On the Rocks(62)

“No, you don’t,” she said as she stared at my reflection in the full-length mirror. “I admire you, Abby. I think it’s great you’re dating. You’re out of your rut. That’s not easy to do.”

“I don’t think I’m quite out of it yet, but this is a good start.”

“Can I ask you a stupid question?” she asked as she handed me a stack of bracelets.

“Shoot.”

“Do people make out on first dates these days? I mean, this isn’t college where you leave a keg party bombed at 2:30 A.M. How do dates even end? Are you going to shake his hand or something?”

“I hadn’t thought about it. But thank you for sufficiently freaking me out,” I said.

“Carrie Bradshaw never shook anyone’s hand, I don’t think,” Lara said. I couldn’t tell if she was remembering her dating years fondly or cursing fate for some of the decisions she had made along the way––most likely the ones that landed her in Rhode Island and her husband of three years in Massachusetts for months at a clip.

“Carrie Bradshaw also lived in Chanel couture despite making three cents a word at a newspaper people used to line their birdcages. I don’t think she should be my role model. The real world is a little different. I think.”

“So then what’s the answer?” Lara asked. Despite my efforts to go on dates, I realized I didn’t spend a whole lot of time thinking about what that actually meant. Shit.

“I won’t shake his hand. But maybe I’ll give him a high-five or something,” I said, only partially kidding.

“Interesting. You’re right. Maybe that’s better,” she said, nodding.

We were educated women in our early thirties, and we were debating the merits of high-fiving a guy at the end of a date. Something was seriously wrong with us.

“Have fun,” she said as I did one last check to make sure my body shaper wasn’t showing. “I’m going to stop at the grocery store, cook dinner, and go to bed, so no matter what happens, you’ll have a better night than I will. Think of it that way.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” I asked, hoping that maybe Lara would open up if I just gave her the opportunity. “If you ever want to talk about anything, I’m here for you.”

“I’m fine!” she said with way too much enthusiasm. “Go, get out of here, don’t worry about us boring married ladies.”

We walked out to the driveway, and I waited for her to buckle herself into the front seat of her car. “Have fun tonight. Call me tomorrow and let me know if he’s a good hand-shaker,” she joked.

“You got it! Have a good night,” I said as she pulled out of the driveway and I headed into town for my very first date in a very long time. I had just hit the sidewalk when my phone beeped.

I had a pretty brutal day and could use a laugh. You around?

Sorry, gotta run. I have a date.

I stared at the message I sent just to make sure that I actually wrote what I thought I just wrote. Ha! I said out loud to my phone as if Ben could somehow hear me. I don’t need you and I don’t want you! I have a hot date with a hot guy at a hot restaurant. How do you like me now? I was so proud of myself when I put my phone back in my bag that I actually began to strut. The truth was, I was happy he had a bad day, and even happier that I couldn’t help him even if I’d wanted to. I had somewhere to be. I had a date.

Damn, that felt good to say. And even better to actually mean it.

The Black Pearl was one of Newport’s most popular restaurants. The food was great, the crowd was lively, and it was located on the pier near the water. So far as date spots go, it was a no-brainer. I entered the restaurant and found Pete waiting at the bar. He was drinking a draft beer, wearing a blue golf shirt, pink pants, and a whale-patterned belt. I stopped in my tracks at the door, taking in the sight of him and his very, very pink pants and reminded myself that I was not going to be hypercritical of him because of his wardrobe. Real men wear pink, and every girl knew that once you started dating a guy you could change all of his clothes. So I figured I could handle it for now and then burn his pants and any item of clothing with fish stitched into the fabric when the timing was right. Like date number two. Besides, I already knew what I needed to know to make him an acceptable dating candidate: he was nice, he was funny, he was an architect, and he actually followed through on making dinner reservations. Those were not bad qualities in a guy.

I tapped him lightly on the shoulder and waved hello. “Hey there,” I said with a smile, trying to sound effortlessly friendly and not at all nervous that my Spanx suit was riding up.

“Hey,” he said as he pecked me awkwardly on the cheek. “You look very nice.”

“Thanks, so do you.” And he did. The pink pants were growing on me.

“Are you ready to sit? I think our table’s ready.”

“Absolutely. I haven’t eaten here yet. I hear the food is amazing.”

“Best clam chowder in the world,” he said confidently.

“Careful, I’m from Boston. Those are fighting words.”

He smiled and grabbed his beer off the bar before he stood, leaning over to pick something up off the floor. “Here,” he said sheepishly. “These are for you.”

He thrust a bouquet of roses at me. Bright, vivid purple roses. I didn’t know roses came in that particular shade of, well, Barney-the-dinosaur purple. I felt awkward holding them, like some kind of pageant contestant, but I reminded myself to appreciate the gesture. Grace was right, I had to stop finding flaws in guys who were too nice. These were the first flowers I had received in years, and I was pretty sure that the guys who bring you flowers are supposed to be considered the good ones. Even if they do have questionable taste in said flowers. And pants.