family—that is until my father decided to cheat on my mother with the live-in babysitter next door when I was fifteen. And then my house became World War Three for a few months. He was kicked out. Then let back in. Then kicked out. Then let back in. I learned to ignore clothes dropping past the kitchen window when I was doing homework, to tune out the raging shouting matches before I went to bed. More often than not, I escaped to Bridget's house, relishing in the normalness of her completely happy parents. But how do you tell that to a relative stranger?
"It's just my mom and me," I say, settling on those less complicated words. "My parents got divorced when I was a teenager, and I don't really spend too much time with my dad." I shrug, ignoring the pitter-patter of my racing heart. "What about you?"
"I have a big family," he says, affection evident in his tone. And it's sweet.
For the next while, we compare holidays and childhoods before we move onto travel and hobbies—all things I assume are pretty standard first date topics. And Glenn is just as sophisticated as I thought he might be. In culinary school, he studied abroad in Italy for a year and I'm enthralled by his stories about Europe—the food, the people, the culture. I've only ever been to England, but I yearn to travel—to see all of the places he's telling me about, to taste every meal and know for myself if it's all as delicious as he says. Somehow, I already know it is. The next hour passes in the blink of an eye. I forget to be nervous because I'm actually having fun.
Until Glenn apologizes, retreating to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the dessert. And left alone again, my eternal freak out begins anew. Is this actually going okay, or do I just think it's going okay? Does he think I'm funny? Does he think I'm cute? I think he's cute. But, what if he doesn't think I am? Is this all in my head? And then, oh god, we ate creamed spinach. Why do I eat so much spinach? Do I have something in my teeth—again?
I dip down for my purse, pulling my phone out of the side pocket, and turn on the camera, discretely checking my teeth out in the image.
Phew.
They're clean.
But then a text message vibrates my phone, popping up on the top of the screen.
Ollie: Stop checking yourself out.
I sit up straight, spinning, but I don't see him anywhere.
Ollie: You'll never find me.
Me: Where are you!?
Ollie: Secrets of the kitchen. My lips are sealed.
Me: Jerk!
Ollie: Did you like the soup? It's a new recipe I'm working on.
Me: Soup? Yes. Garnish? No.
Ollie: Aw, come on. It was funny.
I tell myself I won't respond to his goading and drop my cell in my lap. Radio silence.
Ollie: Skye? You're not really mad, are you?
Screw it. I'm all alone at the table, my water is empty, and I'm bored.
Me: How does my dessert look?
Ollie: Horrible. You should just leave now and cut your losses.
And suddenly, I'm grinning wider than I have all evening, buoyant. I look up, but Ollie is still nowhere to be seen. Where the heck is his lookout spot? I turn back to my phone, retorting.
Me: You're just saying that because you want it.
Ollie: Maybe…
Ollie: But Glenn would stab me with the cake knife before he'd let me eat your dessert.
Me: You'd deserve it for stealing my cheesecake! I've been thinking of that caramel drizzle all night!
Ollie: I took a spoonful when the head chef wasn't looking. So good.
Me: Yum!
Ollie: So…
Ollie: Think you'll go out with Glenn again? How are things going?
I bite my lip, thinking, sort of wondering why he's so curious. Then again, he works with Glenn, so it's not that strange to ask. But he's Ollie. And I'm Skye. And nothing is ever quite as uncomplicated as it seems between us. Or maybe it is, for him.
Me: Yeah, sure. He's a great guy. Really sweet.
Ollie: You don't think he's a little old? Did he tell you he's thirty?
And for the first time I wonder if Ollie maybe wanted the date to fail all along. I challenge
"It's just my mom and me," I say, settling on those less complicated words. "My parents got divorced when I was a teenager, and I don't really spend too much time with my dad." I shrug, ignoring the pitter-patter of my racing heart. "What about you?"
"I have a big family," he says, affection evident in his tone. And it's sweet.
For the next while, we compare holidays and childhoods before we move onto travel and hobbies—all things I assume are pretty standard first date topics. And Glenn is just as sophisticated as I thought he might be. In culinary school, he studied abroad in Italy for a year and I'm enthralled by his stories about Europe—the food, the people, the culture. I've only ever been to England, but I yearn to travel—to see all of the places he's telling me about, to taste every meal and know for myself if it's all as delicious as he says. Somehow, I already know it is. The next hour passes in the blink of an eye. I forget to be nervous because I'm actually having fun.
Until Glenn apologizes, retreating to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the dessert. And left alone again, my eternal freak out begins anew. Is this actually going okay, or do I just think it's going okay? Does he think I'm funny? Does he think I'm cute? I think he's cute. But, what if he doesn't think I am? Is this all in my head? And then, oh god, we ate creamed spinach. Why do I eat so much spinach? Do I have something in my teeth—again?
I dip down for my purse, pulling my phone out of the side pocket, and turn on the camera, discretely checking my teeth out in the image.
Phew.
They're clean.
But then a text message vibrates my phone, popping up on the top of the screen.
Ollie: Stop checking yourself out.
I sit up straight, spinning, but I don't see him anywhere.
Ollie: You'll never find me.
Me: Where are you!?
Ollie: Secrets of the kitchen. My lips are sealed.
Me: Jerk!
Ollie: Did you like the soup? It's a new recipe I'm working on.
Me: Soup? Yes. Garnish? No.
Ollie: Aw, come on. It was funny.
I tell myself I won't respond to his goading and drop my cell in my lap. Radio silence.
Ollie: Skye? You're not really mad, are you?
Screw it. I'm all alone at the table, my water is empty, and I'm bored.
Me: How does my dessert look?
Ollie: Horrible. You should just leave now and cut your losses.
And suddenly, I'm grinning wider than I have all evening, buoyant. I look up, but Ollie is still nowhere to be seen. Where the heck is his lookout spot? I turn back to my phone, retorting.
Me: You're just saying that because you want it.
Ollie: Maybe…
Ollie: But Glenn would stab me with the cake knife before he'd let me eat your dessert.
Me: You'd deserve it for stealing my cheesecake! I've been thinking of that caramel drizzle all night!
Ollie: I took a spoonful when the head chef wasn't looking. So good.
Me: Yum!
Ollie: So…
Ollie: Think you'll go out with Glenn again? How are things going?
I bite my lip, thinking, sort of wondering why he's so curious. Then again, he works with Glenn, so it's not that strange to ask. But he's Ollie. And I'm Skye. And nothing is ever quite as uncomplicated as it seems between us. Or maybe it is, for him.
Me: Yeah, sure. He's a great guy. Really sweet.
Ollie: You don't think he's a little old? Did he tell you he's thirty?
And for the first time I wonder if Ollie maybe wanted the date to fail all along. I challenge
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