See Jane Date (6 page)

I laughed. Eloise was forgetting that stuff like that only happened to
her.
Serge had confessed his love on their fifth date. (She still hadn't said it back, by the way.) “I'm not gonna get my hopes up too high about Kevin. He's just a
possibility.
”

Eloise raised her eyebrow.

“Okay, so my hopes are up,” I admitted. “You'll dress me, right, Eloise?” She nodded. “Just think—this afternoon I had
no
boyfriend, then a
fake
one and now a blind date possibility who could become a
real
boyfriend. If he even calls.”

That
was pathetic, actually. Hoping that some guy you'd never even met would call you, then like you enough to want to go out with you again, all so you could dance with him in a hotel ballroom at a wedding that had been promised to
you
a long time ago.

But if you stopped hoping, stopped believing, stop playing the stupid game for even one second, you were doomed. You couldn't give up, ever. Because if you did, you'd be alone for the rest of your life, like my great-aunt Gertie. And all your hard work would be left in the form of an inheritance that would go to your undeserving relatives.

My eyes flickered over the date on my watch, and my heart stopped for a second. “Hey, El, do you know what today is? I almost forgot till just now. It's my parents' wedding anniversary.”

Eloise gave my hand an empathetic squeeze. The train lurched into the 77th Street station so violently that we both had to grab on to the edge of our seats. We stood up and waited for the doors to open. “Let's stop for frozen yogurt,” Eloise suggested. “Tasti D-Lite has fat-free hot fudge now.”

We emerged out of the subway and ducked into the Tasti D-Lite on Lexington Avenue. I got chocolate marshmallow. Eloise got a twist of vanilla fudge and fake Snickers. We both got a dollop of fat-free hot fudge.

Content to lick our cones and people-watch, we strolled east to First Avenue, then north to 79th Street so that Eloise could buy the new
In Style
magazine at the kiosk on the corner. Catherine Zeta-Jones was on the cover.

Eloise smiled at the cute Indian guy behind the kiosk's counter. “Will you be a sweetie and drop the change and the magazine in my tote bag?” She held up her cone.

“Of course, anything for you,” he told her, his dark eyes sparkling. He leaned over the counter and slid the thick magazine and some bills into her bag.

“You're a doll.” She blew him a kiss as we headed away.

I usually loved watching Eloise in action. But right then, my heart felt like a big painful blob.

“Hey, Jane, let's make pit stop at St. Monica's Sunday morning to light candles for our moms and your dad,” Eloise said as we walked past the huge church.

I nodded gratefully and licked a dripping stream of hot fudge off the sugar cone. We lit candles once a month, even though neither of us was Catholic. The whole idea had been Eloise's. She said you didn't have to
be
the thing to
do
the thing. You just had to want either.

Didn't I know it.

 

On Saturday morning, Eloise and I had gone shoe shopping at the store Dana had told me about. I walked out with a pair of $125 peach fabric shoes I'd never wear again and wouldn't be able to return. Eloise had then gone to meet Serge for lunch after his ESL class. He was studying to become an American citizen. Serge's friends at the hair salon had told him that American women worried that foreign men were only interested in green cards. So even though Eloise had told him she wanted to keep their relationship casual, he'd headed straight for the Immigration office and filed the necessary papers to get his green card the hard way.

And
I
was headed for my blind date with Kevin Adams! He'd surprised me with a ten-in-the-morning phone call, which, according to Eloise, was a good sign. It meant he was eager to meet someone, in the market for a relationship. Kevin had told me he was playing squash till eleven thirty, then had brunch plans, but he'd love to meet me for a cup of coffee—if I wanted to be spontaneous.

I did. And I happened to be free since my own fictitious brunch plans had suddenly fallen through. According to every person in the world, you never accepted a date for
that
day. You never accepted a date less than two days away, preferably three. Doing so was tantamount to telling the guy you had absolutely no life. Usually I listened to that crap. But I was on a major deadline. Dana's wedding was barely two months away. Anyway, we were just meeting for coffee.

At two on the dot, I neared DT UT (stood for Downtown Uptown), a trendy coffee lounge on Second Avenue at 84th Street. Kevin and I had arranged to meet on the side of the pastry counter, under the hanging roll of brown
paper that listed the smoothies and shakes. I was to look for the guy in the navy blue sweater and jeans. Amanda via Jeff had provided the vital stats: tall, lanky, dark brown hair, brown or green or blue eyes—Jeff hadn't been sure.

I took a long drag of my cigarette as I approached the door to the lounge, then crushed it out. Had Jeff told Kevin I was a smoker? If he cared, he probably wouldn't have agreed to meet me. Maybe he smoked, too. I envisioned us puffing away in the ballroom of the Plaza, blowing smoke rings as we sipped champagne.

And then I remembered that guys who played squash didn't smoke. Should I step into the deli next door for breath mints? Hmm. It was already five minutes after two, and if I had to wait for the mint to dissolve in my mouth, I'd be late. It wasn't like I could meet my fake-to-be boyfriend while sucking on a mint. I cupped my hand, blew into it and sniffed. Seemed okay.

I pulled open the door and was immediately greeted by a Pat Benatar song that I hadn't heard since grammar school. Lisa and Lora Miner and I had listened to that album over and over and over. Pat Benatar knew from heartache, as Aunt Ina would say.

A short line was snaked around the pastry counter, but no tall, lanky guy alone, and no guy in jeans and a dark blue sweater. I glanced around at the overstuffed chairs to the side of the counter. A good-looking, dark-haired guy with what looked like hazel eyes sat reading
The New York Times
; he wore jeans and a white T-shirt. A giant-sized mug of coffee was in front of him, next to a scone of some sort. A gym bag was by his feet. An empty chair was next to him.

