Donovan rolls up his sleeves. He sighs. “Jacqui has given me homework.”
“Okaaay?”
He reaches for a plastic cup. “She wants me to think about why I’m so resistant to dating.”
I hear the word “dating,” and Donovan’s Hinge profile flashes to mind. “Err, isn’t that the whole point of seeing her?”
“I know, but she’s making me think about things, like, ‘What’s the worst that can happen if you put yourself out there?’？” He says this in a voice that I’m pretty confident doesn’t sound like his therapist. “And she’s making me do things. Like, can you believe that man has set up an online dating account. You heard of Hinge?”
“Yeah.”
“I joined that not too long ago. Haven’t really used it.”
“When is this homework due for?”
Donovan wrinkles his nose. “To be honest with you, Yinks, it’s been an ongoing homework for a few months now.”
“A few months!” I nearly scare away an approaching man. “Sorry. Tea? Coffee?” Donovan and I rush to our feet. He brews a teabag in a plastic cup while I wait to add a drop of milk and some sugar.
“Donovan, that’s insane,” I say after we’ve served the man and flopped back in our chairs again. “Why are you so scared to start dating again?”
“I dunno. Fear of rejection, maybe.”
I give him a smile. “Want to know what I think?”
“Go on.”
“I think your counselor is a crutch.”
“A crutch?”
“You heard me.” I roll my neck to add a bit of sass.
Donovan laughs.
“Nah, I think it’s great that you’re doing therapy, so you don’t bring old baggage into any future relationship. But you’re never going to get into one, unless you put yourself out there.” For a quick moment, I consider telling Donovan that this is what I’ve been doing lately but something holds me back. So instead, I say the next thing on my mind. “You know what else I think?”
He leans back. “Go ahead, Oprah.”
I lower my voice to a whisper. “I think you need a bit of faith.”
“A bit of what?”
“I said, a bit of faith!” A pigeon nearby flaps away. “I’m not talking about religion,” I say quickly. “I mean, faith in yourself.” I tap his knee, before hastily removing my finger. “Donovan, you need to have faith that you’re worthy of love and that you’ll find it. That’s not to say you won’t get hurt, but faith is about believing that there are better days ahead, even when you can’t see the full picture.”
I let my words hang in the air. I can tell that he is mulling over them.
His dimples reappear. “They teach you that at church, yeah?”
I nudge him. “You see. Church isn’t so bad.”
After a moment, Donovan folds his arms behind his head. “So, what’s gwarning with you? What’s the deal between you and this friend?”
The sight of his muscles makes my heart thump, and feeling flustered and irritated, I say, “We’re good, thank you very much. Now leave me be.”
Donovan lowers his arms. “Jheeze, man. I was only asking.” He stands up and begins to stack a few of the plastic cups. I wait for him to bust a joke, to pry into this “friend,” to ask questions. But nothing.
I open my mouth to speak, but Donovan gets there before me.
“I just need to check on something, yeah.” And without looking back, he walks away.
Please call Yinka a cab
SATURDAY
“I can’t believe I’m doing this,” I say to myself as I look at the blue dot on my phone’s GPS.
I was excited, a bit nervous, optimistic even, this morning when I squeezed into my skinny-skinny jeans and off-pink blouse. But now that I’m here, I’m absolutely bricking it.
I glance up at the pub, its ramshackle bricks with giant murals. Welcome to Shoreditch. I rake my fingers through my wig, the strands like silk as they glide between them. Okay. It’s going to be a quick date to confirm that Marcus is who he says he is, then when my phone alarm goes off at two, I’ll make my way to Kemi’s.
I send the pub’s address to Joanna and Brian for safety precautions.
Good luck Brian immediately messages back, followed with a wink emoji.
Propelled by two smokers standing nearby, I push open the pub door and I’m hit with a waft of heat. Inside is considerably nicer. It has a cool vintage feel with its dark paneled walls and flooring. And in true Shoreditch style, the bartenders are all wearing beanies.
It’s just gone one o’clock, so the pub is busy. Nevertheless, I spot Marcus by the window, on his phone, sitting behind a small rustic table. I’m grateful that he’s looking down as it gives me another chance to shift my wig a bit.
I take a breath, then navigate my way between bodies and chairs and tables, loud laughter and chatter overlapping the background guitar music. Marcus glances up and stands, smiling.
“You came,” he says, spreading his arms while I hold out a hand.
“Of course,” I reply, or rather croak. I allow him to hug me. He smells of fresh aftershave with a twinge of coffee.
As Marcus draws back, we stare at each other. Just like his photo, he has magical blue eyes and there’s that friendly smile again. He may not be five eleven—five nine, I’d say—but he’s still a hottie.
Marcus gestures at the stool opposite. I take a seat, wondering if he felt my thudding heart. And what he thinks of me. He didn’t compliment me. Why hasn’t he complimented me?
He laughs. “You can take off your jacket, you know.”
I look down at myself. I’m wearing a puffer jacket. Zipped up.
After I’ve peeled off my coat, I realize I have nowhere to put it so I drape it over my lap like a British Airways blanket. Just as well, my thighs are jittery. Gosh, I am bloody nervous.
Marcus is wearing a green and blue checked shirt. “Am I what you expected?” he says. “Or were you keeping your jacket on for a reason?”
I laugh, and I can tell from the crinkles that have appeared around his eyes, that he’s glad he’s broken the ice.
“You’re all right,” I tease, feeling warmed by his gaze. “And me?” My voice goes up a bit when I say this.
Marcus smiles. “You’re drop-dead gorgeous.”
“Thanks.” I give him a coy smile.
He smiles back.
“How about I get us a drink,” he says, standing. “You know, to ease the nerves.”
“Yeah, that would be great, thanks. I’ll have a lemonade, please.”
Marcus laughs. “Okay, now I know you don’t want to stay long. Get a proper drink. Don’t be shy. It’s on me. I know, how about I get us a bottle of red. Or white?”
I bite my lip and immediately regret doing so. （I’ll have to reapply my lippie.） I drink alcohol, yes, but not in the friggin’ afternoon, and not for a first date.
But Rachel’s wedding is not too far away, and remember, Yinka, you’re not closed-minded, so . . . “Red would be fine,” and I tell myself that I’ll have one glass.