Nothing More Beautiful Page 4

  I FOUND MYSELF BACK at my desk after hours of torturous inventorying, something that supposedly gets easier with experience. The goal was to eventually get the system up and running to where we could track the inventory and when someone marked that we needed something, it would be added to a master-ordering list, where one simple click did all the work for us. Research called it streamlining, I called it a pain in the ass. If we had an I.T. guy, I’d be in heaven, but our dismal budget put an end to that idea when Bridgett and I discussed our technical skills. She concluded that I had the proficiency to succeed.

  It was our third month in business and I was still having trouble. A headache battered my brain as I gaped at my computer screen. The morning events hadn’t left my mind all day. I kept returning to the memory at the gym. I’d fall and he’d catch me and I’d run away in a flash. It all happened so fast that there wasn’t much to remember. Online dating had also been running through my head. Had it truly come to this? Would I be another casualty of the modern dating predicament that forced women to browse a list of profiles instead of meeting someone organically?

  I typed NorthwestMingle into my browser. Pictures of happy couples flooded the screen. My cursor hovered over the “join” button. I desired to meet someone like Danielle had, and come May she’d be off and married and I’d be alone.

  That single thought pressured me into clicking the mouse.

  I filled in the information and became a new member of “the number one dating site for Northwesteners,” or so the front page boasted. I didn’t see any data to back up the claim, and even if I had, I probably wouldn’t have believed it.

  And so the search began. I scrolled through countless profiles. I had never noticed before how many guys in Portland had beards. It seemed like an uncommonly high amount. Beards really weren’t my thing, so I checked that off the finder, which narrowed the list considerably, leaving only those who shaved or sported stubble.

  It was a quarter past five when I noticed that I’d spent over an hour hunting for Mr. Right. By then, I had selected and bookmarked four guys. Bridgett had said countless times that she always waited for men to ask her out, but Danielle’s nagging about my shyness around men prevailed, and I wrote a quick message to my first choice and sent it on its digital journey.

  Danielle knocked on the back door and I let her in. “So, I did it,” I announced.

  “Did what?” she asked, zooming for the leftover muffins in the front.

  “I signed up for NorthwestMingle and messaged a guy.”

  She peeled off the bottom wrapper and took an enormous bite, smiling. “You’re kidding. I don’t believe you. Show me.”

  I led her to the office and pulled up the profile. “He’s cute, right?”

  “Sure, I guess. From an objective point of view.” She wore an aloof face. “I wouldn’t have picked him.”

  “You wouldn’t have picked any guy,” I said.

  “True. But give me a break, his username is CoolGuyPDX.”

  “Who cares about usernames?” I closed the application, shoving her out the door. We made for home after locking the office and the back door.

  “Usernames mean a lot. They tell you about that person’s character, underneath. You can really judge someone by their username. Like yours, what’d you pick?”

  “CuteLittleBaker88.”

  She laughed hard, spitting muffin bits at the steering wheel.

  “You’re such an ass sometimes,” I said. “I thought it was a descriptive name.”

  “It was better than CoolGuyPDX, I’ll give you that, but not much.” She stuffed the remaining muffin chunk into her mouth and swallowed. “So, what did you say in your message?”

  I turned up the heater—my ass was frozen. Danielle never had the heater high enough. “I asked him if he wanted to get together for coffee.”

  “Mellow and informal, a good start,” she said. “What’s his name?”

  “Harry,” I answered, shivering.

  “Harry,” she said more to herself than to me. “I guess there are worse names out there …”

  I was about to reply when my phone beeped, signaling a text or email. Unlocking the screen and sliding to the alert, I opened the message. “It’s from Harry. He wants to meet tomorrow night. You think I should?”

  “I thought your goal was to get him to not go out with you,” she said, her sarcasm scraping against my nerves.

  “You’re very funny, you know that?”

  “And you’re very strange,” she threw back. “Of course I think you should. That’s what I’ve been driving at since Saturday, for you to get out there and find someone new.”

