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Shannon waves dismissively as she hurries off. “Sorry about the asshole!”
She gets it.
Daphne wastes no time shoving the first bruschetta in her mouth. Carbs…a grieving woman’s best friend.
Our server checks on us and I order another round of drinks on me.
“I mean…” Daphne continues, finishing whatever inner monologue she had running. “How is a girl supposed to find a decent guy anymore? Everyone is either married or gay, and you can’t trust dating sites.” She shoves another bruschetta in. “Ugh, dating sites,” she says, garbled with food, crumbs flying from her lips. I think the rest that follows is, “They’re just for dick pics and hookups.”
She’ll get no arguments from me.
She goes to wash it down with margarita and then remembers she emptied it on Andrew’s shirt. “Church, then?” she says. “And I don’t even go to church!” A lamenting sigh. “Guess I better start figuring out what I believe.”
All I can do is smile and take a big sip of my drink. I understand her frustration. All single women do. “We just have to keep kissing frogs until we find the one that’s the most tolerable,” I say, unhelpfully.
“You mean until we find our prince.”
I fight a cringe. “No one is royalty, D.” We’re all scarred and messed up in our own, precious little ways. “We just have to find someone whose demons play well with ours.”
She chews for a minute. Thinks. “Well, that’s not very optimistic.”
I give her a look. Have we met?
She shrugs, conceding. “I guess I just like to think I connect with someone because we like the same music or share the same sense of humor.”
“But unless the uglier sides of yourselves play well, none of that matters.”
“We don’t usually figure those things out until, like, six months in. Way past dating territory. You’re already somewhat committed.”
I offer a weary look. Yeah, exactly. And there are some things even I can’t spot early on. The shit that’s buried deep. The shit no one likes to talk about.
Not that I can say much.
A conundrum the dating world has yet to crack.
“Hey,” I say, a lightbulb winking on. “Maybe that could be a thing.”
She halfway perks.
“A dating site that lists all your ugly traits upfront. Cuts through the bullshit. I should create that.”
Her eyes go distant as she contemplates. “Problem is, there would only be one account on there.”
I point to myself.
“Yeah, exactly.”
As we burst into laughter, another commotion draws our attention to the front door—a guy strutting in wearing sunglasses and a leather jacket, and an entourage of men and women come in behind him, swallowing my view before I can get a good look at him.
A torrent of camera flashes light up the restaurant, and I’m momentarily dazed.
“Who is it?” Daphne asks, leaning into the table in hopes of seeing him better. Her dark corkscrews spill into the tomato topping on the toasted sourdough slices and I cringe, pushing the plate aside.
She never notices.
“Some celebrity, I’m guessing.”
A guy at the table adjacent to ours us elbows the guy beside him. “Dude, that’s Jake Mitchell…”
His name makes me go rigid. My mouth goes dry.
Daphne’s eyes flare in horror and fix to mine. “What are the chances?” she breathes.
Our waiter returns with our drinks and I manage to signal for him to give us the check. I don’t know. I don’t know what the chances are. What I do know is I’ve got to get out of here somehow without him noticing me. Facing Jake tomorrow will be hard enough.
