Table Number Four

It's been six years and five days since I found my husband with the girl next door. No, not in some casual encounter neighbors frequently engage in. This was a full-blown makeout session, in our bed, in the home we shared.

Conclusively, he's no longer my husband. And if that experience isn't enough to keep me from the dating scene for good, my introverted personality and severe drop in self-confidence surely could.

Two days, approximately. This is the time elapsed since my best friend, Breanne, became single. Luckily for her, infidelity in her relationships never fully deters her self-confidence. If anything, her confidence skyrockets to the heavens, where love Gods bless her with the power to move on faster than you can say, "move on."

She is the antithesis of me and I'm always envious. But trying to be like her gets me into trouble every single time.

Tonight, I'll be dragged to yet another gung-ho speed dating event, where obnoxious singles hope to find love that very second.

I fill my wine glass to the brim with Merlot and lumber to my walk-in closet. Here hangs the same shirts, sweaters, and dresses, I've worn for years.

"Wear something sexy, something chic." Breanne's words float around my head with no destination. "Tonight could be the night."

Yeah, yeah. You say that everytime, I think as I press the end-call button.

I've got exactly three dresses. One I'd worn to a funeral four years ago. A skimpy black one I'd worn to the last two speed dating events. And finally, the one my aunt handstitched for me in the first week she'd decided to become a seamstress.

Defeated, I back away from the closet.

With a sip of wine, I fall heavy onto the bed, accepting that my lack of sexy apparel isn't going to stop Breanne from practically dragging me out of the house tonight.

Like clockwork, she walks in, pulling her suitcase behind her.

"Let's get you dressed," she says.

I give her the same unmistakable eyeroll I'd given her each time before and dramatically force myself from the bed.

She knows right off the bat I'm trying to get out of going.

"You wanted this," she says. "Don't try to get out of it now."

"I know," I whine, setting the now empty glass on the dresser.

Breanne begins taking dresses out of the suitcase, sorting them from least modest to almost, but not quite, tolerable.

She holds up the one I'd been praying she wouldn't choose. "This is the one," she squeals.

"It's see through," I say as I mean-mug the sheer half-dress in front of me.

"And?" she questions.

"What about that one," I blurt. "The v-neck with the split hem. You said sexy and chic, right?"

I lean toward her and pick up the dress.

"It's not too bad."

"It's not bad at all," I say. "I'm gonna put it on, be right back."

I slip on the dress, inspecting my appearance in the full-length mirror. My bra offers no favors, showing off my size B chest.

Hurrying to the closet, I begin fumbling through totes until I find it; the pushup bra I haven't worn since college.

With the bra on and my chest pushed up, I stand in front of Breanne. "What do you think?"

"You look ah-maze-ing. Did you stuff your bra or something?"

"What? No. It's a pushup bra."

"People still wear those?"

"Of course they do," I say, knowing damn well I have absolutely no clue.

"I don't think so," she says. "I mean, it's 2021, when people want bigger boobs, we just pay for the real thing."

"You mean a boob job?"

"Something like that," she mutters.

"How's that the real thing if⁠—nevermind. Do you have any mascara?"

"Oh honey," she says, pulling a small makeup bag from her suitcase. "You're getting a full face."

She dumps out the bag and pats the space beside her. Reluctantly, I join her on the floor. And for what feels like an hour, she applies different products to my face.

"Wa-la," she says finally. "Go take a peek."

"Holy—"

"You don't like it?" she interjects, joining me by the vanity.

"No, I do. It's just I don't look like me. Why are my eyebrows so...thick?"

"I filled them in, gave them some oomph. Thicker eyebrows are in, thin brows are out," she says as she wheels and exits the bathroom.

Whatever. I spritz on some perfume and give myself one last look before joining Breanne by the front door.

"Woah," she says as I meet her. "You literally smell like 2009."

I glare at her. "Don't even try to act like DelRae Roth wasn't the perfumer of the decade."

Breanne takes a step back. "Maybe she was. But 'was' is keyword in that sentence."

"If you're saying I smell bad, you know that means I'll have to shower. Which also means we'll be late and in turn we could miss the event all together. But hey, that doesn't sound like such a bad idea," I say. "So I think I'll just go."

Predictably, Breanne grabs my arm. "Alex, please come. You smell fine, I was just messing with you."

"Fine." Only because I feel pretty tonight, more confident. It's not like an "I'm ready to take over the world" type thing but I think I can handle a night of speed dating.

But maybe not...

Ten minutes into the cab ride, I'm already overthinking and second guessing my decision. And as we pull up to the event, I'm fully regretting it.

Tonight is no different than any other, except I look something like a brunette Barbie-wannabe.

