The Dating Proposal(2)

It’s kind of sweet and sexy at the same time, and I feel a little flurry of, dare I say, butterflies in my belly.

That’s interesting. Hmm. I haven’t felt those in a long time.

And you know what? I welcome their return. Not with a parade or anything grandiose, but maybe a banner and some glitter, and hey, glitter can be cool.

I give a small smile and head next door to The Best Diner in the City, which I suspect was named for Search Engine Optimization. It also happens to be completely accurate so I come here once a week and have for the last year.

Dining alone doesn’t hurt anymore, thanks to this self-assigned therapy. I’m a big believer in hoisting yourself up by your garter belt, so I ate here alone the first weekend after the breakup, and then did it again and again until the aching stopped. Even though I’d found this place a few years ago and came here occasionally, Todd never went with me to this diner. He said he didn’t care for cheap, hole-in-the-wall eateries. Fine by me. This diner feels like mine. Gloriously all mine.

The hostess guides me to one of the last remaining two-tops. I sit and run a hand along the slightly distressed fabric of my skinny jeans. Designer brand at a bargain-basement sale. Another of life’s little wins.

I order my usual—scrambled eggs and toast, opting for a Diet Coke because it’s a celebration. A minute later, the waitress brings me a can and a glass of ice. I thank her then crack it open, indulging in one of my un-guilty pleasures as I savor the first effervescent burst and the taste of the cold metal on my lips.

One of the great benefits of dining alone, as I’ve learned, is there’s no one to steal the first sip from me.

How about that for another win?

I pour the rest into the glass then reach for my laptop from my bag.

As I flip open the computer to work on my fashion blog, the waitress guides a gorgeous young redhead over to the table next to me. As if on autopilot, I scan her outfit—sparkling white running shoes with a pink swirly stripe, black workout pants, and a color-coordinated snug workout top—she looks rather peppy.

She flashes a warm smile. “Hi.”

“Hey.”

“This placed is jammed today. Weird for a Monday.”

“It’s like this every day. The food is amazing.”

“I’ve heard great things about it. I’m so excited to finally give it a try.”

Maybe I won’t need the laptop. Perhaps this gal and I will chat for the next thirty minutes, seeing as she’s mighty friendly. “You won’t be disappointed. Everything’s good.”

“My husband said he’s been wanting to go to this place for the longest time. He’s just out parking the car. We couldn't find a spot nearby.” She tips her forehead to the door.

I half expected her to say her dad was going to join her because she looks like a teenager. But maybe she was a teenage bride. “Both of you will love it, then. I’m a regular. A devotee, as they say,” I add in a British accent, just for fun.

She laughs. “What do you recommend?”

“Anything. Except hard-boiled eggs, because they’re gross.”

“They’re the most disgusting food ever.”

I lean closer and say in a conspiratorial whisper, “My ex used to love them. I couldn’t even be in the house when he ate hard-boiled eggs.”

“You want to hear something funny? My husband used to love them too. But I laid down the law. No hard-boiled eggs ever in my home. I cured him of his hard-boiled egg addiction like that.” She snaps her fingers.

I hold up a hand to high-five her. “You deserve major points.”

“Oh, look. There he is.” When I turn to follow her gaze, it’s as if I’ve had a pair of cleats jammed into my belly. This is what it feels like when the batter slides into home and you’re the catcher who’s not wearing a chest protector.

The diner shrinks. The walls close in, gripping me. I can’t breathe. This has to be a mistake. An error.

Todd’s here.

He freezes when he sees me then quickly recovers, taking the seat across from his wife.

The girl-child I’ve been chatting with, my new breakfast-best-friend, is the college-age creature from Vegas who won his heart before he said “I do.” The woman he met the weekend of his bachelor party.

And you know what?

It doesn’t hurt like a pair of cleats any longer.

Sure, I feel a tinge of frustration that I can’t continue this chat with her.

A small dose of annoyance that my breakfast is zooming toward unpleasant territory, to say the least.

But the pain? The shock? Just as quickly as they arrived, they exit. Gone, simply gone.

The walls return to normal.

I breathe easily.

“Hi, McKenna,” Todd says in his best business-like voice.

“Oh . . .” Amber releases a long, slow breath as her mouth drops open, and she shifts her gaze from him to me, registering who she’s been chatting with. “I’m so sorry.”

But I’m going to be the bigger person. After all, today is an awesome day. “Nice to meet you, Amber. And congratulations on the hard-boiled egg cure. That is seriously awesome. I'd love to sit here and chat with you, but I have a blog to write and then some business plans to review. But I hope you love everything here. Enjoy!”

“You know, why don’t we just get a new table?” Amber says to Todd.