1. Vincent

ONE

The pristine napkins stacked neatly on the table emit a fresh linen scent. Clean and pressed. I adjust the top one, and the soft cloth soothes my fingers as I ensure it's lined up with the one below. With each gentle nudge, the pile inches closer to perfection. Staring at the edges, my brain turns. Are they exact? Could I assemble them more precisely? My head tilts down, the familiar tunnel emerging, but thankfully, I'm interrupted.

"Vincent?"

The welcome distraction comes from a white man I'm assuming is my date. Make that hoping. I'd guess him to be about six feet, with silver hair and a beard to match. Way better looking in person than his profile pic, he's giving me Santa's-younger-brother vibes, and maybe he's my early Christmas present. He's wearing a light blue button-down shirt, and half of the front flaps loose from his khaki pants. I've heard about this trend: the French tuck. You can paint it any way you like. It's unkempt. There's something on the front of his pants. They almost look … frayed. But the smile on his full face, all cheeks, and maybe a dimple hiding under that scruff instantly warms my heart. His deep brown eyes shine behind red glasses, and a small smile forms on my face. One of his shoelaces dangles undone; it might be knotted, and I suddenly realize my date is more than frazzled.

"Kent?"

"Yes, it's me. Kent. I'm him. Me. Kent Lester, I mean. Gosh, I'm so sorry I'm late," he says, shimmying out of his long dark coat and slinging it over the chair. He misses his target, and it thuds onto the dirty floor, the buttons clacking sharply against the wood.

I stand and put my hand out for a shake, and Kent takes it and pulls me into the biggest, warmest bear hug. The faint smell of a campfire wraps me in coziness as his arms gather my inch-shorter-than-his frame. The closeness tingles my skin, and I breathe in his toastiness, attempting to use my senses to shoo the uncomfortableness away.

"There you are," he whispers into my ear. His breath dances onto my neck, sending a shiver up my spine. "I'm a hugger."

I am most definitely not. Especially with strangers, but it's fine. I'm fine. Everything's fine. I came last week for a dry run with Marvin Block, cute kindergarten teacher, reigning Teacher of the Year (his words, not mine), and current close friend. We first met at this very table almost a year ago. It was a classic Vincent-one-and-done date setup by SWISH.

When I first read SWISH was "a groundbreaking queer dating app that promotes inclusivity by enabling users to chat and meet people who are looking for anything from casual friendships to serious relationships," I took the bait. While Marvin may not have been "the one," he kept his promise to stay in touch and we've developed a genuine friendship. In that regard, SWISH delivered on its promise. I've even been back to The Purple Giraffe with Marvin and his fiancé, Olan. Between the first time and now—many other unsuccessful dates, the two times I've come alone, and last week's dry run—I've been here exactly twelve times. Which makes tonight's date lucky … oh fuck.

"I hope that's okay," Kent says, pulling out of the embrace, but still clutching my elbows.

"Sure, yeah, I love a friendly hug," I fib. My skin prickles under my shirt, where his fingers still make contact. I find his eyes and they sparkle with kindness. A simple glance and he's somehow settling me. With a deep exhale, I offer a small smile and attempt to appear like a person this man might find acceptable to date. At least once. Dinner. Tonight.

After the last few SWISH matches crashed and burned, Marvin suggested we have a "mock date" here so he could offer some tips to tweak my game. It's not my fault Jason (date five) never stopped talking, even with a full mouth. Crumbs shot across the table at me like a personal meteor shower. And then there was Mark (date eight), who took one look at my bald head and asked if I'd ever considered a hair transplant. When I didn't answer, he asked if I wanted the number of his toupee guy.

Marvin offered suggestions on managing my OCD, starting conversations, and body language, and I'm ready to implement them all. Stay open. Listen to your heart. Be brave. Take a leap for love. That, plus his encouragement to talk with my doctor about changing my medication, and I've been doing much better. Marvin is a sweetheart. He wants me to be happy.

As I take refuge in my chair, Kent, never breaking eye contact, attempts to sit, but slips on his coat, still sprawled on the floor, and almost falls off his seat.

"Are you okay?" I quickly move to assist.

"Fine. Sorry," he stammers, catching himself on the table, "I'm a bit disoriented, is all."

"Take a breath. There's nothing to be anxious about," I offer—Marvin's advice to me now attempts to soothe my date as I neatly fold and hang his coat on the back of his chair.

"Oh, I'm not nervous about, about, you. Us. This." Kent motions erratically to the table and the small votive flickers in fear. "It's Sweetums. My cat. He gets medication, and well, have you ever tried to pill a cat?"

"I have not."

"It's a bit like trying to cram a bowling ball into your pocket," he says and lets out a loud guffaw that startles the people at the next table. "Anyway, that's why I'm late. And, well, a bit of a mess."

"You're fine. I was only here a few minutes."

Kent's eyes fall on mine, and his smile returns. The whiskers in his beard prickle, but there's nothing dodgy about him.

"Thank you. Honestly, sometimes I wonder who's in charge, me or the damn cat."

"Is he sick?" I ask, attempting to calm Kent and get our date moving along.

"Oh no. It's for his nerves."

"You have a nervous cat?"

"Apparently. Technically, it's his tummy that's nervous, and the medicine helps." He indicates the splotch and scratches on his pants. "Me cramming it down his throat every other day, not so much."

"Well, you're here now. And looking exactly like your profile pic on SWISH, I might add. I can't say that about most guys."

"Really? I mean"—Kent runs his hands through his thick wavy hair—"Thank you. I mean you, you …" He cocks his head.

"Shaved."

"Yes, that's it." He nods approvingly, and his lips turn up. His smile, sweet and kind, and the first hint of his teeth make my stomach flip.

