C2 Audrey

“So now I’m lacking manners? Interesting.” I shake my head. “That’s not what I’m implying. Gosh, can we ignore where I tried to correct you? I’m sorry. That was rude of me.” He doesn’t look the least bit offended. “Not particularly.” The bartender returns with a full glass of ice water and puts it down in front of me. I open my mouth to say thank you, but peanut guy beats me to it. “Thank you,” he says, voice dropping. “We really appreciate your help here tonight.” The bartender doesn’t stop moving down the bar. “Anytime,” he tosses over his shoulder. Peanut guy turns to me with a triumphant smile. “Am I back in your good graces now?” “Yes. Sorry.” He rests his suit-clad arms on the bar counter. “So what’s got you so bent out of shape?” “Bent out of shape,” I repeat, reaching for my ice water. I drain half of it before confessing. “I’m actually waiting for someone.” “I figured. Is he late?” “He is, yeah. Is it obvious?” “Well, you’re here and he’s not, so yes. Boyfriend?” “Just a date.” I twirl my glass around. “A first date, actually.” “And he’s late? That’s not a good sign.” Peanut guy reaches for an actual peanut, his hand cutting across my vision. It’s broad and lightly dusted with dark brown hair. A masculine hand, with long fingers. “How late is too late?” “I don’t know. I don’t have a hard and fast rule about it.” “Do you have hard and fast rules about a lot of things?” I look over at him. It’s a bad idea, because he’s stupidly good-looking. Square jaw and eyes that meet mine with steady charm. Oddly enough, I’m not nervous talking to him. We’re so obviously not suited. He’s amusing himself, I’m distracting myself. Exposure, I think. “About some things, I guess. I have criteria.” “Let’s hear them,” he says. “Well, he has to be a nonsmoker.” Peanut guy gives a nod. “Right.” “I’d like it if he could cook me dinner once in a while.” “So he needs to be a renowned chef,” he says. “Got it.”

I chuckle at that. “Right. Oh, and he has to subscribe to a newspaper or magazine. At least one, preferably more, and they can’t just be digital subscriptions.” “Oddly specific,” he says. Long fingers curl around his glass, eyes the color of whiskey. “Is that a literacy test? Because I think you can reliably assume a guy your age would be able to read.” “No, I’m a journalist.” “Is that so?” “Yes. I need someone who appreciates the written word, you know? I want to spend my Sunday mornings arguing over who has what portion of the newspaper.” Hearing myself, my cheeks flare up again. “I know how I sound. Like a hopeless romantic.” “Are you one?” “I’m a realistic romantic,” I say. “Which is why I’m on a first date with a stranger.” He lifts an eyebrow again. “This is a blind date?” “Yes.” “And he’s late. Really not off to a good start.” I shrug, feeling the nerves settle into a current in my stomach. Talking to this guy helps. “Well, I’ll give him a shot. Something might have happened to him on the way here, you know.” I look over his shoulder, but the businessmen down the end of the bar counter are talking amongst themselves, paying him no mind. “Why are you here? Waiting for your own blind date?” I can’t say it without smiling. As if. “No,” he says, swirling the amber liquid in his glass around. “I’ve met her before.” That makes me roll my eyes. “Of course. She’s late too?” “Yes. Often is, as a matter of fact.” “I guess that’s not on your list of criteria, then.” “No. Come to think of it, I don’t know if she subscribes to a newspaper.” “You should ask her that tonight,” I say. “I’ve heard it’s a dealbreaker for some.” His smile stretches wide. “So have I, kid,” he says. “Tell me why dating makes you this nervous.” “Kid? We’re practically the same age!” He’s still smiling. “Are we? I can’t remember the last time I was as nervous as you waiting for someone to show up.”

