“I guess I should google what a Tar Heel is beforehand,” I say.
A grin breaks across her face. If Mom’s smile was springtime, Libby’s is full summer. She says, “No way. That’s what we call a conversation starter.”
* * *
Libby （acting as me） didn’t tell Blake where we were staying, and instead suggested I （secretly we） meet him at Poppa Squat’s around seven. In her flowy wrap dress with her hair perfectly tousled and pink gloss smudged across her lips, you’d think she had something better to do than nurse a soda and lime while watching me from across the bar, but she seems perfectly excited for the underwhelming night ahead.
Normally, I’d arrive to a date early, but we’re operating on Libby’s timeline and thus arrive ten minutes late. Outside the front doors, she stops me by the elbow. “We should go in separately. So he doesn’t know we’re together.”
“Right,” I say. “That will make it easier to knock him out and empty his pockets. What should our signal be?”
She rolls her eyes. “I will go in first. I’ll scope him out and make sure he’s not carrying a sword, or wearing a pin-striped vest, or doing close-up magic for strangers.”
“Basically that he’s none of the four horsemen of the apocalypse.”
“I’ll text you when it’s safe to come in.”
Forty seconds after she slips inside, she sends me a thumbs-up, and I follow.
It’s hotter in Poppa Squat’s than it is outside, probably because it’s packed.
The crowd is drunkenly singing “Sweet Home Alabama” around and on the karaoke stage at the back of the room, and the whole place smells like sweat and spilled beer.
Blake, 36, is sitting at the first table, facing the door with his hands folded like he’s here with Ruth from HR to fire me.
“Blake?” I outstretch a hand.
“Nora?” He doesn’t get up.
“Yep.”
“You look different than your picture,” he replies.
“Haircut,” I say, taking my seat, hand unshaken.
“You didn’t say how tall you were in your profile,” he says. This from a man who listed himself as six feet and an inch but can’t be taller than five nine unless he’s wearing stilts under this table.
So at least dating in Sunshine Falls is exactly the same as in New York.
“Didn’t occur to me it would matter.”
“How tall are you?” Blake asks.
“Um,” I stall, hoping this will give him time to rethink his first-date strategy. No such luck. “Five eleven.”
“Are you a model?” He says this hopefully, like the right answer could excuse a multitude of height-related sins.
There is, of course, the misconception that straight men universally love tall, thin women. Being such a woman, I can debunk this.
Many men are too insecure to date a tall woman. Many of those who aren’t are assholes looking for a trophy. It has less to do with attraction than status. Which is only effective if the tall person is a model. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a model, then you must be hot and interesting. If you’re dating someone taller than you and she’s a literary agent, cue the jokes about her wearing your balls on a silver necklace.
On the bright side, at least Blake, 36, isn’t asking about—
“What size are your shoes?” His face is pinched as if in pain. Same, Blake. Same.
“What are you drinking?” I say. “Alcohol? Alcohol sounds good.”
The waitress approaches, and before she can get a word out, I say, “Two very large gin martinis, please.” She must see the familiar signs of first-date misery on me, because she skips her welcome speech, nods, and virtually sprints to put in our order.
“I don’t drink,” Blake says.
“No worries,” I say, “I’ll drink yours.”
Back by the pool tables, Libby grins and flashes two thumbs up.
13
YOU WOULD THINK he’d be in a hurry to call this thing what it is: dead in the water.
But Blake is not a casual MOM user. He’s on the prowl for a wife, and despite my hulking stature, giantess feet, and indulgence in gin, he’s not willing to let me go until he’s individually clarified that I don’t know how to make any of his favorite foods.
“I really don’t cook,” I say, when we’ve made it through Super Bowl finger foods and moved on to various fried fish.
“Not even tilapia?” he says.