Page 35 of Single-Minded
He catches me completely off guard and lands a kamikaze-style kiss—his slobbery mouth planted half on/half off mine. I flail backward on my bar stool in response, just as my lower lip gets snagged in the hole left by his missing tooth. Ugh! My whole body shudders in disgust.Ughhhhhhhh!
“No thanks, Jeff,” I say, extricating my offended lip with my finger, standing up, and backing away slowly like he’s an escaped mental patient. “I’ve got an early morning.”
I barely make it to my car before I completely fall apart and burst into tears. I wonder what happens if you put hand sanitizer on your lips.
26
“It can’t have been the worst date ever,” says Darcy. “What about that state representative being groomed for Congress that I went out with from Arkansas—you know, the guy who wanted me to have a threesome with his wife? And then left me with the three-hundred-dollar tab after I turned him down flat?Thatwas the worst date ever.”
“Fine,” I say, “you win. That’s why I’m quitting now. I don’t care if I never meet anyone. I’ll just spend all my time on my business, get incredibly rich, and then execute Operation Spermsicle or adopt a little Ethiopian baby like all the celebrities do. I don’t need some man. I’m fine all by myself.” I’m still sitting in my car on the street where I parked near the restaurant, trying to pull myself together after my meltdown. And I don’t feel fine. I feel more alone than I ever have in my life.
“You can’t quit,” says Darcy. “You haven’t accomplished your goal. I’ll be back from D.C. tomorrow, we’ll figure it out then.”
“I don’t care if I’m a gay-husband virgin,” I say. “I’m not doing that again.”
“You picked him,” she says. “You have to be able to read through all the bullshit and lies if you’re going to date online.”
“That’s what I’m trying to tell you,” I say “I’mnotgoing to date online.”
“Hold on,” she says, “let me get Michael on the phone.” I wait on hold for a minute while she conferences Michael in.
“He’s up to speed,” she says. “And we have a plan.”
“I’m so sorry about your awful date, sweetie,” says Michael.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. “I miss you so much. I can’t do this.”
“I know,” he says. “I’m so sorry. I wish there were something I could do.”
There’s a long pause on the line, the three of us silent. There is something he could do. He can suck it up and get his ass back in the closet. I shouldn’t have to suffer like this.
“Enough,” says Darcy. “We’ve figured this out. Michael and I are each going to pick someone for you to go out with from the site. We’ll set up the dates and you just show up.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.
“Who knows you better than we do?” asks Michael.
He has a point. I agree to go on two more dates, one picked by each of them. And in return, they agree not to pressure me anymore about losing my GHV if the dates they arrange flame out. No pun intended.
On Friday morning I get up early to make the rounds on all my job sites—to meet with clients, check on progress, and develop next steps. I’m meeting with Olivia Vanderbilt Kensington to discuss the wildlife fund-raiser, although I wish I wasn’t. She’s called and e-mailed me multiple times a day since our first meeting early in the week, although only half of her communications pertain to her actual event, the rest being everything from complaints about her housekeeper to her frustration with homeless people. I’m not sure that she actually has the opportunity to encounter many homeless people on her five-minute drive from tony Longboat Key, where she lives, to the Ritz-Carlton, but I suppose anything is possible. From the way she speaks, you’d think there were roving bands of homeless hooligans causing mayhem, peeing on the bougainvillea, and attacking tourists. Come to think of it, maybe when she says “homeless people” she probably actually means the tourists who flood our city every winter, enjoy our beaches, and eat in our restaurants during the balmy months when every other place in the country is buried under three feet of snow. That wouldn’t surprise me a bit.
After Olivia, I head over to a new psychology office where I’m staging the environment to evoke feelings of calm and trust. And finally, last stop of the day, I’m heading to the client I’m most looking forward to seeing, Daniel Boudreaux and his floating restaurant-to-be.
I arrive at the Ritz-Carlton to meet Olivia for breakfast.
Heading into the restaurant, I see Olivia has already set up camp at a table in the back. I wave when she looks up to meet my eyes, and she looks at her watch.
Am I late? I take a quick peek at my phone as I head toward the table. Nope, right on time.
“I wasn’t sure if you’d make it,” she says, shuffling the papers in front of her.
“Here I am,” I say, sitting down at the table, “nine o’clock as scheduled.” She sniffs and returns to her papers. Goodness, she’s hard to like.
“I’ve been thinking,” she says, “and I’m simply devastated, but we’re going to have to change the dinner menu. The emerald tablecloths are going to make the fish look ghastly.”
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” I say, trying to use my most soothing voice, the same voice I’d use if I were trying to talk a crazy person out of a tree.
“Of course it is,” she snaps. “And I’m going to need feedback from you on my wardrobe selections right away,” she says. “These things take time.”