  “I was only double-checking … you know what, never mind.” I returned to the message and wrote out a reply, then erased it, wrote a second, but erased it, too. I hit the send key after I revised the third draft. “Okay,” I said, exhaling, as if I’d been holding my breath the whole time. “Sent. There’s no going back now.”

  Danielle looked over at me with a wide smile. “To finding Mr. Right. Celebrate at U-Brew?”

  I nodded, excited. Maybe he would be Mr. Right. Maybe he’d be the man of my dreams, the fairytale prince who’d sweep me off my feet and whisk me off to the bedroom. Maybe he’d be the one to give me what Danielle says I’d been missing in my life: the big O.

  THE MORNING STARTED OUT crummy. My hair wouldn’t cooperate, my morning breath persisted despite three brushings, and I couldn’t find the right outfit for the coffee-shop date, which had kept me up half the night, the anticipation stimulating my brain like caffeine. To top it off, Eddie—my purple Fort Escort—wouldn’t turn over. It took twenty tries and fifteen minutes before the engine came to life. He was nineteen and on his last tires.

  With the snow gone, it was back to the routine. I pulled into the private parking behind the bakery at 4:49 AM. Norm, the “Bread Guy” was already there, arriving at 4:30 on most days. The only plus of working so early was that I never had to contend with traffic. Other than that there was nothing positive about it. I was dead—a zombie—guzzling drip coffee and espressos until about eight. This morning was even worse since I’d only gotten half the sleep I normally did; and all the energy that had kept me awake during the night had vanished, leaving me drained.

  It was going to be a long day.

  Norm and I never really talked. It was too early, so instead, we took turns blasting our music. He favored heavy metal and hard rock, where I leaned toward what some might call alternative rock, like The Killers, but I also enjoyed just plain, upbeat pop. It was his day to choose, and when I came in, “Back in Black” was blaring over the built-in speakers. He nodded at me as he did his thing.

  I prepped for the day, turning on the fan and oven, then crafted a caramel, Irish cream, and cinnamon macchiato. Afterward, I stuffed the crockpot with oats and milk and set the timer for an hour. Next came the cookies, muffins, and sticky buns, made fresh every day. One of the last items I prepared in the early morning was the bread pudding, using the day-old breads. It was one of our big sellers to the early risers.

  There were always one or two people stopping in at 5:30 in the morning. At six, the real crowds rushed in—our special coffees and bagels, along with our unique croissants, brought in the most customers until we began serving brunch at 7:30. A group of elderly men came in then to be the first to order from the brunch menu, never diverging from their usual. They were my favorite customers because they walked up to the counter and gossiped about people in Portland and those closest to them. I found them very entertaining and pleasant.

  Bridgett arrived at 6:30 a.m. to prep the kitchen for brunch, which was mainly served upstairs in an old apartment that we leased when the health insurance company moved out of the ground floor. It was a rickety building that demanded some upkeep and renovations—repairs we planned on starting in the summer sunshine.

  Even though we both earned our AAS in Baking and Pastry Management from the Oregon Culinary Institute—whose slogan was “trainin
g kitchen Ninjas”—Bridgett argued that we should be more than just a bakery, and was therefore in charge of the “Brunch House” portion of our operation.

  The day, like every day owning a restaurant or similar business, had its ups and downs, including slow times and crazy rushes, and by ten a.m. I was wide awake and couldn’t stop thinking of the impending date. A thousand scenarios played in my head by the time I clocked out. Half were good and half were bad. The Killers song “When You Were Young” was stuck in my mind and ran alongside the situations that I watched with my mind’s eye. It was the theme song for the day. The only problem was that a beautiful boy had caused my heartache, so to dream of another one saving me might be a thorn in the scheme.

  By the time I clocked out, I was always wiped. Ten hours was my standard since we opened Friends Bakery and Brunch House in December, and I usually worked longer on most days. The requirements to maintain the place were ceaseless and exerting.

  And I loved it.

  Despite the enervation, I soldiered on to the gym and worked out, my playlist pumping me up and keeping me company. I used the women’s-only third floor to avoid a run-in with the driver, just in case he made an appearance.

