Somewhere in the two thousand some miles between Chicago and Los Angeles, I'd misplaced my optimism. And despite Anna's stubborn insistence that a casual fling could cure all woes, I was seriously starting to doubt that a blind date was going to help me find it.

Packing up my essentials into my car and setting the course for sunny Southern California had seemed like a wonderful idea. Everyone smiled sympathetically, agreed with the idea of time away from the city. My nostalgia-colored memories of long summer days and warm nights outdoors beckoned like a chicken-soup-remedy that might drown away the madness of these last few weeks. When I'd caught my eye in the rearview mirror, halfway through Iowa, some horrible country song blasting over the radio, I'd almost smiled.

At the risk of shattering my face with the effort, I attempted to repeat the gesture for the very polite hostess who graciously ignored my tongue-tied anxiety. I'd faltered and trailed off into uncomfortable silence at the disbelieving eyebrow raise when I'd asked for the reservation for "Anna Liu." I told myself that I was being paranoid. The hostess was probably too overworked to even notice my stumbling nerves. It did not change the fact that I felt like an interloper: my best friend and college roommate was a bundle of peppy, infectious energy and I had become a sort of living-rain-cloud of a person.

With the underpaid fortitude that only someone in customer service could muster, she graciously showed me to a patio table and recited the list of wines and specials and offerings. I picked a glass of whichever the first red was. 

My sudden decision-making ability didn't seem to impress her.

"I'll let your waitress know," she said, handing me the menus.

The faux-Italian bistro—menu full of pricey, organic, sustainably farmed and crafted "bites"—was Anna's newest favorite spot for new dates. It was up-and-coming, she promised. Anna would never send me to a place she hadn't already vetted. She had a list of requirements for her first date locales. Small portions. Soft music. Good drinks. It's got to be intimate, she'd explained. But public enough that someone would notice if you got murdered. There're a lot of psychos out there, you know?

Dinner with a side of murder sounded exactly like the excitement I was trying to escape.

The sudden flash of fear spiked my heart rate. My throat seemed too small.

Don't, I reminded myself for the hundredth time that day. I rubbed at the fresh goosebumps on my arms. These irrational flares of panic were becoming less frequent, but it didn't make them any less awful. I focused on breathing. Don't think about it. You're fine.

And I was fine.

Mostly.

Bruises faded. Bones healed. My memories never returned, but everyone seemed to think that was for the best. Every co-worker and therapist and interpersonal violence counselor seemed relieved that they could just address the trauma without the complication of brutal details. It was easier for them, I'd already decided; but for me, the dark gap in my mind, that wide and ugly void, left more room for monsters than would the truth. For surely the truth could not be as fearsome as my anxious imagination.

"You're not BeautyandtheBeet."

The wry, accusatory baritone made me jump. A swooping hot guilt dripped down my spine as I felt a hot flush of color in my face. When Anna had convinced me that a blind date would be the perfect confidence booster, I hadn't actually considered showing up. Sure, I hadn't explained the precise nature of my misery-mandated-vacation, but I'd let Anna dress me in her borrowed clothes (tight jeans, a lacy white top, and pinching leather boots a size too small); sat still while she curled some life into my hair; and forced a sort of grimacing smile at the playfully lascivious wink as she'd dropped me off at the little bistro. It was easier to play along. I'd planned on waving Anna off, nursing a glass of wine at the bar, and walking home. Alone.

As I'd walked inside, a fresh wave of anxious shame curdled my stomach. It was ridiculous, that flutter of guilt and and nerves. Why should I care about what some mystery man thought of Anna or me? Anna had confirmed the date, or rather, she'd told the mystery man that she had made a reservation under her name.

He'll get over it, Anna had promised. If he even notices the difference. Guys don't even look at the pictures these days. They swipe on everyone: it's a numbers game.

Despite her confidence, I found it unlikely that someone would confuse us. I'd noticed the pictures she'd used on her profile. She'd created a perfect collection of her looks and interests. Anna laughing in a sundress. Smiling as she baked cupcakes. Sipping a comically large margarita that was only outsized by her even larger sunhat...Anna was all curves and smiles and warmth.

I was a neurotic collection of edges stuffed into borrowed clothing.

And I got caught between worrying if it was worse to be catfished or worse to be stood up. So I'd decided to at least tell the poor man that my insane friend who should have gone to law school instead of opening a catering company had convinced me to take her place. Now, with the ringing accusation in his voice, I regretted my decision. Being catfished was worse.

God, is that really the username she uses? Both first-and-secondhand embarrassment warmed my face. Swallowing down the sudden, irrational urge to sprint out of the bistro, I turned towards the voice with an apology on my tongue.

