Nothing More Beautiful by Lorelai LaBelle Page B

“Looks
great.” I was just glad for the hair on his scalp—it was a major
step up from Wednesday’s date.
    “Thanks. I think it makes me look more
distinguished.” After a break in the conversation, he picked up his
menu and said, “So, what do you think you’ll order?”
    “I love their mac and cheese,” I
blurted out loudly, and he recoiled from the eruption.
    He settled back in his chair. “I like your
enthusiasm,” he laughed. “Mac attack is always good, but that
applewood smoked bacon cheeseburger is calling to me.” Mac
attack? And a cheeseburger? That meant he was going to
have onion breath for the rest of the night. The night’s promising
beginning was taking a nosedive. I drew in a big inhale and let it
go, relaxing. I told Danielle I’d give him a chance and wouldn’t be
too judgmental, and that’s what I planned on doing.
    “They make killer burgers,” I said,
attempting to sound cool. “Hank’s Stuffed is amazing.” I knew from
experience that their signature burger gave a more agreeable onion
breath than the cheeseburger.
    He put down his menu, glancing around. “I
love that you picked this place. The service here is amazing.”
    The comment bordered on strange, as I’d
never noticed anything spectacular about the service, but then I
remembered an observation Danielle and Ashley had made the last
time we dined here. I scanned behind me and spotted three busty
waitresses wearing tight, low-cut blouses.
    Half my lips curled up. Perv. Fucking
perv.
    That soured my mood. I turned back to my
date. “Yeah, good service,” I said curtly. “My friends Ashley and
Danielle love that too.” My tone remained tart. The waitress
returned before I wrung his neck. We ordered: the mac and cheese
for me, and the cheeseburger for him, plus two beers. I started off
dark with an oatmeal stout. He went with a pilsner—another bad sign
for our future.
    Our conversation ebbed and flowed until the
food came, mostly small talk and first-date, get-to-know-you
questions, then it fell into a lull. He had taken out his phone,
more interested in texting than conversing. I grabbed my clutch and
withdrew the strip of lactase pills for my lactose intolerance,
swallowing five since the heavy cheese could do nasty things to my
stomach. I felt ridiculous taking them out in public, but a few
seconds of social discomfort was ten times better than the physical
discomfort I suffered without them.
    “So, you’re a Blazers fan,” I said when my
second beer arrived, this time a sweeter brown. I was pushing
through the barrier, ignoring the little annoyances, trying to make
the most of the date.
    He took his eyes off his phone, his interest
piqued. “Only missed one game this season.” He laid his smartphone
on the table, apparently hoping—the same as I was—that the
conversation was flipping around. “They’re the only reason I have
cable.”
    “And what’s 88 stand for?” I asked. “I
thought you were 24.”
    “I am,” he answered. “It’s Batum’s number.”
His flat tone indicated his indifference. Apparently my ignorance
surrounding professional basketball really cooled him off. He
collected his phone and began texting again. The vibrations on the
table were grinding away my patience, but it was a date and I
didn’t wish to be as rude as him since I hoped he was paying,
otherwise, I would have gotten up and left the moment the last bite
of mac and cheese slid down my throat. I managed to eat half of it
before my stomach insisted I cease.
    We both got boxes to go. The check came and
we stared at it in awkward silence. He made no attempt to reach for
it whatsoever and again retreated into his texts. Minutes passed,
and after he’d ignored me for more than half the night, he said,
“Dutch?” My jaw dropped in astonishment. I’d suffered his company
for nothing.
    I made a give-me-a-break gesture that also
acquiesced to his proposal. We both had cash, but he didn’t have
enough for a tip, so that