Seeing Basti—or should I say Lucas—in the restaurant, realizing he’s my blind date, and knowing I’d be spending the next moments with my childhood secret love was too much for my poor heart and growling stomach to bear. I didn’t know whether the woozy feeling was out of nervousness or hunger.

There he was, fifteen years older, impeccably dressed in a light-pink polo shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Nobody—and I mean nobody—can pull off a pink shirt better than him. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, you say? Not even close.

As I walked towards the table in measured steps, I started berating myself for my lousy analytical skills and lousier name recall. Jeez, how many Lucas Lobregats were there? How could I have not known it was him? Maybe I was still too numb from being dumped in such a tragic fashion that I completely lost sight of the fact that there were other men on this planet. Men like the guy I was about to have dinner with.

What do I say? ‘Hi! I’m the crybaby who threw you under the bus after you defended me from Ugly Bully Boy when we were in high school. Who remembers what happened fifteen years ago, anyway? Definitely not you. Hehe. Okay, gotta go. Bye!’

“Lucas Lobregat?” I croaked.

He turned his head towards me, eyebrows furrowed, and studied me for a moment. I thought I saw him blink a few times, but it could be that my brain was registering all sorts of images out of fear, hunger or both. I looked like I had just run a marathon—in kitten heels—with my messy ponytail and sweaty forehead. Couldn’t blame the guy for looking like he’s watching a train wreck.

“I’m Cara Nicolas,” I said as I offered my hand, wishing and praying he wouldn’t notice it was shaking.

“Lucas,” was all he said, staring at me like he was looking at the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, or some other unreal character. His handshake was firm, business-like, everything you’d expect from a hot shot, which I was quite sure he was. He kept staring at me until I had no choice but to look away and sit down. I couldn’t read his expression. I couldn’t even look at him, for Pete’s sake!

“I’m so sorry for being late. My interview with this basketball star went on forever my cab got a flat tire so I ended up taking the train I didn’t even have the time to change I’m not used to dining in fancy places in fact I told Ayen clearly that I don’t like high-end—”

Yes. I was rambling like an idiot.

“Sorry,” was all I managed to say in the end, when I felt my cheeks getting hot. I wished he’d avert his eyes, but I knew he was amused. I, on the other hand, wasn’t.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “So, it’s Cara. I thought Chad said I was meeting Clara.”

I chuckled nervously. “Oh, you know Chad. Mispronounces everything.”

Oops.

“And he has a habit of messing things up. Workaholic equals dysfunctional, I guess,” I went on.

Double oops. I wanted to slap myself. It didn’t help that Lucas just sat there, looking at me. I was rambling like an idiot, again.

“I mean, he can’t even manage to remember Ayen’s birthday,” I continued. The Freudian trance was fast-tracking this train wreck. Nervousness has always been my truth serum. “It makes her crazy, but she’s still marrying him. It must be love. Wow, I’m hungry!”

I had a quick glimpse of the humiliation that would follow but at that moment, I was having an out-of-body experience. No point in trying to control anything, especially my wayward mouth.

He looked away and turned his head to hide his face but his shoulders gave him away. They were shaking. The son-of-a-gun was laughing at me!

“Shall we order?” he finally said after unsuccessfully concealing his mirth.

“Sure,” I mumbled.

Great way to make an impression, Cara. Awesome.

Why was I even trying to make an impression? I was thirteen when I first met him, for God’s sake. The feeling I had for him back then was as strong as my love for Justin Timberlake! Okay, maybe he trumps Justin Timberlake… but so what?!

Pull yourself together, girl. Get a grip.

I slyly looked up from the menu and studied him. Sure, I expected Basti—Lucas—to be a handsome man, but I never thought he’d be this hot. He towered about a foot over me—I, who was proud to be same height and build as my idol, Rachael Leigh Cook. If you don’t know her, Google her now and see that she and I have at least that in common. Okay, Ayen said we have the same big almond eyes. And the same button nose. And smile. Whatever. She’s my best friend so her opinion of my looks bears no weight.

I digress.

