the salt and pepper, avoiding my shocked expression, his thick combover falling into his eyes.
“You just asked me to a horse race. In Kentucky. On our first date.”
On our first date, which has lasted a grand total of—I check my watch—fifteen minutes thus far.
Luckily, I’m saved from having to turn his Derby invitation down gently when the waitress finally comes to take our order. Honestly, I cannot bear to order food right now. I just can’t. So I don’t; I order more water.
“You’re not hungry?” Jason asks, concerned. “You know, my mom—”
“Designed this place? Yes, I know.” I bite my lip and suppress a frustrated groan. “To be honest with you, I really can’t stay long enough to eat an entire meal. I’m so sorry, Jason. I have to get back to work.”
Lies. All lies.
“Oh.” My date’s shoulders sag and he looks dejected, like a little, dejected George Washington Mr. Ed horsey face.
The rest happens in a blur; he eats two orders of pot stickers, I gulp down my water (wishing it were Vodka), Jason pays the bill, we stand, and he walks me to my car.
“So…” he begins, almost shyly. “What did you think?”
“The restaurant is really, really beautiful. I’m sorry I have to dash so soon.”
Jason wrinkles his brow and clamps his teeth down over his lower lip.
No, Jason. Just… no.
“I meant what did you think of me? Of us? Did you feel the chemistry?”
No, but I felt the sugar packets.
I rest my hand on the sleeve of his shirt and pat his arm gently. “Can I be honest? I really wanted to feel chemistry, but… I didn’t. I’m sorry. I wanted to, but I just didn’t.”
“Are you putting me in the friend zone?”
“Um, sure.”
“Is this because of my mom? You know, she really liked my ex-wife a lot. They’re still really good friends, but don’t let that stop you from dating me. She would warm up to you eventually.”
“No, no, that’s not it. I just don’t think we’re a good fit—it has nothing to do with you or any of those things.”
Jason pauses by a navy SUV. “Not even a second date, huh?”
I sigh and do my best to let him down gently.
“I’m sorry, but we’re probably better off as friends.”
Me: Remind me again why I’m not a heavy drinker.
Becky: Because your grandma died from liver cancer and you have an addictive personality?
Me: Well, yeah. But that’s not my point.
Becky: Aren’t you supposed to be on a lunch date?
Me: If you can call it that. A grown man just spent 45 minutes shooting sugar packets at me from across the table. My brother used to do crap like that when we were nine.
Becky: Sugar packets?
Me: Yes. Sugar packets—you know, Sweet’N Low? He wanted me to brace my fingers like football goal posts. I wanted to smack him.
Becky: Maybe you’re being too hard on him. That was probably just his way of flirting with you. You can be very intimidating.
Me: ME?!? Intimidating?!?
Becky: Yes, you. You bust into most places, take charge, and bowl people over with your personality.
Me: Why doesn’t that sound like a compliment?
Becky: I’m just saying maybe he was NERVOUS.
Me: Fine. Okay. You’re probably right.
Becky: I’m sorry, what was that?
Me: I said, you’re probably—DAMMIT. Did you just get me to admit that you’re right?
Becky: I took a screen shot of that and am saving it to my gallery.
Me: I hate when you do crap like that…
Me: And don’t get me started on his poor teeth.
Becky: His TEETH? Oh lord, here we go… Do I even want to know?
Me: I have NEVER in my life seen anyone with teeth like this. Never. You know how George Washington had wooden teeth?
Becky: YOUR DATE HAD WOODEN TEETH????
Me: Well, no, but they LOOKED like wooden dentures, I shit you not.
Becky: You are such a weirdo.
Me: Whatever. I felt terrible for him. It was awful.
Becky: All of your dates have been awful! When are you going to give a guy a chance?
Me: Um, when he’s not awful?
Becky: You know what I mean.
Me: Stop Mom-ing me. I hate when you do that.
Becky: Okay, tell me this: Who was worse—this guy, or Killer?
Me: That… is one of the hardest questions I’ve ever been asked in my entire life. And that’s saying a lot, because I was once propositioned by a hobo hooker.
Becky: Are you going to ANSWER THE QUESTION? I’m trying to get dinner started.
Me: Dinner started? It’s only 1:30!
Becky: I have five kids and an adult child. Of course I’m starting dinner at 1:30.
Me: This guy. This guy was worse than Killer…
Date No. 3: Jason
Overall impression: Presidential, and not in a good way
Cons: Presidential, and not in a good way.
Verdict: Neigh, just… neigh.