And just like that, the date is back on course.
Turns out Glenn has been in New York for a long time, twelve years. He came here for culinary school when he was eighteen and decided to stay after he got a job at one of his favorite restaur—wait! Twelve years ago he was eighteen… He was eighteen twelve years ago… I quickly do the math—I may be a writer but that doesn't mean I can't add. Still though, I'm doubting my skills as the truth hits.
He's thirty?
He's thirty!
I try not to spew food across the table as internal sirens blare, instead nodding absently to give the appearance that I'm paying attention. But really the word thirty is jumping around my head, knocking everything else out of whack. And then my brain does that thing where the entire world seems to warp around my thoughts, and the longer I look at Glenn, the more distinct the numbers three and zero imprint on his forehead. And no matter how hard I try to listen, all I hear from his lips is, I'm thirty. I'm thirty. I'm thirty. And all the wrinkles I didn’t see become more pronounced. Is that a gray hair?
Thirty. That's an eight-year difference. When he was eighteen, I was ten! Oh, great, I just cringed because of how disgusting that is, but come on, I was playing with Barbie dolls when he was in college doing college age things.
And now he's speaking but I don’t hear anything. Wonderful.
Focus, Skye.
Focus.
"Are you okay?"
"Yeah," I blurt way too cheerfully. Calm down, just calm down. Thirty isn’t that old anyway. He's more worldly. More sophisticated. I wonder how many women he's slept with…Oh god, if he ever hears that I'm a virgin, he'll think I'm an infant! A child! And suddenly it's not that thirty seems old, but that twenty-two seems way too young.
Oh thank god, the waiter is coming over. I sigh, saved for a few minutes.
"Are you ready to order?"
We decide to split a porterhouse steak and a few vegetable sides. I'm not even paying attention to the food—my thoughts are racing ahead for something mature to say. And then the waiter catches my eye before leaving, throwing a little side grin my way and I know, I just know, he's a little traitor passing information off to Ollie in the kitchen. I wonder what he's going to report? That I look pale and crazed? Probably accurate…
I take a sip of my water, tossing a nervous smile in Glenn's direction.
"Tell me about your family," he says.
Good, that's easy enough. Well, not really because my family is completely complicated, but it didn’t used to be. We were a perfectly happy suburban family—that is until my father decided to cheat on my mother with the live-in babysitter next door when I was fifteen. And then my house became World War Three for a few months. He was kicked out. Then let back in. Then kicked out. Then let back in. I learned to ignore clothes dropping past the kitchen window when I was doing homework, to tune out the raging shouting matches before I went to bed. More often than not, I escaped to Bridget's house, relishing in the normalness of her completely happy parents. But how do you tell that to a relative stranger?
"It's just my mom and me," I say, settling on those less complicated words. "My parents got divorced when I was a teenager, and I don't really spend too much time with my dad." I shrug, ignoring the pitter-patter of my racing heart. "What about you?"
"I have a big family," he says, affection evident in his tone. And it's sweet.
For the next while, we compare holidays and childhoods before we move onto travel and hobbies—all things I assume are pretty standard first date topics. And Glenn is just as sophisticated as I thought he might be. In culinary school, he studied abroad in Italy for a year and I'm enthralled by his stories about Europe—the food, the people, the culture. I've only ever been to England, but I yearn to travel—to see all of the places he's telling me about, to taste every meal and know for myself if it's all as delicious as he says. Somehow, I already know it is. The next hour passes in the blink of an eye. I forget to be nervous because I'm actually having fun.
Until Glenn apologizes, retreating to the kitchen to put the finishing touches on the dessert. And left alone again, my eternal freak out begins anew. Is this actually going okay, or do I just think it's going okay? Does he think I'm funny? Does he think I'm cute? I think he's cute. But, what if he doesn't think I am? Is this all in my head? And then, oh god, we ate creamed spinach. Why do I eat so much spinach? Do I have something in my teeth—again?
I dip down for my purse, pulling my phone out of the side pocket, and turn on the camera, discretely checking my teeth out in the image.
Phew.
They're clean.
But then a text message vibrates my phone, popping up on the top of the screen.
Ollie: Stop checking yourself out.
I sit up straight, spinning, but I don't see him anywhere.
Ollie: You'll never find me.
Me: Where are you!?
Ollie: Secrets of the kitchen. My lips are sealed.
Me: Jerk!
Ollie: Did you like the soup? It's a new recipe I'm working on.
Me: Soup? Yes. Garnish? No.
Ollie: Aw, come on. It was funny.
I tell myself I won't respond to his goading and drop my cell in my lap. Radio silence.
Ollie: Skye? You're not really mad, are you?
Screw it. I'm all alone at the table, my water is empty, and I'm bored.
Me: How does my dessert look?
Ollie: Horrible. You should just leave now and cut your losses.
And suddenly, I'm grinning wider than I have all evening, buoyant. I look up, but Ollie is still nowhere to be seen. Where the heck is his lookout spot? I turn back to my phone, retorting.
Me: You're just saying that because you want it.
Ollie: Maybe…
Ollie: But Glenn would stab me with the cake knife before he'd let me eat your dessert.
Me: You'd deserve it for stealing my cheesecake! I've been thinking of that caramel drizzle all night!
Ollie: I took a spoonful when the head chef wasn't looking. So good.
Me: Yum!
Ollie: So…
Ollie: Think you'll go out with Glenn again? How are things going?
I bite my lip, thinking, sort of wondering why he's so curious. Then again, he works with Glenn, so it's not that strange to ask. But he's Ollie. And I'm Skye. And nothing is ever quite as uncomplicated as it seems between us. Or maybe it is, for him.
Me: Yeah, sure. He's a great guy. Really sweet.
Ollie: You don't think he's a little old? Did he tell you he's thirty?
And for the first time I wonder if Ollie maybe wanted the date to fail all along. I challenge back.
Me: Well, you set us up, so obviously you didn’t think the age difference was a big deal. Why should I?
The little texting thought bubble pops up, showing me Ollie is typing something. But then it disappears. Pops up again. Disappears.
Don't look up. Don't look up.
I look up.
I turn.
And there he is, standing in the doorway—the same one Glenn first walked out of—casually leaning against the frame, arms crossed. His hair looks even darker against the crisp white of his chef's suit, his furrowed eyebrows look stark against his pearly skin, and his normally full peach lips are drawn in a thin line. But then again, mine are too.