Page 60 of Petals and Plot Twists
“Many times,” I say. “It’s one of my favorites.”
“Wow. Lots of times, huh? You’ll have to tell me what’s good. I don’t frequently let myself indulge in Italian food.” He pats his chest, which is admittedly chiseled under his dress shirt. “Too many carbs.”
Oh, no.Is Chad one of those guys? The guys who count their macros and drink protein shakes all day? Don’t get me wrong. I love a man who stays in shape. I just don’t love it when it’s his entire personality.
“Everything is good,” I say. “Truly. The chicken marsala is probably my favorite, but all the pasta dishes are amazing.”
He frowns. “Yeah, I can’t eat pasta.” His brow furrows as he studies the menu, then pulls out his phone, pulling up the calculator app and setting it down on the table in front of him.
I watch as he glances back and forth, looking at menu items, then typing numbers into his calculator.
I glance at my own menu, trying to figure out what information he could possibly be calculating. A steak on the menu has the number of ounces listed in the description, but otherwise, I can’t imagine what he’s gleaning.
Finally, I can’t keep myself from asking, “Are you…adding something up?”
He looks up from his calculator app. “Hmm?”
I motion to his phone. “You just look busy over there.”
“Oh. Right. Just adding up grams of protein.”
“How can you do that when you don’t know portion sizes?”
He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s an approximation. Most restaurants of this caliber have a standard. Four ounces of meat. 6 ounces of pasta or another starch like potatoes or rice. Lower quality places serve larger portions, of course. So I make my best guess and order accordingly. I’m happy to calculate for you as well, if you like.”
“No. That’s okay. I don’t really pay attention to stuff like that.” I lean closer, not particularly impressed with Chad’s calculating but also weirdly fascinated. “How do you know how much protein is in each menu item? Are you looking it up?”
“Oh, no.” He taps the side of his head. “It’s all up here.” He gives me a confident smile. “I’ve done this a lot.”
“You just know how much protein is in food? Like,all food?”
“Not everything,” he concedes. “But most things.” He glances down at the menu. “Everything they serve here. Want to quiz me?”
“Broccoli,” I say, because I can tell by Chad’s expression, hereallywants me to quiz him.
“Three point two grams in four ounces,” he says without hesitation.
“Pork,” I say.
“Depending on the cut, anywhere from twenty-three to thirty-one grams.”
“Wow,” I say. “That’s impressive.” I close my menu and take a long sip of water. It isnot,actually, impressive. At least not to me.
“You know,” Chad says, “there are a lot of reasons why women should be counting macros too. It isn’t just about building muscle.”
Thankfully, our waiter arrives and takes our drink order. A glass of white wine for me and water for Chad, unsurprising because, as he so generously informs me, alcohol is full of empty calories.
Things don’t get better as the meal continues. Halfway through our entrees, I’m itchy to escape. This date clearly isn’t going anywhere, and I don’t need my magic flower to prove it. If I hear one more thing about sugar content or ketosis or the glycemic index, I’m going to lose my mind.
I wonder what Chad’s going to think when I admit my favorite beverage is a crème brûlée latte, and I like it best when paired with one of Willa’s sugar cookies. I’m definitely going to tell him before the night is over. If only to make it as clear to him as it is to me that we are not, and never will be, a match.
“Would you excuse me for a second?” I say after taking my last bite of chicken marsala. I grab my purse and make a beeline for the bathroom. As soon as I’m locked in a stall, I pull out my phone and text Peter.
Sophie
HELP. My date won’t stop calculating his macros.
Peter