"You ready?" Breanne asks.

I shake my head and here comes the speech I've heard from her a hundred times.

"Alex, you're beautiful. You're kind. You're smart."

I smile, half feeling that she only says these things because, as my best friend, she's kind of obligated to.

"Why can't we just sit at my house and watch a movie, for once?" I question. "Eat some popcorn and drink some wine."

"First of all, popcorn with wine? Ew. Secondly, how do you expect to meet anyone new if you're always cooped up in your room?"

I shrug. "I don't really care to meet anyone new."

"But I think you do. Or else you wouldn't keep coming to these things with me."

She's right. No matter how ok I am being by myself, not putting myself out there, love is important to me; having someone to share my life with is important.

"You're right," I say finally.

She nods, checks her makeup in the rear view mirror, and gestures for me to exit the car.

We walk in and a man behind a table takes cash in exchange for a name tag, like the one you wear on your first day of kindergarten.

"Name, miss?" the guy asks.

Breanne nudges my arm.

"Name, miss?" she mimicks.

"Oh, um. Alex."

He writes my name and hands me the name tag which instantly begins to lose its tackiness as it's wedged between clammy fingers.

"You know, it's not too late to go back to my house. We can download Tinder or something," I whisper to Breanne, who has proudly pressed her name tag to the top of her dress.

"Tinder?" she giggled. "You watch enough murder documentaries to know any psycho can hide behind a Tinder account. Besides, pictures of someone is never the same as an in-person encounter."

I shrug her off and say nothing as we join the line of people waiting for the event to begin.

Straightaway, it's clear that a lot of the attendees are not in the suggested age demographic advertised for the group. Breanne and I are barely 28, and far from searching for a significant other the same age as our parents.

As an alarm sounds, a woman approaches a microphone in the center of the room.

"Group one, please enter room one on your right. Group two, your event will take place here," she says.

"Which group are we?" I ask Breanne, who looks nowhere as confused as I am.

She says nothing as she follows a mass of people into room one.

By the lack of anyone remotely close to our age, I know for sure we are in the wrong room. There's absolutely no way Breanne is drunk enough to not realize, yet she doesn't budge.

"We're in the wrong room," I whisper.

She waves me off. "We're where we need to be."

"I want to go to the other room," I say as the host gives a two minute warning.

"You go," she insists. "You'll be fine, I promise."

The mere thought of walking out of this room and into the next is enough to put me on the verge of a panic attack. But I swallow, choking down the knot in my throat, and grab a cocktail from the bar.

I down the first cocktail as fast as humanly possible and grab another.

The event has begun and Breanne moves gracefully to the first table, where an older man awaits her. His excitement level is lower than expected as she takes her seat. An immediate string of questions follow: "Where do you live? What do you do for a living?"

For a moment I'm lost in her encounter, jealous of the way she so freely makes conversation.

Noticing the timer counting down behind her, I realize I've already missed two minutes with my first date.

I return to the bar, grab a third cocktail and take small steps toward the door. I'm tipsy but coherent as I exit the room and meet the host who is going on about not having enough singles to start the event.

With alcohol running rampant, the words "I'm here" forcefully leave my mouth.

The woman looks me up and down, then returns to the microphone. "Ladies and gents, let the event begin," she says.

Singles cheer and make their way to their designated spots.

I'm frozen as I observe the men, sitting at tables, eagerly awaiting their first dates. My eyes dart to the entrance of room one. I'm thinking of going back.

"You're here," the woman says, gesturing to table number one. She hands me a notebook and a pen.

I don't want to do this.

A balding man stares as I take the seat across from him.

"Hello," I manage to say, gripping my cocktail glass.

"Lovely dress," he says, with a nod.

I return a nod but I've got nothing else to say.

I'm quickly reminded why I'd sworn off speed dating in the first place. Here, finding a potential match consists of sitting through seven minutes of pure awkwardness and contrived conversations, ten different times.

I'm now three potential matches in, my cocktail glass is completely empty and I'm boarding the flight to Snoozeville.

The bell rings. I pick up my glass and the empty notepad and sidestep to table four.

By now I'm not even looking at the guys, I've got my head down and I'm praying for time to move fast.

"Need a refill?" the man across from me asks.

I raise my head, my eyes meet the gentle face before me. A name tag that reads 'Blake' rests on his shirt.

"That's ok," I say quickly, gaining composure.

His hands set clasped on the table as he inspects me.

He's attractive. I don't dare tell him this though.

"It's been a night, eh? To speed dating," he says as he lifts his matching cocktail glass and cheers the air.

"Indeed," I say, using my empty glass to do the same.

