Page 3 of Play Along With Me
"Yet," I add glumly. "He has no knowledge of it yet."
"Trust me," Leila says with dangerous confidence. "This is exactly what you need to get over Daniel once and for all."
If my life were actually a romantic comedy, this would be the turning point—the moment where I reluctantly agree to a blind date that will eventually lead to true love. But as I've recently discovered while covered in frosting in a supply closet, my life isn't following the standard screenplay.
"Fine," I concede, if only to make Leila stop looking at me like I'm a project on HGTV—'Disaster Humans: Extreme Makeover Edition.' "But if this goes horribly wrong, I'm blaming you in my memoir."
Leila: He's perfect for you. His name is Trevor. He works in my department.
I stare at the text message while simultaneously attempting to find matching socks in my laundry pile—a task that requires more mental energy than I can currently summon.Trevor. Even his name sounds like someone who tucks in his shirt and uses words like "synergy" and "circle back."
Me: Is this the guy who brought his own Tupperware to the office Christmas party?
Leila: That shows PREPARATION. And ENVIRONMENTAL CONSCIOUSNESS.
Me: He had individual containers for each food group, Leila. The man separated his carrots from his celery.
Leila: So he's organized! That balances out your... whatever your system is.
I glance around my apartment, where my "system" currently involves categorizing items based on how recently I've touched them.
Me: I'm not interested in dating right now. I'm focusing on my relationship with disappointment. We're very happy together.
Leila: He's really nice. And he has a GREAT job.
Me: So does my gynecologist, but I don't want to date him either.
Leila: Just ONE dinner. If it's terrible, I'll never set you up again.
Me: Promise?
Leila: Plus, he's a dad! That means he's responsible.
I nearly drop my phone into my cereal bowl.
Me: A DAD??? You're setting me up with someone's FATHER?
Leila: He only has his kid on weekends. It's very modern and mature.
Me: I still use plastic straws and laugh at fart jokes. I am neither modern nor mature.
Leila: Audrey. It's dinner. Not a kidney donation.
Me: My kidneys would recover faster.
Leila: Friday. 7pm. Luciano's. I've already told him you'll be there.
Me: I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns.
Leila: Love you too! Wear that blue dress. NOT the one with the wine stain that you think no one can see.
I toss my phone onto my bed and contemplate my life choices. Specifically, my choice in best friends.
Trevor is exactly as I feared: pressed khakis, sensible haircut, and the conversational rhythm of a metronome. He's spent the last forty-seven minutes (yes, I'm counting) telling me about his job in corporate logistics, pausing only to chew his food.
"The thing about supply chain management," he says, cutting his chicken into perfectly identical pieces, "is that most people don't appreciate its complexity."
I nod, reaching for my wine glass. It's my third. It's not helping.