"I tried the mustache and goatee for a minute," I say, rubbing my naked chin, "but it was hard to keep tidy. I probably should take a new profile photo."

"No. You look, well …" Kent tilts his glass to take a sip of water and somehow misses his mouth. "Cheese and rice!"

Water pours down the front of his shirt, and I'm not sure I've ever seen a more discombobulated human.

He takes a deep breath, pats his shirt with his napkin, and, with a lower voice, whispers, "Can I be honest with you about something?"

The hairs on my neck tingle, and I need to remember to shave lower next time. We've just met, and he's already confessing.

"Of course, please."

"My cat is only half of it." He pulls his lips in and continues, "I literally just installed the app. You're my first match." A small giggle escapes his lips. "And my first date. Since I divorced my wife. Seven years ago."

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

"I'm bi. I mean, I was bi the entire time we were married. She knew. Knows. Corrine, that's my wife. Ex-wife. She's totally supportive. We're friends. Exes. But the split was amicable."

Not that I'm keeping score, but so far, Kent is late, frazzled, rumpled, divorced, wet, has a cat with a nervous stomach, and I'm his first match on the app. This is his first date since his divorce. Seven years ago. From a woman. My fingers fondle the napkins, pushing the corners closer, tighter.

"Oh, well, that's nice," I fumble out, tugging a loose thread on the bottom napkin. "You're still friends with your ex. Not that you're bi."

Kent's eyes go wide.

"I mean, that's great too. I mean for me, right?" My shoulders creep up into a feeble shrug.

Kent's friendly smile returns, and my fingers pause. The man may have a laundry list of cons, but Marvin's words replay in my head. "Vincent, romance isn't about tallying points."

As if on cue, knowing the awkwardness was about to explode like a suddenly active four-thousand-year-old volcano, our server Val approaches.

Portland, Maine has more restaurants per capita than any other U.S. city besides San Francisco, but I'm always going to end up at The Purple Giraffe. Yes, they have a clean report from the health inspector, but also, familiarity. Control. Val.

Even when I'm unable to snag my usual table, Val claims me. Since we first met, she's cut her hair, the high ponytail gone, replaced by a sharp bob that frames her pale skin. When I was here with Herbert (date four) she told me the fresh cut was part of her trying to embrace her thirties.

After my disastrous date with Marvin, I returned the next week solo. The food—a fusion of Mexican and Korean, a unique explosion of flavors in my mouth—beckoned. And I had a plan. If I kept coming back, I might become more comfortable and be able to relinquish some of my usual date rituals.

During that first return dinner, Val and I chatted. I explained and over-apologized for my OCD, and to my surprise, she was quite understanding. She always keeps a close eye on me and brings extra napkins without asking.

"How are we tonight, gentlemen?" Val asks, her familiar voice a welcome salve.

"Good, we're good," I say, willing it into reality.

"Have you decided on drinks?"

We haven't discussed drinks. Or food.

"Kent, do you like wine?"

"Very much." He folds his damp napkin in his lap. Maybe there's hope for us after all.

"Merlot?"

He nods, and his sweet smile, perhaps even a little goofy, prompts me.

"How about a bottle?" I say, pointing to the wine list.

Val dips her chin and raises her left eyebrow.

"Absolutely. I'll be right back with it."

I move my hands to my lap, the promise of wine and a small connection lulling my fingers to relax. Marvin's words replay in my head. Be in the moment. Don't dismiss outright. Sitting across from me, even in his tangled state, something about Kent intrigues me. He's clearly older, but the SWISH age ranges only told me he's "over 40," which technically, even though only by a few months, so am I.

Finally settled, Kent scans the restaurant. "This place is nice."

"Yeah, I love it. The food is fantastic." I dab the napkin on my lap. "Thanks for agreeing to meet here."

"Oh please, I'd meet you anywhere," Kent says, and his smile, soft, kind, and full of empathy, sparks something in my stomach.

"So, you're divorced. And you haven't dated in … seven years?" I ask.

"Honestly, no. I haven't had the courage. Corrine and I were college sweethearts, and well, I'm so out of practice. With apps and all, it's not quite the same. Back then, you went to a club. A bar. Or met at a party. You gave out your landline number, went home, and waited impatiently for your answering machine to blink." He grabs his phone and lifts it. "None of this nonsense. My family takes a lot of my time. And my job can be consuming, and now, well, things at work are …" Kent's eyes drop to his lap and his voice trails off as he bites his lower lip.

Kent's mention of work turns my thoughts to tomorrow. A fresh start for me—a new school implementation. After the last disaster, I need this one to be successful. Hopscotch, the software company I work for, gathers and analyzes data more effectively for schools. If it's rolled out correctly. This time I won't fuck it up. My OCD won't derail things. This time will be better. It has to be. My job depends on it. Bringing up work on these first dates is a convenient option, but it can be a minefield. Perhaps Kent shares this perspective.

"Kent, may I propose we don't discuss our jobs?" I suggest. "Just for tonight."

His eyes find mine again. Tiny lines crinkle around the edges as he grins at my offer. My heart beats a little faster. When he's not tripping, falling, or spilling, Kent's face has a warmth that's doing it for me.

"Really? You know, that sounds amazing—no shop talk. Let's get to know each other without those boring details," he says.

"Deal."

"Deal."

Val returns with a tray carrying two wine glasses and a bottle. She pours the wine. I taste it, give her a single nod, and my shoulders drop as I sip. The weight of work, the stress, and the worry disappear down my throat along with the full-bodied, smooth liquid. Kent's radiating kindness, which is incredibly sexy, overshadows his scattered nature and messiness. Something about the wine and this man across from me has my head swimming, and I'm optimistic this night won't be a total disaster.