Lucas, in my estimation, is a hunk. You didn’t really expect me to stop being in awe, did you? Tanned, lean, athletic, the type who makes the outdoors his church, that kind of guy. Same dark hair cut clean, same deep-set brown eyes and the longest eyelashes… Some people just age really well, damn them. If there’s one kink in the whole package, it would be the stubble. Not because it made him less hot, but it reminded me of my ex’s three-day-old facial hair, which he loved to graze against my cheeks.

That memory was enough to plop me down violently into the present. Wow, that hurt.

I didn’t realize I was pretending to read the menu for that long until Lucas asked me if I was ready to order.

“Oh.”

The truth was, I didn’t like anything from the menu. Heck, I didn’t even read the thing. I didn’t like the restaurant and its fancy surroundings, period. I was a carinderia type of girl and would stay that way, I guess.

“I’ll have what he’s having,” I said to the waiter. Boy, that was impressive.

“Are you sure?” he asked, still studying me.

“I just want to try what you like,” I said. This was going downhill fast.

“All right,” he turned to the waiter and handed back the menu. “We’ll have my usual, Fred.”

That was scary. What if his “usual” was frog legs drowned in pig blood, or some other exotic concoction? 

“So, your usual, huh? Are you a regular here?”

He shrugged. All of a sudden, there was coldness in the air. Or was it anxiety?

“I meet some of my clients here,” he answered dryly, the expression on his face stoic and unreadable.

“Oh! Clients. What business are you in?” I asked as I clumsily placed my hands on the table like a toddler waiting for her Gerber.

I could see he was trying his best not to laugh but in a flash, he was all formal.

“I’m a lawyer.”

The awkward silences got more and more frequent and I was running out of topics for small talk. Perhaps, it was my lateness that ruined this date from the get-go. Or, it could have been my choice of outfit, I don’t know. Clearly, this was going nowhere. I remembered an interview I did with a star football player, where I tried to squeeze information out of him, from his daily routine to his love life, to no avail. This was no interviewee, though. This was Lucas, whose sudden coldness left me all lonely and feeling dumber. It was clear he didn’t want to discuss anything more about himself nor his career. He also didn’t seem interested in getting to know me at all. I was in a date from hell with the guy I adored as a teenager and never quite forgot. Was this really happening?

“The harpist is good,” I said as I tried to make another conversation, but he just shrugged again.

He didn’t seem to want to talk about anything at all.

We sat there quietly fidgeting, waiting for our orders. I was beginning to get annoyed. I chose this date over a Criminal Minds marathon and Lucas wasn’t even making the slightest effort to salvage the night.

Just as we were being served soup, someone called out his name from behind me. I turned around to see who it was and recognized the tall, stunning woman who was approaching our table—a recently crowned beauty queen.

“Hey, Jenna,” Lucas said as he stood up to greet the woman with a light kiss on the cheek. Was he happy to see her? I couldn’t tell. And, frankly, I didn’t care.

Lucas, who was now coming off as a jerk, didn’t even bother to introduce me. I sighed impatiently and started to eat. To hell with manners, I thought.

I had finished my too-expensive blah dish (which thankfully wasn’t frog legs in pig blood) when Lucas returned to his seat. Did he apologize for the interruption? Hell, no. And just like that, we ate in silence through the second course, with neither of us saying a word. It seemed like a petty contest on who would talk first and no one budged. Yes, it was bizarre.

A middle-aged man came over and chatted with him (some client, I overheard) and they finished their discussion just as the waiter was about to take my plate and asking me about dessert. I said I was skipping it.

“Are you sure?” he asked. That question, thrown a second time, just upped my annoyance by several degrees.

“I won’t say I didn’t want something if I wasn’t sure I didn’t want it,” I replied coldly as I searched my purse for my wallet. When I found it, I fumbled to fish out some 500-peso bills.

For a moment, I sensed panic in Lucas as he mumbled what seemed like incoherent exhortations to let him handle the bill. It could just be my hyperactive imagination or wishful thinking. Anyway, I let him pay for my expensive, yucky meal. I didn’t want to have an awful time and shell out money for it. God…

We said our goodbyes and I shot for the door; I didn’t want to have him think about walking me to the door or offering to give me lift home. I didn’t want to think about getting a good night kiss. I couldn’t even bear to shake hands with him. I left that pretentious, overpriced restaurant and didn’t bother to look back.

It was the worst date of my life.