Chapter 2

Chapter Two

"So you have to pay two-thousand dollars if you're a new member joining the group," Kevin explains to me, "but for every vacation package you sell, you earn a five-thousand-dollar commission. Pretty amazing, right?"

I drag one of my french fries through a little trail of ketchup on my plate. We are nearly forty minutes into this date, and I am inexplicably still here. Stupid Gretchen. She's making out with her boyfriend or something and has forgotten all about poor little me. I even texted her "SOS" and she still didn't call me.

"I could definitely get you into the group." Kevin chomps on one of his spicy barbecue chicken wings—he's got an incredibly healthy appetite for such a skinny guy. I pointed out to him once that the barbecue sauce was getting on his cheek, and he wiped it off that time, but every single time he takes a bite, more of it gets all over his face. At some point, I got sick of telling him his face was dirty. "Do you want me to call Lois at the corporate headquarters? This is an amazing opportunity, Sydney. You're lucky I came along."

"No, thank you," I say.

Kevin reaches over and grabs my Diet Coke. When his wings arrived, he complained they were too spicy, and then, over the course of fifteen minutes, he proceeded to drain his beer, then a second beer, and now he has commandeered my Diet Coke. "Why not? Why would you turn down an opportunity to make, like, six figures a year?"

"Because it's a pyramid scheme?"

"A pyramid scheme!" Kevin chuckles. "Why would you think that?"

"Because I am an accountant and I know what a pyramid scheme is?"

"No, you just don't understand," he insists. "Look, I'm trying to do you a favor, Sydney. You've got this super-boring job crunching numbers all day. Wouldn't you rather make a few sales a year and relax the rest of the time on your own luxury vacation property?"

I don't know what to say to that, so instead, I grab my purse. "I'm going to the bathroom."

I hope the bathroom has a window I can climb out of.

When I get to the ladies' room, I find that there is sadly no window. So I actually use the toilet, then I spend another two minutes looking at myself in the mirror, carefully examining my "flabby" arms. They don't look that bad, do they?

Do they?

I am googling "arm slimming exercises" on my phone when it starts to ring. Gretchen's name pops up on the screen, and my jaw tightens. Finally , she's calling. Forty-five freaking minutes into the meal. I swipe to take the call.

"Seriously, Gretchen?" I bark into the phone without even saying hello. "I have been on the worst date ever, and it's pretty much all your fault."

That's not entirely fair. The real Kevin deserves at least fifty percent of the credit for this awful evening. But I'm pissed off, and I need to take it out on somebody .

"I'm so sorry!" Gretchen cries. "Randy and I were watching a movie, and we lost track of time…"

"Uh-huh…"

"I didn't even want to watch the movie," she insists. "Randy promised me he wouldn't let me forget about the call, but then, well, you know."

I can hear Randy in the background, saying, "Hey! Don't tell her it's my fault!" And then Gretchen giggles like he's tickling her or something. I bite my lip, resentful of how cute Gretchen and Randy are together. When she and I became friends, she was single, like me. Then, one day, we were riding up in the elevator together, and she started gushing about how adorable the super in my building is. And now they've been dating for like six months!

Don't get me wrong. I'm happy my friend has found the guy of her dreams. I'm just still trying to find mine.

"Where are you now?" she asks.

"Hiding in the bathroom, obviously."

"Oh God. I'm so sorry."

"It's fine," I grumble. "You were probably making passionate love to your boyfriend, while I'm stuck here with a guy who is trying to talk me into a pyramid scheme."

"Oh no, Syd! Seriously?"

"That's not even the worst of it," I say. "His mother tried to FaceTime him in the middle of our meal, and he actually took the call. I had to say hello to her! His mother , Gretchen! On our first date!"

"I'm truly sorry," she says, even though I can tell she's trying not to laugh.

"I'm sure."

"Really, Syd. I'm the worst. Tomorrow after yoga, lattes and muffins are on me."

I suppose I can accept that apology. Anyway, the date is almost over. I am about five minutes away from never seeing Real Kevin or Fake Kevin ever again. Well, I might see Fake Kevin again if I go to a Matt Damon movie.

I tell Gretchen goodbye, take one last critical look at my arms (which are fine the way they are, Kevin!), then I head back out to the table. And lo and behold, a miracle has occurred and our check is on the table, waiting for me. I might get out of here sooner than expected.

"You were in there forever," Kevin comments. He wipes his lips with the back of his sleeve. It gets the sauce off his lips, but smears it all over his white-and-red-checkered shirt. I don't even care anymore. "Did you fall in?"

I manage a thin smile. "Thanks for dinner."

"Sure thing." Kevin slides the check across the table to me. "Your share comes to thirty-eight dollars."

I wouldn't have wanted Kevin to treat me to this meal, because I don't want to owe him, but I'm having trouble figuring out how my small salad and Diet Coke plus tip somehow cost thirty-eight dollars. The accountant in me wants to pick up the check and calculate my actual share of the meal, but the woman in me doesn't want to prolong this another second. So instead, I toss two twenties on the table.

