discussion veers into his favorite flavors. And for a moment, I really think I might have found my dream man. I mean, hello, breakfast in bed eating red velvet cupcakes topped with homemade cream cheese frosting? Yes, please!
But my elation fades in the blink of an eye when a waiter stops by our table, setting down a little treat, roasted butternut squash puree "compliments of the chef." Oh, the soup, the soup looks great. It’s what's on top of the soup that has me balling my fists under the table.
A pesto-drizzle winky face.
A freaking winky face—a smiley face that's winking. And there's only one person who could have put it there.
I spin in my chair, looking back toward the kitchen entrance, but Ollie isn’t there. Coward! Hiding in the kitchen to escape my wrath—
"Everything okay?" Glenn asks.
"Oh, sure," I mutter and turn back around, quickly downing the little shot glass of soup to erase the evidence. "That was so nice of them, to do that."
"Yeah, the guys back there are great. Speaking of, how do you know Oliver?"
I swallow my anger, trying to bring the charming, first date personality back around. "His sister is my best friend, we all grew up together. I mean, he's practically my brother." Except…not at all. But Glenn doesn’t need to know that. I quickly change the topic. "So, how do you like living in New York? I've only been here for about four months, but I love it."
And just like that, the date is back on course.
Turns out Glenn has been in New York for a long time, twelve years. He came here for culinary school when he was eighteen and decided to stay after he got a job at one of his favorite restaur—wait! Twelve years ago he was eighteen… He was eighteen twelve years ago… I quickly do the math—I may be a writer but that doesn't mean I can't add. Still though, I'm doubting my skills as the truth hits.
He's thirty?
He's thirty!
I try not to spew food across the table as internal sirens blare, instead nodding absently to give the appearance that I'm paying attention. But really the word thirty is jumping around my head, knocking everything else out of whack. And then my brain does that thing where the entire world seems to warp around my thoughts, and the longer I look at Glenn, the more distinct the numbers three and zero imprint on his forehead. And no matter how hard I try to listen, all I hear from his lips is, I'm thirty. I'm thirty. I'm thirty . And all the wrinkles I didn’t see become more pronounced. Is that a gray hair?
Thirty. That's an eight-year difference. When he was eighteen, I was ten! Oh, great, I just cringed because of how disgusting that is, but come on, I was playing with Barbie dolls when he was in college doing college age things.
And now he's speaking but I don’t hear anything. Wonderful.
Focus, Skye.
Focus.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I blurt way too cheerfully. Calm down, just calm down. Thirty isn’t that old anyway. He's more worldly. More sophisticated. I wonder how many women he's slept with…Oh god, if he ever hears that I'm a virgin, he'll think I'm an infant! A child! And suddenly it's not that thirty seems old, but that twenty-two seems way too young.
Oh thank god, the waiter is coming over. I sigh, saved for a few minutes.
"Are you ready to order?"
We decide to split a porterhouse steak and a few vegetable sides. I'm not even paying attention to the food—my thoughts are racing ahead for something mature to say. And then the waiter catches my eye before leaving, throwing a little side grin my way and I know, I just know, he's a little traitor passing information off to Ollie in the kitchen. I wonder what he's going to report? That I look pale and crazed? Probably accurate…
I take a sip of my water, tossing a nervous smile in Glenn's direction.
"Tell me about your family," he says.
Good, that's easy enough. Well, not really because my family is completely complicated, but it didn’t used to be. We were a perfectly happy suburban
But my elation fades in the blink of an eye when a waiter stops by our table, setting down a little treat, roasted butternut squash puree "compliments of the chef." Oh, the soup, the soup looks great. It’s what's on top of the soup that has me balling my fists under the table.
A pesto-drizzle winky face.
A freaking winky face—a smiley face that's winking. And there's only one person who could have put it there.
I spin in my chair, looking back toward the kitchen entrance, but Ollie isn’t there. Coward! Hiding in the kitchen to escape my wrath—
"Everything okay?" Glenn asks.
"Oh, sure," I mutter and turn back around, quickly downing the little shot glass of soup to erase the evidence. "That was so nice of them, to do that."
"Yeah, the guys back there are great. Speaking of, how do you know Oliver?"
I swallow my anger, trying to bring the charming, first date personality back around. "His sister is my best friend, we all grew up together. I mean, he's practically my brother." Except…not at all. But Glenn doesn’t need to know that. I quickly change the topic. "So, how do you like living in New York? I've only been here for about four months, but I love it."
And just like that, the date is back on course.
Turns out Glenn has been in New York for a long time, twelve years. He came here for culinary school when he was eighteen and decided to stay after he got a job at one of his favorite restaur—wait! Twelve years ago he was eighteen… He was eighteen twelve years ago… I quickly do the math—I may be a writer but that doesn't mean I can't add. Still though, I'm doubting my skills as the truth hits.
He's thirty?
He's thirty!
I try not to spew food across the table as internal sirens blare, instead nodding absently to give the appearance that I'm paying attention. But really the word thirty is jumping around my head, knocking everything else out of whack. And then my brain does that thing where the entire world seems to warp around my thoughts, and the longer I look at Glenn, the more distinct the numbers three and zero imprint on his forehead. And no matter how hard I try to listen, all I hear from his lips is, I'm thirty. I'm thirty. I'm thirty . And all the wrinkles I didn’t see become more pronounced. Is that a gray hair?
Thirty. That's an eight-year difference. When he was eighteen, I was ten! Oh, great, I just cringed because of how disgusting that is, but come on, I was playing with Barbie dolls when he was in college doing college age things.
And now he's speaking but I don’t hear anything. Wonderful.
Focus, Skye.
Focus.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I blurt way too cheerfully. Calm down, just calm down. Thirty isn’t that old anyway. He's more worldly. More sophisticated. I wonder how many women he's slept with…Oh god, if he ever hears that I'm a virgin, he'll think I'm an infant! A child! And suddenly it's not that thirty seems old, but that twenty-two seems way too young.
Oh thank god, the waiter is coming over. I sigh, saved for a few minutes.
"Are you ready to order?"
We decide to split a porterhouse steak and a few vegetable sides. I'm not even paying attention to the food—my thoughts are racing ahead for something mature to say. And then the waiter catches my eye before leaving, throwing a little side grin my way and I know, I just know, he's a little traitor passing information off to Ollie in the kitchen. I wonder what he's going to report? That I look pale and crazed? Probably accurate…
I take a sip of my water, tossing a nervous smile in Glenn's direction.
"Tell me about your family," he says.
Good, that's easy enough. Well, not really because my family is completely complicated, but it didn’t used to be. We were a perfectly happy suburban
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