  I sank back into my office chair at four, staring at Harry’s profile picture. There was no doubt he was sexy. Tan, but not overly so: he was no orange. Toned, but not Tom Hardy buff, even though I had liked that about Ryan, whose arms were as big as my head. Harry’s mossy green eyes captured my focus and I drifted off into another daydream.

  I was sitting in my chair when he kicked open the office door, rushed in and hoisted me onto my desk, folding back my silk skirt. He ripped off my simple blouse, the buttons flying through the air. His silence elevated my heart until all I could feel was lust. He tore his shirt in the heat of the moment and buried his face in my boobs as I threw my head back. Then his image morphed into that of the driver from the accident, and we were back in the gym as he looked up and kissed me so passionately that my head felt like it was going to explode from the rush of blood.

  Bridgett broke me from my reverie. “What time are you meeting your date?” she asked, standing in the door, eyeing me with her brow crumpled.

  “Five,” I blurted, unaware of her presence. I nearly fell out of my chair, jolted by her voice. “Five,” I repeated, this time much calmer.

  “It’s 4:13, you might want to get ready,” she advised.

  I launched out of my seat. “Right. I—I—”

  “I know,” she laughed.

  “How long have you been standing there?”

  “Long enough to see you drool a little,” she answered, shaking her head. “I locked up the front and upstairs.”

  I smiled awkwardly. She was one of my best friends, but it was still embarrassing to be caught doing something that was probably best suited for home, if it could be helped. I retrieved the five outfits from my car and laid them out in the office. “So, what do you think?”

  Bridgett studied each one. “I like the purple blouse with the white cardigan,” she concluded. I trusted her enough to simply go with her decision. She didn’t have the best eye for fashion, wearing fishnet stockings outside of work, which I’d never been a fan of, but she’d been married before, and that superseded the one poor fashion choice.

  Dressed and with my makeup all done, I grabbed my keys. “Ready,” I said, looking in the mirror one last time.

  She hugged me tightly, and then spanked me as I left. “Remember to feel his junk before you throw off your clothes. You don’t want to be disappointed later on.”

  “Thanks,” I said, feigning sincerity. I drove west toward downtown. My mind wandered, returning to the daydream. Why had Harry turned into the driver? Did I really desire him that strongly? Or was it because the incident was so fresh in my mind that it was just a coincidence? I laughed when I thought about how silly it was.

  Arriving at the coffee shop a few minutes late, my nerves were starting to control me. My stomach knotted, my throat constricted, and my clothes felt too small, which made me fidgety and uncomfortable.

  Sitting in the car, I checked my phone. I’m here, he had texted me at 5:02. I gathered up my courage and headed for the entrance. As I opened the door, a woman squeezed in front of me, pinching my arm. “Hey!” I shouted at her.

  She didn’t give me a second glance, running for the bathroom. I scanned the room, but saw no one who fit the picture. A gaggle of teenagers sat in the corner, on their phones, no doubt playing one of those fatuous games against each other. Sure, I enjoyed a mindless diversion from time to time, but not out in public—not like that. Lone white women dominated the coffee house, and men in business suits came in second. None of them were as fit as Harry’s picture. There were also a few bald, portly men sprinkled throughout the crowd.

  Shuffling out of the way of the door, I opened the texts between us, my hands shaking, and sent him: Here, but I don’t see you. I was probably a little more proper in my texts than most, but shortening words didn’t help with filling in crosswords, and I had to keep my mind sharp for those.

  At first I thought one of the chubby men was heading for the door when I realized he was on a collision course with me. “Maci?” he said, his throat deep and scratchy, a smoker’s voice.

  “Ha—harry?”

  4

  WHEN MACI MET JOSH

  I couldn’t believe my eyes. I couldn’t believe I was duped so badly. All my pre-date jitters vanished in an instant, overtaken by bewilderment.