Well, that couldn't be him. Kevin Adams wouldn't be sitting down, or have ordered already. Plus, he said he'd
be wearing a navy sweater. Two young women chatted away in the other two chairs, across from T-Shirt Man. Lining the lounge on the other side of the pastry bar were some hard-backed chairs. A few people were in those, but no one matched Kevin Adams's description.

I was dying for a cup of coffee. Should I order one and sip it while I waited? No. That would be weird. And probably rude. Plus, there was nowhere to rest the cup without getting in people's way as they moved along the counter to order and pay.

I glanced down at my watch. It was two-ten. So Kevin was ten minutes late. Big deal. Ten minutes late was actually on time in New York City. I should have been fifteen minutes late, so I'd be an extra-fashionable five minutes late.

I didn't know what to do with my hands; I was pocketless. Eloise had dressed me in a pale silver-gray camisole topped by a mesh black cardigan with only the top button buttoned, black stretch capris and low-heeled black leather mules. I'd told Kevin I'd be wearing black. No other women in head-to-toe black waited by the pastry counter, so there was no way he
couldn't
recognize me.

Two-fifteen. The door opened and a bunch of people entered. A couple with a baby in a stroller. Three teenage girls. A guy carrying a laptop. I started feeling self-conscious, so I pretended to study the blackboard menu hanging on the wall behind the counter.

I eyed T-Shirt Man in the overstuffed chair. He glanced up at me for a split second, then returned his attention to his newspaper. Geez. I didn't even merit a checkout. I hated that. A checkout or lack thereof was how you knew if you looked good in what you were wearing or if it was a bad hair day. Great.
Yesterday
had been a fine hair day.

Two-twenty. I pretended to study the menu again. My
palms were beginning to sweat, but I couldn't wipe them on my pants. I was starting to feel more and more self-conscious. Did people think I'd been stood up?
Had
I been stood up?

Two-twenty-three. Suddenly, T-Shirt Man was staring at me. He gestured at me to come over. I sent him a questioning look, and again he waved me over. So maybe it was a good hair day after all. Given that Kevin Adams was a very rude twenty minutes late, I saw no reason to pass up meeting a cute guy. With my luck, T-Shirt Man probably just wanted me to get him a napkin or a plastic spoon. I ventured over with a tentative smile.

“Hi,” he said to me. “Are you Jane Gregg, by any chance?”

Huh? How did he know my name?

And then I saw the navy-blue sweater folded over the arm on the far side of his chair.

“I'm Kevin Adams.” He extended his hand.

I felt my ears start to burn. “Why didn't you come over when I walked in? I've been standing right over there for the past twenty minutes. Didn't you think it was me?”

“Yeah, I knew right away, but my legs are
killing
me from playing squash.” He smiled and revealed a gummy mouth. “My friend wiped the court with me. And I was so into this article about the Federal Reserve, I figured I'd finish it, then get up and let you know I was here. But every time I moved a muscle—” he exaggerated a grimace “—I was, like, whoa, dude, sit back down.”

It was rare to want to pick up a pot of boiling water and pour it slowly over a person's head, but that was what I wanted to do to Kevin Adams at the moment. And because we were in a coffee lounge, there were two pots simmering on the burners, just waiting for me to lose it.

A total stranger had managed to humiliate me before our “date” had even begun. A gummy stranger, at that.

“So have a seat,” Kevin said, gesturing to the chair next to him. There was a dusting of powdered sugar square in the center of the cushion.

You don't have to marry him,
I reminded myself.
You just have to develop a casual relationship so that you can invite him to Dana's wedding.

If you don't tell him off and stomp out, you deserve him,
I warned myself.
He's clearly an A-level rude jerk.
But he fit the bill to a T. He lived in a
brownstone.

Couldn't you cut me a break? I asked my brain. You were there. You went to high school with Gnatasha Nutley. She made your life miserable. She made you feel like the ugliest, dullest girl in town. She stole Robby Evers away from you before you even had a chance to feel his arms around you. You're just going to have to swallow your pride now in the name of saving it later.

“You have really beautiful eyes,” Kevin Adams said.

Score one for Kevin Adams. He'd slightly redeemed himself. Maybe I'd judged him too hastily?

Yeah, and maybe one stupid compliment from a total jerk was all it took to make everything okay. I might have been desperate, but I wasn't stupid.

I dusted off the powdered sugar, sat down and smiled at my potential wedding date.

 

At three o'clock, Kevin Adams gingerly stood up. He made low, grunting sounds and contorted his features like the guys who lifted weights at the health club I'd stopped going to. I wasn't sure if he was really in pain or just a total wuss.

“So, I had a really nice time,” he said, slipping the blue sweater over his head.

He had a nice body, I noticed, eyeing him as the sweater was over his face. Flat stomach, long legs. And he was really cute. Not Pierce Brosnan, but then who was, besides Jeremy?

So what if Kevin wasn't Mr. Manners? Not every guy had been raised well. Sometimes women had to train their men. The issue wasn't that he'd started the date without me and then invited me to join him when he was damned good and ready. Nor that he'd asked me to get him another soup cup of coffee while I got my own. The issue was that he was good-looking, male and lived on the Upper West Side in a brownstone. He was only gummy when he smiled.

I decided right then and there to accept a second date. If he asked. I'd gotten the impression that he liked me. Our date hadn't been very long, but we'd talked easily. Mostly about how great Amanda and Jeff were.

“So, um, Jane,” he said, grabbing his knapsack. “I'll give you a call.”

Oh. Everyone knew what that meant. An
I'll Call
meant:
I wasn't attracted to you, but you're a nice person, so, take care.
Why couldn't guys just say something like that outright? Why raise false hopes?

Kevin leaned forward awkwardly and air-kissed me.