and his posture relaxes. “That probably means you’ll have to spend a lot more time with Rob. Are you sure this isn’t some kind of punishment?”
I relax, too. “That hadn’t occurred to me. I’d better keep current with The Bachelor. Watching it may become a job requirement.”
He winces. “And when that ends American Idol starts, and that show is on practically every night. Your life is over.”
Nate is right. Rob moves on to American Idol in the winter, justifying that obsession by claiming it’s the only show he feels comfortable letting his kids watch with him. Of course, his justification for The Bachelor is the entertainment value provided by dozens of desperate single women. Let’s face it, who doesn’t want to witness other people’s desperation?
As the day wears on, my Inbox fills with congratulatory emails from my coworkers. Because everyone copies the entire department on their congratulatory emails using the department alias from the original email, everyone I work with, and many I don’t, receive these emails. Once everyone jumps on that bandwagon, doing so because they don’t want to be the only person not to send me a congratulatory email, it quickly becomes an annoyance. Eventually it degrades into requests from the suffering email-choked masses to stop copying the entire department when congratulating me. Bottom line, my first accomplishment as project lead is to indirectly irritate half the company.
“It’s all arranged. I got us a reservation at Café Blue.”
I groan.
“This is going to be so much fun,” Laura exclaims.
“Uh-huh,” I say, turning the corner, nearly home. Laura’s excitement is amusing. She’s attempted to fix me up many times with various single men she’s met through work or through Jonathan, but for some reason it never comes to pass. Either the guy in question turns out to be gay, or he takes my number but never uses it, or he declines the offer entirely. She sounds absolutely giddy at her very first success. Knowing her, she’s already imagining our new chummy foursome attending the theater together, hanging out at each other’s homes on weekends, planning Caribbean vacations.
“We’ll all meet here at seven-thirty for drinks, and then we can head to the restaurant.”
“Sounds good,” I answer. I’m now in my driveway. “I’ve got to run.”
“What are you going to wear?” she asks.
“I don’t know, a skirt I guess or maybe pants if it’s cold.”
“A skirt would be nice.”
“I can dress myself Laura.”
“I know.”
I end the call feeling a little guilty that I’m not exhibiting more enthusiasm for her. But, hey, I’m going. What more does she want?
The familiar feeling of nerves begins as I head out the door. I haven’t heard from Ryan, and I decide not to dwell on him. I suppose it’s possible that tonight could turn out well and that I’ll actually like David Rose. In fact, unless there’s something obviously awful about him, I’m determined to give him a real chance. I’ll even practice the three date rule, assuming that he wants to date me. The three date rule says that you should go on at least three dates before making any judgments about someone.
Due to an unexpected backup at an intersection on the way, I arrive about five minutes late to find an unfamiliar blue BMW parked in the only guest spot in front of Laura and Jonathan’s place. Since there are no other spaces available, I take a spot on the street just over a block away, and I arrive a bit flustered and breathless from my rushed walk to their building. I really hate to be late.
Laura welcomes me warmly in her hostess voice. Her hostess voice is a few beats slower and about an octave higher than her normal voice. Mom has a hostess voice, too. I wonder if I have one. I suppose I would actually have to host something to find out.
Laura leads me through the small apartment into the living room where Jonathan is sitting with the person I assume is my date. They both stand as we enter. To my amusement, they’re each wearing flat front khakis with belts, loafers, and golf shirts. Jonathan’s is green and David’s is red. There are definitely no metro-sexuals in this room.
I decide that David Rose does, in fact, resemble Matthew Broderick. His straight brown hair is combed slightly forward and to the side, making me suspect that some camouflage is being attempted. His chin is on the soft side, sliding almost seamlessly in his neck. His dark eyes widen, and he offers