2. It’s a Cutthroat World

Juliet

Is there anything better than cheese? Okay, fine. There are dogs, cats, orgasms, chocolate, good music, a steaming cup of tea, a soft scarf, and nights with friends.

But cheese is up there in life's top ten things. So tonight will be great because it's a cheese date.

I'm getting ready for it on FaceTime with my older sister from my cute little apartment in Hayes Valley. Mustache perches on the bathroom sink, tail twitching, eyes following my movements as I slick on some lipstick.

He's kind of into me.

"I have a good feeling about this one," I tell Rachel as I set down the tube then blot my lips on a tissue.

"Because you're the world's most optimistic breakup-party planner." Rachel is puttering around, watering plants in the home she shares with her husband.

"Just because I plan parties that celebrate a relationship's end doesn't mean I can't find love myself." I fluff out my brown waves and strike a pose to show off my red top and jeans, accessorized with platform sandals and a necklace with a ladybug charm Rachel gave me for my birthday last year. I went through a major ladybug phase when I was a kid. I still like them, which is lucky because family never lets you forget your childhood obsession.

"How do I look?" I ask.

"Younger than me, dammit," she faux grumbles as she looks me over.

I roll my eyes. "Like you're old."

"Older than you."

"Which you've wielded to your advantage every day of my life."

She waves me off. "Go. Have fun. I can't wait for the date report. But send me your location. Do you want me to call you in thirty minutes for an SOS?"

"Nope." I shake my head, certain I won't need a lifeline tonight.

We say goodbye, and I give Mustache a well-deserved scratch on the chin—one of only two acceptable cat quadrants for petting, even for a cat who's into me—then take off for the Thursday evening cheese-tasting extravaganza at the wine bar a few blocks away.

Zelda and Nico's Cheese Experience takes place behind the heavy brushed-metal doors of an industrial-style establishment, with exposed pipes and brick walls, servers in leather aprons, and some kind of music with ukuleles in it playing softly overhead.

Of course.

I scan the place, looking for Elijah from the app. Doesn't take long to find the graffiti artist waiting by the bar, wearing a black scarf and horn-rimmed glasses. He looks almost like his photo but a few years older. Okay, maybe ten. Or possibly a dozen.

But age is just a number, right? I'm not bothered by a slight photo mismatch. Or a not-so-slight one.

As I approach, he stares past me without recognition, like he's waiting for someone else. Hmm. Maybe I got him wrong? He did say he'd wear a black scarf, and he's the only one since it's, you know, summer. Still, he really seems to be expecting someone different.

Nerves swoop through me, but I soldier on. Maybe the prescription on those glasses is as out of date as his profile picture. Besides, what's the worst that could happen when he sees me? He'll pretend to be someone else? I'll deal.

When I reach him, I give my best, most cheerful smile. "I'm Juliet. You must be Elijah."

He surveys me quizzically for a few seconds before he breaks the silence with a strained, "Yes. I am."

Oh god. He hates my hair. My face. My nose. My…everything?

But then he seems to dismiss whatever is concerning him, and he pastes on a smile. "Good to meet you at last, Juliet."

He stares at me with a burning intensity. Not once, not for a freaking second, does he break eye contact.

It's a little much, but I'm not going to toss him out this early for a little eye contact. If I did, I'd lose the bet.

And, more importantly, the eight p.m. seating.

A folk singer croons about love and luck while Elijah and I discuss types of cheese. It's been a solid-ish date so far, aside from the extreme eye contact.

"Cheese-making is an art form, don't you think?" Elijah plucks a slice of Camembert from the charcuterie board, holding it up to consider intently.

"I imagine so," I say. "I would think it requires passion, craft, and commitment." That's just a guess. I don't have a clue what it takes to make this delicacy.

"And each bite builds on the next," he says. "A true progression in flavors. A good cheese tasting, then, has to be treated like a blank canvas."

As he waxes on, he continues to study my face. Like, lab-experiment-under-a-microscope type study. His eyes tour my forehead and down my neck as if he's cataloging my appearance for a scientific journal.

I don't know what to make of his level of interest, so I try to keep the mood light. "You'd need a cheese creator and a cheese curator. Are they the same though?" I ask playfully, spearing a small piece of Gouda and popping it into my mouth with a bright smile.

You can do this. He might stop sounding like a cheese douche any second now.If I don't give him the opportunity, how will I know?

A year ago, I would have cut my losses early. I ended romances that were going nowhere. Now I wondered if I should have given some of those "maybe" guys a chance while there were still a few non-wackadoodle men left in the dating pool.

But Elijah's not a wackadoodle. He's just intense. I focus on his good qualities like, for instance, he's clean. A recent shower is a nice change from my last date, who believed that daily showers were a symptom of the consumerist chokehold on the working class. Me, I like rebellions that start with soap.

Moving away from the danger of cheese elitism is the perfect chance to flex my dating muscles. I'm naturally curious, so it's easy to ask a question about his work. "Speaking of art, here's something I've always wanted to know about graffiti art. Do you sketch out your work in advance? Do you have to sketch it on a huge canvas, or can you scale it down?"

