Page 16 of Single-Minded
“They won’t allow anyone who isn’t family… of the ferret…,” I say. Finally light begins to dawn on me. I’m a crazy lady and he’s trying to get out the door.
“I’ll be sure to give him your best wishes. Thanks for… this,” he says, motioning awkwardly at the bar as he backs away toward the exit. “See you around.”
Oh gawd. Well, that was an unmitigated disaster. I abandon my drink, and try to pretend like I haven’t just been dumped at the bar by a complete stranger with the worst sick ferret story in history. Maybe no onewillever want me. Maybe Michael is just the first in a long line of men who want to get as far away from me as possible. The bartender drops off the check and scoops up the fifty-dollar bill. The tab is thirty-eight bucks.
“Keep the change,” I tell him, grabbing my bag and heading back to the ladies’ room to splash some water on my face before I start crying again. Inspecting myself in the bathroom mirror, I can see why Markmatics hightailed it out of the bar so quickly. My skin is all blotchy, my nose is ruddy, and my eyes are swollen and tinged with red. What a first impression. Well, that and the crying. My phoneaah-OOH-gahs again, and I pull it out of my purse. There are eight more notifications I hadn’t heard, probably because of the noise in the restaurant and the fact that I’d lowered the volume. I swipe through the photos while I hide out in the ladies’ room, squatting over a toilet and waiting for my face to de-puff and my pride to heal a bit. The new Closr options are mostly no’s as well, except for one possibility. A blond man called HeartDoc. That sounds promising! I hope he is actually a cardiologist and not just the owner of a super-cheesy profile name. I swipe up for yes and Closr informs me we’ve made a match, which basically means that he swiped yes for me too. Closr instructs me to introduce myself, and asks if I’d like to meet HeartDoc somewhere nearby.How about Marina Jack?it suggests.You are 0.0 miles from Marina Jack,” the app informs me aggressively. Yes, I know. I’m right here in the ladies’ room.
A text arrives from HeartDoc almost immediately:Do you want to have a drink at Marina Jack, or somewhere on St. Armands, or maybe downtown? Closr says we’re both nearby.
I waver for a good twenty seconds, trying to decide if it’s tacky to have two drink dates in the space of an hour at the same bar. Maybe even the same bar stool. I weigh pros and cons in my head—upside: I’m already parked and I have enough time to make myself presentable before he arrives. Downside: two dates in one bar on the same night, what will the bartender think? I decide I don’t care, it’s worth the potential embarrassment to avoid the evening traffic, especially on St. Armands Circle, which would be jam-packed with tourists circling round and round and round in search of a parking space.
MJ sounds good,I text.When?
15 minutes?he responds.
See you then,I text back. Well, that’s easy. One date goes bad, another one is just around the corner. I reapply my lip gloss and put a wet paper towel to the back of my neck in hopes it relieves some of the splotchiness of my complexion from my little meltdown with Ferret Guy. Do-over, I think to myself. I deserve a do-over. I mentally review my date with Ferret Guy, thinking through each scenario and how I’d handle it differently in the future. Then, I give myself a quick pep talk, pull a brush through my hair, and vow not to cry again tonight, no matter what happens. No matter what.
About five minutes later, HeartDoc texts me again.Just pulled in. You?
I’m inside,I text back.
Ooh, sexy,he texts. I cringe a little as I read it, wondering what the hell he means.
I don’t want him to know I’m hanging out in the bathroom like a loser. I check myself over one last time in the mirror, and head out for the bar. After two or three minutes I see a guy headed in my direction. HeartDoc.
“Hi,” he says, smiling. “You’re here. I’m sorry, I forgot to ask your name.”
“Alex,” I say. “Nice to meet you. And your name?”
“I’m Dr. Ryan,” he says, flashing a mouthful of the biggest, whitest teeth I have ever seen close up. Probably veneers. Is Ryan his first name? His last name? What kind of yutz introduces himself asdoctorin a social situation? He looks at me like he’s expecting me to be impressed. The wicked part of me considers reintroducing myself as Dr. Alex. Or Dr. Wiggins. Just to be obnoxious.
“Nice to meet you,” I say.
“Let’s grab a seat,” he says, and starts walking toward the back before I have a chance to answer. He waves to the hostess, the bartender, and several patrons as we make our way through. Apparently he’s a regular.
“You seem to know a lot of people here,” I say. He nods and flashes the veneers again.
We sit down at a table near the window, and I decide I should probably pace myself since I’ve already had a glass and a half of wine earlier in the evening. When the waiter arrives, Dr. Ryan orders bourbon, neat, and I ask for a white wine spritzer, a nice light drink for a warm evening with about half the alcohol of a regular glass of wine.
“So what kind of doctor are you, Dr. Ryan?” I ask. I can hardly bring myself to call him that, but it’s too funny not to.
“Ohmigod,” he says. “Did I introduce myself to you as Dr. Ryan?”
I nod.
“Jesus, I sound like a tool,” he says. “I spend half my day doing rounds at the hospital. All day long it’s ‘Hello, I’m Dr. Ryan, how are you feeling today? Hello, I’m Dr. Ryan, and how are you feeling today?’” He shakes his head and I laugh.
“Let’s start again,” he says. “I’m Brett Ryan, nice to meet you, Alex.”
“Nice to meet you too,” I say, and before I know it, the waiter is back with our drinks. We chat for a few minutes about the area of town where we live, his work at the hospital, and his favorite local restaurants. We talk about his paddleboard, and his gym, and the reclining chairs in his media room. He doesn’t really ask me many questions about me, which seems a bit rude, but is not altogether unwelcome. After Ferret Guy, I’m wary of oversharing again anyway. Occasionally he asks me a question, and then uses my response to immediately springboard into more details about himself.
He asks, “Are you a working girl?”
And I say, “Yes, I’m a doctor.” What kind of ass calls a woman over thirty agirlwhen asking about her job?
“Do you have the little white uniform and everything?” he asks, a little too eagerly. It’s only then that I realize what he means. Ew.
“I’m an environmental psychologist,” I say. “I don’t wear a uniform. Or a lab coat. Is that what you meant?” I expect he’ll show some embarrassment, but it seems to go right over his head.