  “Pleased to meet you,” he said. He stared hard into my eyes. “Sorry about my profile picture. I haven’t upgraded to the digital age so well and it was the only one I could find on my computer.” He looked nothing like his picture, except for his blue eyes. His glabrous white head shined under the direct ceiling light. His toned muscles had turned flabby, and his face now included a few extra chins. His teeth bore yellow stains and his breath was worse than mine in the morning. Where the picture showed rosy cheeks, sunburnt blotches now marked his face, a deep purple at their center.

  “I got us a table over here,” he said, as though nothing was out of the ordinary.

  In spite of my strong desire to do a one-eighty, I followed and sat across from him; he had already ordered a coffee. There could be no doubt my face exhibited my surprise, but he didn’t seem to mind, not paying any attention to my scrunched eyebrows and slanted grin. I was holding back laughter with all my determination, retaining my composure. That didn’t last long. I had to ask, “So how old were you in the picture?” A few snorts escaped.

  He sipped his coffee, ignoring the noises slipping out through my tight lips. “Uh, I think I was about 24 or 25. A good twenty years ago, at least.”

  “That’s how old you said you were on your profile,” I pointed out.

  “Did I?” he said wryly. “I was trying to say that’s how old I was in the picture. Again, I’m not too great with computers. Do you want to order something?”

  “But I’m 25,” I burst out. My forward attitude was kicking in. “Why did you agree to this date?”

  “I thought it was strange that you contacted me at first,” he said, making slurping sounds, “but you always hear about couples who are decades apart, and I can’t say I mind dating younger women, especially one as attractive as you. I couldn’t turn you down.”

  The woman that had smashed my arm against the door appeared beside me from out of nowhere. “Excuse me, I don’t want to interrupt, but I wanted to apologize for bumping you on the way in. I was about to explode.”

  I’m about to explode. “Oh, it’s no problem,” I told her. As she left, I got up. “This—this is too much.”

  “Wait—” He jumped up. “I’m a good guy. I didn’t mean any dishonesty. Please, give me a chance.”

  I paused for a second, but then continued out the door. Deceived, gullible, stupid, all of those crossed my mind. Starting up Eddie’s little engine, I swore to myself that I was done with online dating.

  “ONE LOUS
Y DATE SHOULDN’T ruin the whole experience,” Danielle said the next night at home. The night before I’d shut myself in my room, watching season three of “Friends.” I always found great comfort in the tragic dating excursions on the show. They were so close to working out but never did, and I took comfort in the fact that they were like me, so close … but not.

  “I think one lousy date is a good enough reason to quit,” I replied, picking up Colby-Jack as he ran by my legs. Sitting on the couch, I settled him across my lap. “It was ridiculous, Danielle. He was 45 pretending to be 25.”

  “Yeah, I get the picture.” She flopped down beside me, putting two plates on the coffee table in front of us. “You don’t have to keep repeating it. He was not what you expected.”

  “Not what I expected?” I laughed. “All day long I pictured what would happen, but that—that was not a scenario I ever envisioned. Forty-five, Danielle. Forty-fucking-five.” I rubbed my face on Colby-Jack’s soft fur. “Ugh! I’m taking a break. I need it.”

  “God, when did you become so whiny?” She hit me with a pillow as I sat up.

  “When every guy in the world decided to become an asshole.”

  “Well, maybe you should ditch men,” she teased. “They don’t know what they’re doing down there anyway.”

  “Always with the sex,” I said, exasperated.

  “Always putting sex aside,” she contended. “Maybe you should try putting it first and see what happens.”

  “I can tell you what’ll happen,” I said. “If I took your advice, a wake of emptiness would follow the chain of meaningless one-night stands.”

  “Compared to the wake of happiness you’re swimming in right now?” She flicked open the Opa Pizzaria box and grabbed a slice of the pre-cut pizza. One thing Danielle and I shared was our predilection for pepperoni pizza with black olives. There was nothing better on a Thursday night after a terrible day—or days, in this case.

  I moved to get a slice and Colby-Jack padded off, climbing onto the arm of the couch and plopping down once he found the right spot. “A little harsh, don’t you think?”