Page 2 of If My Wishes Came True
I have zero expectations of experiencing a thunderbolt tonight. But after I’ve changed my outfit, had a snack, and made it to the part ofFour Weddingswhere the music swells and everyone’s happy, I’m feeling much more chipper, and I walk into the restaurant where I’m meeting this guy with renewed energy.
Who knows? Maybe my client’s brother will be exactly what I’m looking for. Someone to explore the city with. Try out new restaurants with. To sleep with, if the chemistry’s right. But withnostrings attached. Is that too much to ask?
I don’t know. But right off the bat, this date is off to a rocky start. He’s late. And he hasn’t called or texted.
I sit at the bar and ask for a glass of the house red. Before I know it, twenty minutes pass.Did I just get stood up?The bartender asks if I want more wine, and I nod. He winks as he turns to grab the bottle, and I smile out of habit. At least he’s not as obnoxious as the guys at the park.
After he refills my glass, I let myself get lost in the velvety red color of the wine. I take a slow sip, and catch a hint of bright magenta at the rim. Just theideaof painting a bright swirl of pink on a background of burgundy makes me a little bit giddy.
When I look back up, the bartender’s watching me. “Whoever you’re waiting for must not know what they’re missing,” he says as his gaze travels from my eyes to my chest.
I giggle. Again, out of habit. But as I’m about to quip back, someone starts frantically tapping my shoulder. I turn around and recognize my date from a picture his sister showed me. He’s panting and wiping sweat off his brow.
“Jenna?” he asks with no hint of a smile.
“That’s me,” I say brightly, ignoring his scowl, when I’d love nothing more than to match it. “And you must be Greg?”
He nods with a furrowed brow. “I would have texted, but my goddamn phone died,” he says, pulling his cell out of his pocket and staring at the unresponsive screen. He shakes his head, and now I’m wondering if he’s more upset about his phone than the fact that he’s twenty-five minutes late.
“Then my cab got stuck in traffic because the idiot driver took Lake Shore duringrush hour, and I had no way of contacting you, so I ran all the way here from Michigan Avenue,” he goes on.
My chest tightens. I haven’t known this guy more than two minutes, but he seems like a colossal jerk. He’s got plenty of excuses, but he didn’t even apologize for being late. Ihatethat he called the cab driver an idiot. He’s acting like a toddler in the middle of a tantrum.
And now he’s repeatedly tapping his dead phone screen.
“You look like you could use a drink,” I tell him—not because I want him to join me, but because I’m a little concerned about his stress level.
Finally, he puts his cell away and looks me in the eyes. That’s when his expression softens. “Christ,” he says, his gaze moving down the length of my body. “My sister sent me your picture, but you’re even hotter in person.”
I want to cry. “You’re not so bad yourself,” I say instead, flipping my hair.
But it’s true, he’s very handsome. The first thing I notice when I meet someone new is their eyes. And Greg’s eye color is rare and captivating—a dark, steely gray around the edges, with a lighter silver in the middle. He looks a little older than in the picture his sister showed me, but his laugh lines and salt-and-pepper hair suit him.
Greg grabs a cocktail napkin from the bar and wipes the remaining sweat off his brow. “Are you hungry?” he asks, pointing toward the crowd enjoying their meals behind us. “I know we were meeting for a drink, but I made you wait so long, the least I can do is buy you dinner.”
Honestly, I’m tempted to call it a night as soon as I finish my glass of wine. Maybe the universe sent this abrasive man my way as a sign that I should throw in the towel and give up on dating altogether. If I leave now, I could be home in time to watchThe Bachelorette. Ranking another woman’s suitors from the comfort of my sofa seems much more appealing than dealing with the real-life bachelor waiting for my answer.
But on the other hand, Idon’t want to spend yet another night in my empty apartment. I’ll admit it—I’m lonely.
So what if Greg was rude at first? He was stressed about his broken phone. We’ve all been there. And he’s offering to make it up to me now. I should give him a chance.
“I could eat,” I say with an enthusiastic grin to camouflage my ambivalence.
Once we’re seated at a table by the window and Greg has hisown glass of wine, he leans in toward me. “So you’re new to Chicago, right? Where did you move from?”
“LA, most recently.”
“Most recently,” he repeats with raised eyebrows. “So you move around a lot?”
“You could say that. I’m from Columbus, Ohio. When I was eleven, we moved to Beachwood, which is near Cleveland. After that, I lived in Ann Arbor, then New York, then Pittsburgh?—”
“Geez. Are you on the run, or something?” he jokes.
I laugh, even though his comment hits a nerve. My sister, Christy, calls me “Runaway Jenna.” It’s true, Ihavepacked up my life several times and picked a new city for a new beginning.
If only it helped. I guess you can’t run away from a broken heart.
“Life’s too short to stay in one place for very long,” I say, batting my eyelashes to distract him.
