Chapter 14

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

BLAKE

I had to stop myself from following Molly when she left the mixer. I love how funny and engaging she is. Seriously, when she tried to cover her stumble by claiming she was going to start break dancing, I nearly proposed. While she's clearly not the most graceful woman, she's more entertaining than any I've ever met.

For a moment, I'm almost disappointed that I'm here on false pretenses. Not that I'd ever willingly sign up for something like this, but if I did, I'd certainly have thought I'd struck gold when I met Molly. She's the kind of woman you'd expect to have a line of men beating down her door.

I spend the next two hours introducing myself to women and men alike. I think I might have given a couple of guys the wrong impression by the way they hurried away from me, but so what? I'm here to do a job and I figure I need to talk to everyone that will talk to me.

Walking up to the guy that Molly pointed out as someone she might be interested in, I ask, "Having any luck?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet. It turns out I might not excel at this sort of thing. "

"It does kind of feel like attending your own execution, doesn't it?"

He laughs. "Like you're the star of a show that everyone knows is about to be cancelled."

"Why is it that we're not viewing this as a show that's about to be renewed? I think the goal is for us to be filled with optimism."

Continuing the simile, he says, "It might have something to do with our co-stars." He points to Olivia. "That one is particularly scary."

"I didn't last five minutes," I tell him. "It's not that I have anything against pet psychics, but Olivia is truly out there."

"What about the gorgeous brunette you were dancing with earlier?" Ah, so he noticed Molly. I'm not surprised.

I know it's wrong, but I find myself feeling protective, so I tell him, "I think she might still be pining for her ex."

"Really?" He sounds disappointed. Hopefully it will keep him from making a play for her.

"I'm Blake, by the way," I tell him.

"Thor," he answers.

It's clear I have no acting ability because as much as I try to school my expression, I can feel my facial muscles as they contract in horror. "Really?"

He chuckles. "My parents are Swedish. They came to the US after they got married." He adds, "I think they gave their kids intimidating names hoping it would cement our success in America."

"What are your siblings named?"

"My older brother is Odin and my sister is Freya."

"Wow." There's nothing else to say but, "Have you been as successful as they'd hoped?"

"I'm a producer on Chicago Flame ," he says. "So, I'm not doing too bad. All I need now is a wife and they'll be over the moon."

"You'd think you'd have met a lot of available women, given your field," I tell him.

He cringes. "I'm not interested in actresses. "

"I spent the last decade in Los Angeles. I just moved back to Chicago."

Thor grimaces. "I'm sorry."

"About which part?"

"LA," he says.

"It sounds like you know my pain."

"I was there before Chicago Flame got picked up. While I never lacked for female companionship, the quality of conversation left something to be desired."

"I wish someone would tell all those women searching for stardom that they don't have to sell their souls to the devil to succeed."

"But they really kind of do, don't they?" he asks. "I mean, the whole business is based on superficiality, so by not being superficial, they wouldn't be playing the right game to succeed."

"That's a depressing thought."

He nods. "Which is why I don't date actresses." Briefly glancing to the left, he adds, "Or pet psychics."

We talk for a few more minutes before I excuse myself. After meeting several other people, it occurs to me that there's a wide spectrum of loneliness out there. I meet two doctors, a lawyer, a couple of schoolteachers and even a woman who owns a chain of car washes. I don't connect with Krista again, but I manage to gather enough information to get back to work on my matchmaking exposé.

Once I get back to my room, I pull out my laptop and get busy.

What ever happened to meeting people the old-fashioned way? You know, in a bar or at a friend's kid's bar mitzvah? Don't parents set their adult children up with their friends' offspring anymore?

I just spent the last three hours at Trina Rockwell's first mixer at the Elk Lake Lodge and I'm not full of optimism. Rather, I feel sorry for the singles of the world who feel it necessary to put themselves out there in such a blatant way. It's almost like everyone was wearing the same sign around their necks: "I'm sad and lonely and I'm here because nobody else wants me." At least that's how I felt, and I'm not even looking.

That isn't to say the participants were less attractive or accomplished than their non-intending counterparts—other than the fact they're still single.

People from all walks of life are looking for love. The men ranged from blue collar jobs, like plumbers and contractors, to your college-educated careers of system analysts and architects. The women were equally impressive. I met a doctoral candidate who's writing her thesis on black holes, another was a stock trader, and still another who taught martial arts during the day and moonlighted as a bartender at night. There appears to be no foolproof recipe for success in the dating world.

So far, Ms. Rockwell has used an array of interesting techniques to get people to talk to each other. She stopped the mixer several times and informed the participants to share secrets, to dance, and even to force them to complement one another. I thought it felt uncomfortably orchestrated, but many seemed to find her machinations positive and unique.

I suppose I might have a different take if I were here to find love for myself, but I inherently believe in fate, not forced communion. Having said that, this was only day one. I'm sure there's more excitement to come, and maybe if people are lucky, some will find a happy ending.

I open another document for stories that I plan to weave in through the various articles. As of tonight, there's only one that comes to mind. I find that I almost don't want to write about it, but I have to because that's my job .

Imagine coming to a dating event two hours away from your home and running into the man who left you for another woman. That's what happened to one of the ladies at Trina Rockwell's first singles get-together. Polly Anderson thought she was going to meet nice eligible men, when in fact she wound up running into the man who broke her heart …

By the time I get into bed, I feel borderline dirty writing about Molly. And even though I've changed her name—barely—if she ever reads my articles, she'll know I was talking about her. While I'm attempting to be vague, most people probably won't have a hard time discerning who they are. For instance, I'm making Olivia an animal massage therapist instead of a psychic. I'm sure she won't need her sixth sense to decipher that one.

I briefly consider the ethics of what I'm doing, but after firing off an email to Gillian, she assured me that she'll run everything through legal before it gets published. While that should bring me some peace, and it does for most of the folks I'll be talking about, there's still the small matter of Molly.

What in the world am I going to do about her?