Georgia on Her Mind(26)

“My perfume is Chanel number five.”

“Very nice.”

His words flow like memorized lines from Dating for Dummies and do not give me the warm fuzzies. My sunburn feels cozier. But I chalk it up to first-date jitters.

In a nice turn of events, he chooses a place for dinner without taking a ride on the where-do-you-want-to-eat merry-go-round, and I’m adequately impressed when he drives to Bella’s in downtown Melbourne. How did he know I am in the mood for scrumptious Italian food?

We exchange the expected small talk as we walk in—the weather, what he did today, what I did. Which is not hard to guess, since I’m still as red as Bella’s tomato sauce.

We are seated at a cozy table for two by the window. The waitress takes our drink order, but when she walks away, so does our ability to converse.

He stares out the window at the street. I stare at the dessert menu. The cannoli look great. After a few minutes I remember a tidbit Beka told me.

“Beka tells me you like to fish.”

“Yes.” He looks at me for a nanosecond, then back to the street.

“Interesting. I know nothing about fishing other than that it requires hooks and worms. Ha, ha.”

He doesn’t laugh or say another word until the waitress returns with our drinks and a basket of garlic knots and we order our main course.

“So, Austin Ramirez,” I say after ordering stuffed shells. “Where is your family from?” I sip my Shirley Temple and reach for a garlic knot.

“Around here.”

I study him for a sec. Well, of course. “I mean originally, Spain, Mexico?”

He shrugs. “My dad and mom were born in Puerto Rico.”

“I hear Puerto Rico is beautiful.”

He nods with a shy smile. “Yeah.”

We fall back into an awkward silence. I get nosy and probe some more. Do you know your grandparents? Have you traveled to other Latin American countries? Et cetera, et cetera. As it turns out, my boy Austin, thirty-two years old, has never traveled outside Florida besides Puerto Rico. He lives with his parents and from what I can tell, always will.

His mom does his laundry and cooks his meals. Marriage, he claims, is a mystery and children are a quandary.

“Don’t you have any goals or aspirations?” I am so frustrated. What kind of thirtysomething lives at home and lets his mom do his washing?

“Sure. Fish, work on my boat, go to the gym.”

“What about your job? Do you want to advance? Earn more money?”

He shrugs. “Not really, unless I want to buy a bigger boat.”

When the food arrives, I’m relieved. Now I can use my mouth for something besides this incessant questioning. I have absolutely no response to his last answer—a bigger boat. Wow. I never dreamed.

Nevertheless, dinner smells marvelous and I’m starved. Asking a bazillion questions does that to me.

While I’m shoveling in the creamy cheese-covered shells, Austin barely touches his dinner.

“Aren’t you hungry?” I ask.

“I’ve had a stomachache for several days.” He wrinkles his nose and rubs his belly. “I almost called to cancel, but my parents insisted I go.”

I fall against the back of my chair and set my fork down. “Are you okay?” I can’t believe it. Going on a date with me has made a man ill.

He eyes his car just outside the window and claims, “I’ll be fine.”

This is a new low. The Single Saved Sisters will not believe it. As a collective group we’ve had our share of awful blind dates, no-show dates and he-tried-to-grope-me-all-night dates, but this is a whole new category. How could Beka and Rick not warn me?

Our waitress breezes by with a smile and I motion for the check. Might as well release Austin from his misery. Since tonight barely qualifies as a date, I offer to go Dutch.

“What?” He furrows his brow in confusion. “Go Dutch?”

Ooh, I hope he’s not insulted. “I know it’s not what the night started out to be, but…?”

“What do you mean, ‘go Dutch’?”

I’m shocked. I shouldn’t be, but I am. “It means we each pay for our own dinner.”

“Oh, no, I can’t do that.” He insists on paying the bill. Seems his father coached him in the fine art of bill paying and tipping. At least the waitress is one girl Austin took care of tonight.

With his food boxed up, the two of us standing on the street corner, Austin asks, “Where to now?”

I can tell he’s in pain—if not physical, mental.

“Listen, I love hanging around downtown. Why don’t you go on home? I’ll talk to you later, okay?”

“Are you sure?” He smiles with relief, a beautiful, sweet, empty smile. What a waste.

“I’m sure.” I back away, indicating he doesn’t have to kiss me good-night or tell me he’ll call sometime. I want this night over, cut clean. Done.

“How will you get home?”

“Cab, friend. Don’t worry, I’ll find a way.” I shoo him with my hands. How I’m getting home is a good question. Not sure I thought this one through. Call Lucy, I guess. Oh, man, she’s going to love this.

As he drives away, I chat with the Lord. “Take care of that one. He’s going to need it.”