Nothing More Beautiful by Lorelai LaBelle Page A

dinner on Saturday. I had proposed Henry’s on
12 th and he seemed pretty stoked that I’d even suggest
such a place. I liked it because of the huge beer selection, all
labeled by styles. Why he liked the idea so much I’d soon find
out.
    The day slogged by, with very few high
notes, cursed by a computer system that wouldn’t cooperate. It
seemed the harder I tried to solve the computer problem, the more
the answer eluded me. The driver occasionally intruded into my
thoughts, but I shrugged them off, focusing on the upcoming date.
By the time Bridgett asked me if I wanted to go out, I was grouchy
and ready to punch something, anything. After I told her I’d think
about it, I ended up passing, opting for a night spent in front of
the TV with Colby-Jack.
     
    I DIDN’T SLEEP MUCH that
night, anticipation gnawing at me, condemning me to an early
morning fraught with expectations and different visions of how the
date could go.
    Butterflies came and went throughout the
day, and I tried to work them out of my system when Danielle and I
went to the gym. That plan failed. Back at work, I tried
distracting myself with the manual for installing the network
correctly at the bakery, but that only made me frustrated. By the
time it came to dressing, I was a nervous wreck. Luckily, Danielle
and Ashley were home preparing for a fancy night out, and they
agreed to put together an ensemble they assured me would “knock him
dead.” They did not disappoint, dressing me in a jean skirt with
leggings, a red V-neck sweater that showed enough cleavage with my
best push-up, and tall boots that added a few inches.
    “Wish me luck,” I said, on my way out the
door.
    “You’re too gorgeous to need luck,” Ashley
said, slapping my butt as if to say good job.
    “Hey,” Danielle called out. “Cut that out.
Mine’s over here.”
    I waved goodbye, laughing. The drive from
the Sellwood area to downtown was about as simple as it got, but I
hated the competition for street parking, so I designed a strategy
a few years back, beginning at the parking spaces across from
Irving Street Kitchen on NW 13 th . They were normal,
head-first spaces. Parallel parking had given me trouble since I
was fifteen in Driver’s Ed. The night started off on a good note,
with a free space for Eddie.
    Eight blocks away, Henry’s sat on the corner
of 12 th and Burnside, only a block away from Powell’s
City of Books, my favorite store in the city. I loved the unique
crosswords they sold. The eight blocks in the brisk air leveled my
overwhelming jitters. I walked through the entrance six minutes
late. Josh had texted twice about my ETA. Maybe he had a thing for
punctuality.
    The sharply dressed hostess led me to the
back of a rectangular nook. The man sitting at the table looked
like Josh, but had one tweak to his appearance: a short black
beard. He stood and pointed at me with finger pistols. “Maci,” he
emphasized and inflected the second syllable.
    “Josh,” I said by way of greeting. He
reached out to hug me, his shoulders forward so that our chests
didn’t touch. I froze for a second, then, like a maladroit
schoolgirl, patted his back and offered a shy smile. Fortunately,
the gauche embrace didn’t last long.
    “It’s nice to meet you,” he said, hurrying
to his seat. “I was pumped to get your message.” He was tall, tan,
with short black hair and piercing blue eyes so deep they verged on
midnight.
    I took the seat across from him, placing my
clutch on the table, taking off my coat and scarf, and unrolling
the napkin-wrapped silverware. “I was glad to come across your
profile,” I replied. “Though, in your picture you didn’t have a
beard.” My words were direct, but if they were critical, he didn’t
seem to pick up on it.
    He rubbed his chin. “Yeah, well, it’s
Portland, right? So I figured I should grow it out now before it’s
gray, you know, to see what it looks like. What do you think?”
    I nodded, faking a pleased smile.