Page 8 of Last First Kiss
That surprise? Another blind date, my third this week. This one is going to be with her church friend’s daughter. I thought we were having a nice grandmother-granddaughter lunch date. Instead, I’m sitting across from Stephanie—or Sophia? I don’t remember anymore—instead of my grandma at an Italian restaurant that smells overwhelmingly of garlic.
She got me. Again.
To be fair, Sabrina is friendly, attractive, and outgoing. Exactly the type of woman I’d go for if I were looking for a relationship. But I’m not. And Sydney—for all her good traits—feels like someone I’m supposed to want, not someone Iactuallywant.
She asks about my job, my hobbies, and even my favorite kind of pizza. But the second she givesheranswer, I know there’s no chance—not even for a one-night stand. I mean, whodoesn’tlike pineapple on pizza?Criminal.
She asks questions, and I answer. Then it’s her turn. She tells me about her hamster—I nod, I smile, do all the polite things. After that, we sip our drinks in silence. Not an awkward or uncomfortable silence, just silence.
The food isn’t great. The conversation is fine. It’s not the worst date I’ve been on, but I can’t get out of there fast enough.
After twoverylong hours, we shake hands goodbye. We both know this is the last time we’ll ever see each other again, and thankfully, we seem okay with that.
I head home with the smell of garlic clinging to my favorite jacket and a raging headache that makes my brain feel like it’s caught fire.
The second I make it home, I faceplant onto the couch, groaning into a pillow. “She won’t stop, Clara. She’s relentless.”
Clara laughs from the kitchen as she pours popcorn into a bowl.
“She’s looking out for you.”
I turn my head just enough to glare at her. “By signing me up for her version of the GayBachelorette?”
She flops down beside me, sitting cross-legged, and gently pulls my head into her lap, running her long fingers through my hair.
“Yeah, okay, it’s a little much. Tell her you can’t keep doing it.”
“You know I have. Without a ridiculously good reason, like I don’t know, me dying, she won’t stop.”
“She wasn’t always this intense. What changed?”
Before I can answer, my phone rings in my pocket. When I grab it, it lights up with a picture of me and my grandma, both smiling from ear to ear from when I wasaround seven years old. The name “Lala” fills the screen in bright white letters.
I couldn’t say “Abuela” correctly when I was younger, so I used to call her “Alala.” At some point, I shortened it to Lala, and it stuck.
“Hey, Lala,” I answer, naively hoping she’s calling to apologize for what she did.
“Hola, mijita, how was your date?” I swear I can hear her smile through the phone.
Of course.I should have known this was why she had called.
I sit up straight and rub my eyes with my free hand, feeling my mascara smudge across my skin.
“It was fine. She was nice,” I say, with as much excitement as I can muster, which isn’t much. Dates kind of lose their buzz when you go on about two a week with women who have absolutely nothing in common with you aside from a nosy—if well-intentioned—grandma.
“Oh, I’m so glad you and Sandra got along. When are you seeing her again?”
Sandra ... right, that’s her name.
“I’m not going to, Lala. I don’t think we were compatible.” It’s the same thing I always say after one of the blind dates she sets me up on.
“Oh, well, that’s no problem. I was talking to Miranda. You remember her, right? My friend from bingo?”
Oh, no.Nothing good ever follows “my friend from bingo.” She’s trying to set me up on another blind date.
“You know, Lala, I’m actually a little busy. I need to get ready for a photoshoot. I’m so sorry.” It’s a lie, but I really don’t want to be set up on another blind date when I can still smell the one I just got out of stuck to my clothes.
“Oh, sure, sure, I’ll call you later. Tell Clara I said hi,”Lala says lovingly. I know I’m an asshole for lying to this sweet, sweet lady, but I can’t do it right now.