"I'm—"

The words died on my lips.

When Anna had refused to show me "Dane's" profile—blind dates are supposed to be BLIND, Kate—I had assumed her grin signaled that she had found the perfect, safe re-entry into the dating pool. 

In college, Anna had always lamented that I never chose the right sort of guy for myself. I hadn't had a boyfriend since medical school. My last "date" was a clumsy drunken hook up with a paramedic that had fizzled out once we'd realized we were both too overworked to muster any actual affection for each other. I'd been too busy this year, chief resident in the Emergency Department at Chicago Memorial Hospital, to bother with dates and sex and love. When we'd chatted a few months ago, Anna had laughed when I'd told her that a couple of half-dead house plants and a vibrator checked the boxes for my current relationship fulfillment needs.

I was out of practice.

And Dane was not the shallow end of the dating pool.

Lit by the warm glow of the hanging market lights, the man looked like a combination of LA hipster, runway model, professional athlete, cinematic superhero, sexy lumberjack, and a hundred other male-fantasies that my brain struggled to name. He seemed to take up more space than the patio allowed. The dark honey-gold of his bun almost brushed the leaves of the light-strung ficus that the tables encircled. As he pulled back the chair, his breadth seemed entirely too large for the spindly seat. Even with his beard, his cheeks were too sharp, his eyes too bright. I couldn't help but notice the length of his blond eyelashes, the fullness of mouth. Said lips twitched at the corners. My speechlessness seemed to amuse him.

"You are?" he asked. Despite his size, Dane was perfectly at ease on the rickety bistro chair. The staff flitting between the empty tables never jostled him. He could have been a king on his throne, the way the world seemed to move around him.

"Anna's friend," I said. Is my voice always this breathy? "Kate."

"Kate," he repeated slowly. The soft sarcasm in his tone seemed to imply that I was an idiot. "Is that all?"

Christ. I was no stranger to difficult conversations. How many times had I told someone that their loved one had died? How many times had I delivered a poor prognosis? How many times had I dealt with cranky consultants over the phone? How many times had I patiently explained that, no, the covid vaccination actually does not give you coronavirus?

Why was it so hard to find words now, staring into the sharp blue eyes of Dane the Giant?

The candlelight wasn't helping. I had the sudden urge to blow out the little flame if only to remove the distracting gleam it gave his gaze. Or else hide me in shadows.

"She couldn't make it tonight," I said. My mouth had dried into dust. The words almost slurred together in my haste to say something. I decided, then and there, that I was, in fact, an idiot. Heat flooded my face a second time.

Dane leaned back. "I'd gathered."

Before I could make some other stupid comment, the waitress materialized with a tip-worthy smile. She didn't seem as affected by Dane's perfect, disturbing gorgeousness. Maybe she was used to actors and models and spin class instructors sitting in the too small chairs and ordering off-the-menu bottles of wine. This was LA, after all. In a rehearsed voice, she revisited the the specials and wines, but Dane quickly ordered a bottle of wine she hadn't mentioned before I could showcase my previous decision-making capabilities.

A flare of irritation briefly smothered my anxiety. I didn't need help ordering: I could make beverage decisions without the casual male arrogance, thanks.

"You must be thirsty," I said automatically as the waitress retreated to the kitchen. For a moment, it was like the old-Kate—the Kate who didn't cower from her own shadow—was speaking.

He raised an eyebrow, and that stubborn flush of embarrassment returned to my face in a flood. After three and half years in Chicago, trapped between gray winters and underneath the unforgiving glow of fluorescent hospital lights, I didn't have the color to hide the it. I hoped the mottled pink on my bleached olive complexion wasn't obvious.

He ignored my comment.

"How did you end up substituting for your friend, Kate?" Dane said my name with a soft bite that I wasn't sure was humor or spite or interest. There was something faintly dangerous to his smile. "Should I be worried about some wicked intention on your part?"

I swallowed. Definitely not the shallow end of the dating pool. I was swimming with a shark.

The old me might have made a joke about stealing kidneys for the black market or called him out on the flirtatious innuendo, but the old Kate had retreated. Instead I coughed out a nervous laugh.

"She couldn't make it," I said with a shrug. I tried to keep my tone cool and diplomatic. "And I thought it would be rude if I left you waiting. I don't expect you to stay."

His eyebrows furrowed as he stared. I had no idea what he was looking for, but I was determined to not break the eye contact. Anna was a champion with eyeliner: I counted on the smoky-eye she'd applied to hide the anxious, deer-frozen gleam I knew was lurking behind my eyes.

He leaned forward.

"Of course I'm staying." His voice was a low purr. "I'm starving."

WC: 1872