All Grown Up(11)

“I’m not chickening out.”

Eve opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Uncapping it, she pondered something before speaking. “Why don’t I drive you and pick you up? I can wait outside and make sure he isn’t a serial killer or anything.”

“You just want to make sure I go and check him out in person.”

She guzzled half her water. “Where did you say you were meeting him? Tom and I were talking about going out to eat. Maybe I will come spy on you, tell you if he’s worthy of seeing your panties on the first date.”

***

I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, and yet I was still sitting in my car fifteen minutes after the time I was supposed to meet Donovan. I’d never had a panic attack, but I was pretty certain that’s what was happening. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and I had the uncontrollable urge to flee to the safety of my home—although there was no way I could possibly drive in this condition.

When my phone buzzed with an incoming text, I hesitated to look at it, knowing there was a good chance whoever it was would make me deal with my current situation. By ignoring it, I could buy more time. So that’s what I did for another five minutes.

The next time my phone buzzed, it was a phone call instead of a text. I peeked at the caller ID. It was Donovan, and I was twenty minutes late. He had been such a nice guy so far. He didn’t deserve me standing him up. Taking a deep breath, I swiped and answered.

“Hello.”

“Valentina? Is everything okay?” His voice was deep and raspy. Really manly and really sexy. Something else I didn’t expect.

“Yes. No. Yes. I mean, no. I’m sorry, Donovan. I’m not going to be able to make it tonight.”

“What’s going on? Are you okay?”

“I am. It’s…it’s…I didn’t realize I wasn’t ready until now.” Just then, a horn blared off in the distance. I had my car window cracked open to get fresh air.

“Where are you?”

“I’m…I’m…sort of in the parking lot.”

“Of the restaurant?”

“Yes.” I felt like an idiot admitting it.

“Nervous?”

“You might say that.”

“Want me to come outside?”

“Not really.”

“What can I do to help?”

“Nothing. I’m sorry. I know this is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager, and I’m so embarrassed.”

“What kind of car do you drive?”

“Please don’t come out and get me. It’ll make my humiliation even worse.”

“I won’t come out unless you want me to. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

“I drive a silver Routan. But I’m fine. I just need to sit here for a while.”

“Okay. Stay on the phone with me. Maybe it will help you relax. You shouldn’t drive if you’re nervous anyway.”

Here I am jerking this poor guy around, and he’s offering to keep me company on the phone while I stand him up. “Thank you.”

“So I probably shouldn’t tell you this if you’re already nervous about meeting me, but it’s too odd of a coincidence to keep to myself.”

“What?”

“You need to come inside because an old lady I know had a dream that I met my future wife today.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mrs. Peabody. It’s a long story, but I sort of have a friend who’s older, and she sometimes has these premonitions and weird dreams. This morning she randomly called me and said she woke up at two in the morning knowing I was going to meet my future wife today.”

“Oh really?” I chuckled. “Did she say anything else?”

“No. Well, except that she smelled cinnamon buns in the oven and then vomited right after.”

“She what?”

“She threw up. But that’s normal. She always throws up after her premonitions.”

I shook my head. “I think you’re right.”

“So you’ll come inside?”

“No…” I laughed. “I meant you shouldn’t have told me, because now I’m afraid you might be a little crazy.”

“We’re all a little crazy, Val. What fun would it be if we only filled our life with normal things?”

That was a question I could answer, since my life had been boring as hell the last few years: no fun at all. Maybe I needed a Mrs. Peabody in my life.

“You’re right.”

“What’s your favorite drink, Val?”

“I usually drink wine, but my favorite mixed drink is a dirty martini.”

Donovan sounded amused. “Not what I was expecting.”

“What were you expecting?”

“Some frou-frou drink.”

“They’re a waste of calories.”

“Well, I’m going to sit at the bar and order two dirty martinis. If you decide to come in, yours will be waiting for you. I’m in no rush. Why don’t you take a few minutes, put your seat back, shut your eyes, and relax. I’ll call back in a bit to check on you.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

A few minutes later, a knock at my window startled me. I nearly froze, expecting it to be Donovan. But it wasn’t. Instead, it was an older man wearing a white dress shirt, black vest, and black slacks—a waiter and not my date. In one hand, he held a dirty martini, and in the other he had an antipasto plate.