Elijah goes starkly silent for several seconds. Then several more. Funny, I didn't think that question was a stumper. Maybe my graffiti insight has struck him speechless.

"Everything okay?" I ask, just in case he's not thinking, Graffiti questions and cheese, and she doesn't care that I'm a dozen years older than my picture? The algo loves me.

Finally, he shakes his head like he's shaking off a daze and blurts: "I'm so sorry. But I thought you were twenty-five."

Wait. Why would he think that? "You…did?"

"In your pictures. On the app. You looked younger."

I blink, trying to orient myself to this next-level "Weird Shit I've Heard on Dates." I've heard I only date models, I just got out of jail, and Would you give me a bath tonight?

But did he really just accuse me of lying?

No. He accused me of a worse dating sin in his book—looking old.

"They're literally photos from this year," I say, irked. "My profile says I'm thirty. Which I am. And all those pics were from the spring." Breezily, I add, "I'm a big believer in using recent pics."

Translation: I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, but we both know I'M NOT THE LIAR HERE.

The message is lost on Elijah, who points a finger and eyes me skeptically. "In this one pic, you were outside on the ferry just before sunset. The wind was blowing."

"Yes, that's one of my profile shots. From May," I say pointedly.

"There was another at the same time of day, maybe at a rooftop cocktail party." He groans and drops his face into his hand. "I'm such a fool. I know what happened, and you're right. They are recent…but you took them at the golden hour. That's what tricked me into thinking you were twenty-five." He shakes his head, offering a weak smile. "I should have known better. I really can't continue this date."

"You're rejecting me based on good lighting?" I ask, struggling to process the absurdity of his reason.

"I feel terrible, but I do have an age limit. It's the only way I can survive online dating. My sincerest apologies." He holds up his hands in surrender. "Please know that I truly did try to look past the age issue because of our mutual interest in cheese. But I can't, and this is all my fault." He sounds genuinely remorseful now, so remorseful I almost feel bad.

Almost, but not quite. "How considerate of you," I deadpan.

His chair scrapes against the wood floor as he pushes back, readying to take off. "I only date women who are under twenty-six. You're such a nice lady. I'm sure you understand."

He says it like I couldn't possibly find this unreasonable, when, in fact, I find his rejection the height of dating bullshit. I'm about to say as much when a hand lands on the back of my chair, and I catch the scent of cedar and old books.

"She does understand," says a familiar masculine voice. "She also understands that you owe her an apology."

Is that really Monroe? Here at my date? I glance up at him, then back at Elijah, who looks genuinely perplexed.

"But I already apologized. Many times."

"Not for being a douche," Monroe corrects. "Say ‘I'm sorry for being a judgy jackass.'"

Holy smokes. Monroe is stern. And bossy. And not at all off-base.

Elijah's jaw comes unhinged. He gulps. "I…didn't…Are you her boyfriend? Because I was just leaving anyway. Sorry, man."

"That's not what this is about. Say you're sorry."

I'm tempted to say this masculine show isn't necessary, but it's too delightful to watch Monroe school this ageist, cheese-ist prick.

"I-I'm sorry I was a judgy jackass," Elijah stammers. "Can I go now?"

Monroe scoffs. "Pay first."

Elijah squeaks—actually squeaks. "Of course, of course." He opens his phone, swallows, and meets Monroe's steady gaze with watery eyes. "What's your Venmo?"

Seriously? I wave off Elijah, ready to be done with him. "It's not necessary. I've got this."

"No. It is necessary." Monroe tips his head toward the bar. "Also, pay the damn bar, not me. I'll escort you."

Monroe guides my former date to the bartender. Alone for a minute, I contemplate my life choices. My bad dating streak remains unbroken, despite all my efforts. I brought my most positive mindset. I tried so hard to speak his language, to find common interests, and to look past his cheese snobbery.

Where did that get me? Feeling foolish and no closer to finding the one.

Maybe I should just admit dating is my kryptonite.

The man in the obnoxious hipster scarf rushes out of the bar, free to find a woman young enough to ride his ride. My prickly podcast partner returns to the table and parks himself in the abandoned chair across from me, flashing me a smug smile as he rolls up the cuffs on his shirtsleeves like he's just finished a hard day at work.

Great. Just great. Now I have to deal with Monroe when he's not dispensing advice and saving women from bad dates. When he's just prickly, prodding Monroe with the inked forearms and the grin like he knows all my secrets.

I swallow my embarrassment and put on my armor. "Did you show up to rub it in?"

His smile widens, turns a little wicked. "Nope."

"To gloat? To collect your winnings early? Fine. You were right. He didn't even last through a special reserve cheese-tasting seating. You win."

Another shake of his head. "I'm not here about the bet. I showed up to make your day."

I'm not in the mood to wander lost down this road. "What are you talking about?" I ask, exhausted by these dating shenanigans.

He slides open his phone, swivels it around, and shows me a document. It looks like the title to a home in Darling Springs.

His hometown, where eight years ago I spent a summer that included one week of perfect dates and one fantastic night with this man.

A night we've never acknowledged since.