Best Friends Don't Kiss(24)
“Uh…thank you, kind sir.” Kind sir? What the hell was that? I awkwardly clear my throat and try to distract him from my weirdness by abruptly taking his free hand into mine and shaking it like I’m doing those rope things at the gym.
Hell’s bells, the goal isn’t to break his freaking fingers!
I drop his hand like it’s a literal hot potato and try to smooth it over by saying, “It’s very nice to meet you.”
He’s nice enough to smile like my bumbling is cute rather than embarrassing as all hell, but man, I’m not exactly batting a thousand here.
My heart flutters in my chest like a hummingbird as I try to get myself together. I feel light-headed and maybe even a little bit dizzy and beyond desperate to reverse all of it by redeeming myself.
Unfortunately, the redemption and overcompensation wires get crossed in my head, and the next thing I know, I’m curling my body downward and offering him a regal curtsy. Yes, a curtsy. Like, I’ve just been introduced to Prince William and the Queen of England.
FML.
Brian blinks a few times, his ability to ignore my mental breakdown weakening by the moment.
With nothing else to do, I fall into my chair gracelessly. As much as it would make things easier, I guess it’s still a good thing there’s no bed of spikes on the surface of it.
Brian gathers himself and sits back down in the seat across from mine, and I take a deep breath to try to reset myself.
A cute male waiter in a black bow tie and pressed white shirt chooses the absolute perfect time to serve as a distraction and steps up to our table. He sets a black leather menu down in front of each of us. “Good evening. My name is Anthony, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I interest you in a bottle of wine?”
“Wine would be great,” Brian answers and peruses the list. After a minute of browsing, he scrunches up his nose in what I can only assume is disappointment. “Do you happen to have a red that’s older than a 2015?” he asks—well, scoffs. But I try my best not to judge him for it. He just sat through a full slapstick comedy routine without walking out on me.
“Actually, we do not,” Anthony responds with a neutral smile. “But we do have a white that’s from 2007.”
Brian sighs and looks at me with a tilt of his head. “Would you mind the 2007 Sauvignon Blanc, Ava? If we want to actually enjoy our wine, it’s probably our best bet tonight.”
I almost open my mouth to tell him that I don’t like wine and to remind him that Britney Spears’s shaved head and her MTV Music Awards performance made it pretty damn clear that 2007 was a bad year, but I quickly remind myself that this is a first date and I need to be on my best behavior.
“Actually, I think I’ll just start with a glass of lemonade,” I hedge. “I don’t really drink much anyway, and it’s fine if the lemonade is from this year. Actually, I’d prefer it.”
I giggle a little at my joke and expect a similar chuckle from Brian, but signs of a sense of humor never come.
Damn, tough crowd.
Our server Anthony, on the other hand, smirks down at me in amusement.
“So, you don’t want any wine?” Brian asks for clarification, and I shake my head.
“No thank you.”
“Well, if I would’ve known you didn’t drink at all, I would’ve focused on the bourbons. That’s my preferred drink anyway.” Brian sighs again and glances down at the menu. Eventually, though, after my date finds a grandpa bourbon that’s old enough to make him happy, he gives Anthony his drink order, and then, our food orders.
No joke. Our food orders. Apparently, I want linguine tonight.
I didn’t know that, but I guess Brian has made some sort of telepathic arrangement with my stomach. It takes everything inside me to bite my tongue and let it go. Honestly, he’s lucky I actually do like linguine.
Man, this guy isn’t quite meeting my expectations thus far. It’s almost like Luke was right about him.
No. I shake my head. Just give him a chance, Ava. Maybe he’s super nervous or something?
First dates are really hard, and everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Good God, what time is it?
“Ava, you’ll never believe the kind of times my boat has been able to clock on the water since I upgraded her sails.” Brian smiles proudly.
Evidently, it’s half-past hell.
Hindsight is truly 20/20.
If I could take a time machine back to the moments before I left my apartment to meet Brian on this date, I would do it, and I would barricade myself inside the damn thing.
All of my linguine is gone, I’ve had more than enough free bread from the center of the table, and I am desperate for some respite. Brian, it seems, has some of the same chromosomal qualities as my mom when it comes to maintaining a conversation without any help at all.
For the past forty minutes, my date has rambled on and on about his boat, named The Brianna.
Brian-na, a weird, female variation of his name.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
The Brianna, according to the way he speaks about it, is not an inanimate object, but a legitimate person.
I actually thought he was talking about his sister or his mom for the first ten minutes, but when he started saying things like “her dinghy” and “her sails,” I realized I had severely misjudged the conversation.