through the trouble of calling your boss to ensure you’d have dinner with him.”
“Perhaps he really wanted to talk about video game graphics with me,” I suggest. “Did you ever think of that?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you hear from him again. I know it won’t be long.”
Rolling my eyes, I sit down in front of the computer monitor, ready to get started with the day’s work. “Okay, Miss Matchmaker, I will,” I promise. “Now what are we tackling this morning?”
We spend the rest of the day compiling data on different soccer teams and players. With the upcoming World Cup, everyone agrees it should be the first game we focus on. Yesterday, Mr. Thompson assured us we’d have two other assistants assigned to us by the end of the week to help us with the first phase of input. The hours pass rapidly, and before I know it, it’s time to call it a day. Much as I expected, I didn’t hear from Madden all day, but I admit I did check my phone a couple of times in the rare chance Jae might’ve been right. No messages. No missed calls.
Red brake lights of never-ending traffic greet me as soon as I pull onto the freeway, so I turn my iPod on to some Snow Patrol and sing loudly to all of the neighboring vehicles. One older lady shoots me a dirty look as I bounce up and down in my seat, dancing as I belt out the lyrics, but several others smile at my silly antics. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and it feels surprisingly freeing.
As I’m crooning to my makeshift audience about opening their eyes, the music misses a few notes through the speakers, causing me to look down at the screen of my phone. My pulse mimics the beat of the song, skipping wildly when I see a text message from Madden waiting to be read.
Do you trust me yet?
Giggling like I’m twelve instead of twenty-two, I contemplate my response. Without seeing his face or hearing his tone, it’s hard to know if he’s playing around or being serious. I opt for a light-hearted reply, hoping it’s the safe route, and type it out as I continue to sit at a standstill.
Are you choosing my dinner again?
Nervously, I press the send button and wait for his response. In less than a minute, my phone lights up again.
That’s what I’m hoping for. Can I pick you up in an hour?
Completely caught off-guard, I sit and stare at the screen dumbfounded. The car behind me honks their horn, alerting me the traffic is beginning to move. I need to answer him, but I don’t know what to say. I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to go, but I don’t want to seem overly eager either; not to mention, I don’t want him to know where I live. Exiting the highway at the next possible place, I pull into a gas station parking lot to finish the conversation.
Friday? Meet after work?
I hope the suggestion implies interest without desperation. Meeting him Friday will not only give me something to look forward to and time to mentally prepare going out with him again, but I also won’t need to worry about getting up early the next day…not that I plan on staying out too late with him.
Compromise. Tomorrow for a working lunch—you can update me on project. Dinner on Friday is a date—we can discuss details over lunch.
The word date stands out like it’s flashing in all capitals, even though it’s not. Uncertain if I even need to respond again, I decide not to and restart my car. The remainder of the drive home, I continue to ask myself if I know what I’m getting myself into, and even though the answer is a resounding no, I can’t wait to see him again tomorrow.
A FTER DINNER ON M ONDAY night and lunch on Wednesday afternoon, I may kill myself if something doesn’t happen with Blake tonight. A man can only handle so much. Ever since Monday morning, I can’t stop thinking about her and the perfect combination of beauty and obedient personality she’s comprised of. It’s almost as if someone
“Perhaps he really wanted to talk about video game graphics with me,” I suggest. “Did you ever think of that?”
“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs. “Promise me you’ll tell me when you hear from him again. I know it won’t be long.”
Rolling my eyes, I sit down in front of the computer monitor, ready to get started with the day’s work. “Okay, Miss Matchmaker, I will,” I promise. “Now what are we tackling this morning?”
We spend the rest of the day compiling data on different soccer teams and players. With the upcoming World Cup, everyone agrees it should be the first game we focus on. Yesterday, Mr. Thompson assured us we’d have two other assistants assigned to us by the end of the week to help us with the first phase of input. The hours pass rapidly, and before I know it, it’s time to call it a day. Much as I expected, I didn’t hear from Madden all day, but I admit I did check my phone a couple of times in the rare chance Jae might’ve been right. No messages. No missed calls.
Red brake lights of never-ending traffic greet me as soon as I pull onto the freeway, so I turn my iPod on to some Snow Patrol and sing loudly to all of the neighboring vehicles. One older lady shoots me a dirty look as I bounce up and down in my seat, dancing as I belt out the lyrics, but several others smile at my silly antics. It’s been a long time since I’ve done this, and it feels surprisingly freeing.
As I’m crooning to my makeshift audience about opening their eyes, the music misses a few notes through the speakers, causing me to look down at the screen of my phone. My pulse mimics the beat of the song, skipping wildly when I see a text message from Madden waiting to be read.
Do you trust me yet?
Giggling like I’m twelve instead of twenty-two, I contemplate my response. Without seeing his face or hearing his tone, it’s hard to know if he’s playing around or being serious. I opt for a light-hearted reply, hoping it’s the safe route, and type it out as I continue to sit at a standstill.
Are you choosing my dinner again?
Nervously, I press the send button and wait for his response. In less than a minute, my phone lights up again.
That’s what I’m hoping for. Can I pick you up in an hour?
Completely caught off-guard, I sit and stare at the screen dumbfounded. The car behind me honks their horn, alerting me the traffic is beginning to move. I need to answer him, but I don’t know what to say. I’d be lying to myself if I said I didn’t want to go, but I don’t want to seem overly eager either; not to mention, I don’t want him to know where I live. Exiting the highway at the next possible place, I pull into a gas station parking lot to finish the conversation.
Friday? Meet after work?
I hope the suggestion implies interest without desperation. Meeting him Friday will not only give me something to look forward to and time to mentally prepare going out with him again, but I also won’t need to worry about getting up early the next day…not that I plan on staying out too late with him.
Compromise. Tomorrow for a working lunch—you can update me on project. Dinner on Friday is a date—we can discuss details over lunch.
The word date stands out like it’s flashing in all capitals, even though it’s not. Uncertain if I even need to respond again, I decide not to and restart my car. The remainder of the drive home, I continue to ask myself if I know what I’m getting myself into, and even though the answer is a resounding no, I can’t wait to see him again tomorrow.
A FTER DINNER ON M ONDAY night and lunch on Wednesday afternoon, I may kill myself if something doesn’t happen with Blake tonight. A man can only handle so much. Ever since Monday morning, I can’t stop thinking about her and the perfect combination of beauty and obedient personality she’s comprised of. It’s almost as if someone
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