This guy is a roller coaster. “That doesn’t define my maturity. I’m twenty-six,” I say. Honesty makes me add the rest. “Well, I will be in four months’ time. How old are you?” “Thirty-two,” he says. That’s when my phone vibrates in my pocket again. Ice shoots through my veins, freezing me to the spot. Brian’s probably here. Has it already been fifteen minutes? God, I hate this. Hate it hate it hate it. A glance down at my phone confirms it. I’m outside. Did you grab a table? “Is that him?” Peanut guy says. “Yes,” I murmur. “It’s showtime.” “For him, not for you,” he says. “Just be yourself.” “Right.” My fingers fly over my phone. I have a table inside. “Good luck, kid. I’ll be over here if you need me.” “Stop calling me a kid,” I say. My nerves are flaring up again, making me lash out. “And don’t look at me the whole date. That’s weird.” He smiles wide, and I catch a hint of a dimple beneath the dark fiveo’clock shadow coating his jaw. “Just signal and I’ll give you a plausible excuse.” “Um, thanks. Have a nice evening,” I say and head toward my table. My disgusting drink stands there, forgotten. I sit down and smooth my hands over my dress. I can do this. When I look up, I cast my eyes about for a man striding my way. Instead I meet peanut guy’s gaze. He’s leaning against the bar, glass in hand, and gives me the smallest of nods. There’s a hint of a smile on his face. The arrogant bastard. But he’s quickly eclipsed by the man who approaches me. This has to be Brian. Nina set me up with him, a guy from her old job. She promised he would be nice. That was the word she used. Nice. He looks nice, I think, in a friendly sort of way. He’s wearing a beanie that sits low on top of dark curls. He shrugs out of his denim jacket. “Hey,” he says. “Sorry I’m late.” “No worries.” He looks down at my drink, and a frown mars his face. “You’ve already ordered?” Yeah, dude. I was waiting here alone for twenty minutes. “I did, yes. Ihope that’s okay.” He shrugs and sits down opposite me. “Sure, sure. So Nina told me you’re a journalist.” “I am, yes. I’d love to work in investigative reporting someday,” I say. Hopefully sooner than just one day, if the interview today had gone as well as it felt. I’d spent over two hours today at the New York Globe’s offices. “So you write, like, these exposing pieces about government corruption and scandals?” He slouches in his chair, but his eyes glow with enthusiasm. This is promising. I spin my disgusting drink around and nod. “I’d like to, at least.” “You know, I have a lot of opinions about the press.” “You do?” He raises a finger. Almost like he’s lecturing me. “You guys need to start reporting more on facts, and less with your emotions.” Um… “Yes. Well, reporting on the facts as they are is the hallmark of good journalistic integrity.” “Sure, but so often they don’t. You know, I haven’t subscribed to a newspaper in years. The facts I care about are all online. I can find them with the press of a button.” I rub a hand over my neck. “Well, a lot of people do that nowadays. Print media is struggling for that very reason.” “It’s dying, more like it. But if you reported more on facts, you’d be doing better.” He raises a hand, signaling to the waitress. “Over here!” Oh, dude. That’s not okay. My nerves turn to irritation instead. “Say please,” I mutter. He doesn’t hear me. “I’ll have a beer,” he tells the waitress. “Easy on the head, all right? And not a wheat beer. Anything but a wheat beer.” He turns back to me, like our conversation was never interrupted. “That’s why a lot of people don’t trust journalists anymore. It’s not that hard of a job, right? Reporting the facts. Not like working in manual labor or, like, working at a brewery.” “Not as hard as your job, you mean?” I say. My hand is tight around my glass. He shrugs and gives me a smile, like we’re sharing a joke. “You said it, not me. Hey, I have a few stories you should write about. I’m sure everyone says that, but I’m serious. I think this could be good for you.” Oh boy. “Really?” I ask. “What are they?” “I’m a member of an online community. We don’t really tell people aboutit, but we share updates the regular media won’t report on. I know exactly how you’ll react—but listen with an open mind. Sasquatch was sighted recently, just upstate. Farmers in the area have been covering it up, and a friend of mine online has seen the FBI vehicles.” His eyes widen. “This goes all the way to the very top.” I take a long, hard sip of my disgusting drink. Oh Christ, I think. Over Brian’s shoulder, I see peanut guy talking to a leggy blonde. Her hair falls in a wave over her shoulder and she has a hand on his arm. He says something and she tosses her head back to laugh. At least someone’s having a good time. “This is a scoop,” Brian says. “Could be really good for your career. I mean, if you want the help.”