While Kevin is climbing out of the booth, the song "Eye of the Tiger" comes on the radio. He grins at me and winks. "This is my favorite song. Isn't Rocky the greatest movie of all time?"

"I haven't seen it."

Kevin clutches his chest in astonishment, like I just told him I kill puppies for fun. "You haven't seen it?"

"Nope."

"Well, now we know what we're doing on our second date."

I decide not to dispel him of the notion that there will be another date. But as soon as I get out of here, I am blocking him on Cynch. He doesn't have my real phone number, so he has no way of contacting me again.

"And then," he adds, "we can watch Rocky II on our third date. And Rocky III on our fourth date!"

He is in the midst of planning our seventh date ( Rocky VI ) when we get out of the bar. It's smack in the middle of August, which is a great time to wear a sleeveless dress that shows off my grotesque arms, but also peak humidity time in New York City. Despite my leave-in conditioner and my careful efforts with the curling iron, my hair has started to frizz. Thankfully, I couldn't care less what my date thinks of my hair right now.

"I'll walk you home," Kevin tells me.

I nearly choke. "No, that's okay."

He sticks out his chin. "I absolutely insist. It's dark out—what sort of gentleman would I be if I let you walk home yourself in the dark?"

"It's okay. Really."

"You could be killed , Sydney."

That seems unlikely. Anyway, I'm willing to risk death just to get away from this guy. But he has a determined look on his face, and I'm starting to suspect that the easiest option would be to just let him walk me home. Not that I am actually going to let him walk me home. I live about ten blocks away, and I figure after three or four blocks I'll just point out a random building and tell him it's mine. Then I'll be free of Real Kevin forever.

"Fine," I grumble. "Let's go."

He grins at me. "Lead the way."

Given that it's a Tuesday night rather than a weekend, the streets are emptier than they usually are when I'm out after dark by myself. Especially since I usually travel in a busier area, and now I am cutting through a more residential area just to get this over with as quickly as possible. The residential areas are always quieter, and they also smell less strongly of urine than the more populated path back to my apartment building. It's deserted enough here that it's not terrible to have Kevin's company.

That said, there's no way I'm going to let him see where I live—I'll never get rid of the guy.

I stop short at a brownstone a few blocks away from my actual apartment building. I gesture at the banister. "Well, this is me!"

Hopefully he won't insist on walking me into the building, because I have no way to get inside. But he seems very reluctant to leave.

"I had a great time, Sydney," Kevin tells me.

I can't quite bring myself to return the sentiment, even just to be nice. "Uh-huh."

A corner of his lip quirks up. "How about a hug?"

"Um…" I eye his outstretched arms and the pit stains that have gathered since we've been walking in the humid August air. "I don't hug on first dates."

"Oh." At first I think he's going to protest, but then he says, "Well, how about a kiss then?"

Is he out of his ever-loving mind ? I didn't even want to hug him, but I definitely don't want this guy's slimy lips touching mine.

"Come on," he says. "I bought you dinner. You're really not going to kiss me?"

He bought me dinner? On what planet does my paying forty dollars for a salad mean that he bought me dinner? "I don't kiss or hug on first dates," I explain. And then, in case he asks to bump hips or God knows what, I add, "I have a strict no-touching policy."

"Seriously?"

He takes a step closer to me. He towers over me, but I can still smell the sour stench of beer on his breath. I take a step back, bumping into the short set of stairs up to the entrance of the building I claimed I live in. I scan the street, dismayed there isn't another pedestrian in eyeshot. I thought Kevin was a dud, but I had labeled him as harmless.

Big mistake.

"Come on, Sydney." He takes another step closer to me—this time uncomfortably close. Kevin may be skinny, but he looks strong. Stronger than me, that's for sure. "You can't tease me like that. All I'm asking for is a kiss, for God's sake."

"I think this date is over," I say firmly.

"Don't be a tease." He frowns, his features contorting in the dim glow of the streetlight above us. "All you women are the same. You're never going to land a husband if you won't even kiss a guy on a date, you know."

My mind races, thinking through the contents of my purse and what I could use as a weapon. Gretchen gave me a can of Mace, but I took it out at some point because it kept leaking all over my purse and I had never been in a situation where I was close to needing it. I do have a spritz bottle of hand sanitizer. If I sprayed him in the eyes with hand sanitizer, would that do the trick? Of course, that would mean I would have to locate it in my gigantic purse, which is probably eighty percent crumpled tissues at this point.

I decide the best bet is to push past him and make a run for it. In another block or two, I'm certain to run into another person.

"Sydney," he says.

I avoid eye contact as I try to dart around him. But Kevin is quicker than he looks. His fingers close around my wrist, pinning it against the jagged brick wall of the building. His spindly fingers bite into my flesh.

"Come on, Sydney," he says. "Don't cut our night short. The fun is just getting started."