Total pages in book: 61
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59320 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 297(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 198(@300wpm)
“I’m not certain yet. And I have another pickle,” he confessed, worrying his bottom lip.
“Which is?”
“I’m almost thirty, and I’ve never been on a date before. At all. Ever. What do I do?”
His panic unnerved me. “I don’t know. Go to dinner. I think. I haven’t been on a date in a while.”
“You have a boyfriend. You must know something. What do you do together?”
“We…hang out.”
I could practically see Newton’s mega-sized brain doing a quick calculation. And…coming up with the correct answer.
“You engage in sexual activity,” he deadpanned.
“We do other things too. We made dinner together this weekend, played video games, and watched a movie.”
Newton frowned. “Those activities are unsuitable for a first date.”
“Movies are good.”
“No, I read that unless you’re a teenager, it’s prudent to stay away from the theater or any place that discourages robust conversation. We’re still getting to know one another.”
“True. Take her to a restaurant…with a nice ambience,” I added as if that were somehow helpful.
“Hmm. This is going to take some research. I’ll need to ascertain food allergies, Michelin ratings, cost, and decibel levels,” he recited. “Wish me luck.”
I squeezed his shoulder amicably. “Good luck, Newton. You’ll do just fine.”
“Thank you. I have one last question about comportment.” He pulled his cell from his pocket and scrolled until he found the site he was looking for. “According to this article, women have the following expectations of their date. Punctuality, appearance, conversation, a cordial inclination, and…smell.”
“Smell?”
“Perhaps a fine cologne. That’s not my question. My question is…is it permissible to kiss on a first date?”
I bit the inside of my cheek to keep my smile in check. “That depends on how the date goes. You can’t expect a kiss. You can’t expect anything, really. You just have to put out your best effort and hope it goes well. If you connect, then maybe…yes.”
“The connection ascertained the date, though. Doesn’t that count?”
“No. You never have the right to expect someone to do what you want or be who you want them to be. You can only hope it works out,” I replied, frowning when I realized I was describing my own situation.
“That’s…ambiguous. Perhaps Aiden will have more insight. Will you ask him?” he asked expectantly.
“Fine. But this is it, Newton. Leave me out of your romance after this,” I huffed, texting a quick message to Aiden. “I’ll let you know what he says, but don’t worry. You’ll do great.”
Later that afternoon, I passed along Aiden’s text message.
Dress nice, but not too nice. No tux required.
No sexpectation allowed.
Keep your phone in your pocket.
Do not change your social media status after one date.
Be yourself and have fun.
I smiled at the advice. It was all good and at least the last two items applied to Aiden and me. The difference was that we were never going to change our relationship status. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
When you were in a temporary, secret relationship, you were on your own. The “rules” Aiden and I played by were painted with a broad brush. We were honest, but we didn’t make demands of each other. There were no time constraints, no obligations. It was great.
But I wanted more.
10
Aiden
Side note. Fake smiling hurts. Even when it’s “happy” fake smiling.
I surreptitiously tapped my pen on my knee under the mahogany desk in the conference room, nodding as the assistant athletic director highlighted a few details of the university’s baseball program. This was my second interview with Cal State Fullerton, and it was the job I wanted most. They were a renowned baseball powerhouse. A record number of athletes got their ticket to the big league from here. To be part of an elite and nationally recognized organization would be a dream come true. Thank you, Simon.
Actually, Simon didn’t get me this interview. He didn’t know anything about it. I didn’t tell him…or anyone. Even George.
What can I say? I was extremely superstitious, and I’d been disappointed too many times in life. Everyone knew about the times I’d failed. I was good at putting a smile on my face and feigning nonchalance. So I didn’t get accepted to the school I wanted—no problem. So the scouts stopped showing when I missed the transfer deadline the year my mom unexpectedly passed away—no problem. I’d blown more opportunities in my life than I cared to admit, and I didn’t want to blow this one. Not this time.
Simon’s call to his contact at USC had led to a series of referrals and interviews. I’d been on six so far; some seemed promising, but I hadn’t heard anything definitive yet. So I fixed a friendly, competent “I got this” smile on my mug and did my best to wow the director with my baseball acumen, hoping to land a third interview with the coach and the head of the analytics team.