He peers around the room and leans in across the table. "If I hear one more story about a psycho ex, or how great investing in cryptocurrency is, I'm going to lose my mind."

We laugh and I say, "if you plan to attend these often, you might want to get use to it."

He shrugs. "I've been to a few of these things. Not sure what I'm expecting but it seems to always be the same." He gulps his cocktail. "You seem different though."

"Different how?"

He cocks his head. "Well, for starters, you haven't told me about any of your exes or detailed all your totally 'real' achievements, yet."

I giggle. "I'm just glad you haven't detailed your hobby of collecting insects or stamps, or something," I say.

"You don't like a man with hobbies?" he questions, a playful smile dances on his lips.

"No, I do. Hobbies are great. But I don't need every single detail."

He nods. "Honest. I like it."

A buzzer rings: one minute warning.

We look at each other.

"Maybe I should get your name," he says, noticing the lack of a name tag on my person.

I give him my name and he jots it down.

The bell rings, interrupting our goodbyes. And as I leave table four, I'm convinced Blake may be the only possible match for me here.

The new man across from me, who wears a toothy grin and a bowtie, makes me even more certain.

He begins talking about becoming a banker. How much work he put into it and how much time it took to achieve. Then he goes on and on about how much of a mistake it has turned out to be. 

"Talk about a waste of a decade," he says.

I try to remain alert as he continues, but my mind is slipping away.

By the end of the event, at the final buzzer, Blake's name is the only thing written in the notebook, along with doodles conceived by boredom.

The host thanks all the singles for coming and dismisses us. We shuffle toward the exit, where we're met with a table full of blank contact cards.

As I finish filling out my card, a bubbly Breanne grabs my shoulder.

"How'd it go?" she asks.

"Clearly better for you than it did for me."

She laughs. "Please, dates one through nine were awful. But number ten, now, he is a ten."

"A ten, huh?" I ask as we exit the building.

She goes on, gushing about him and how he's only thirty-seven. She explains that she's searching for guys that can match her maturity level and suddenly, her decision to go with group one makes much more sense.

***

Three days later, I'm binge-watching Shameless and I hear my front door shut. I jump out of bed, grab the Louisville slugger from my dresser drawer and press my back against the wall.

I draw the bat back, prepared to take out the intruder.

The doorknob turns. I'm ready.

As the door creaks open, my arm swings inward. Breanne screams and the bat smacks into the door, inches from her head.

"I am so sorry," I say, reacting quickly. I lean into Breanne, disregarding the damage to my door. "I thought you were some creep breaking in."

"You've got to layoff the true crime shows," she says as she eases her way into the room. "If you'd checked your phone, you'd know I texted that I was coming over, like, an hour ago."

I eye my phone. "I haven't recieved anything."

"Weird. So I got matched with the ten!" she squeals. "How about you, hear anything about Brad?"

"Blake," I corrected. "No. No match for me. I might as well change my Twitter handle to forever alone."

Breanne sighed. "A little dramatic, are we?"

"I'm serious, Bre. I'm starting to think I'll never be in a relationship again. I'm not flirty, funny or outgoing."

"Hey," Breanne snaps. "You're all of those things. You've just got to wait for the right person to bring it out of you. Listen, I've got to go, but I'll be back later."

She leaves the room and I climb back into bed.

Two hours go by and the lack of even a chime of a text has me convinced I'm invisible, which doesn't bother me as much as it should.

I grab my phone from the dresser and swipe the screen. I'm met with a typically greyed-out airplane that shines bright white today.

Airplane mode...

I switch it off and within seconds an array of sounds escape the speaker.

A voicemail from the host causes my breathing to cease for a moment.

I've been matched.

"...we've also given Blake your contact info. We wish you both the best of luck."

I leave the voicemail and call Breanne.

"Blake's my match," I say.

"What?"

"The host left a voicemail, she said we are a match. She gave me his phone number."

"O-M-G. So have you texted him yet?"

"No..."

"Then what are you doing on the phone with me?"

She hangs up, giving me no excuse to procrastinate further. 

I type out a message to Blake. It's deleted, rewritten and edited numerous times before I finally press the send button. 

My phone flings across the room as I immediately regret sending the text.

Not even a minute later an incoming text leads me right back to the phone. 

I read his reply: I've been waiting for this text all day...

Pacing around the room, I'm six texts deep in conversation with Blake; an in-depth conversation that's going surprisingly well.

I'm in awe with how quickly my perspective is changing from believing that I would never find a match, to finally seeing how one night of being out of your comfort zone can open your eyes and heart to something new, something good. Something that can potentially lead to a lifetime of happiness and a reality with no regrets. 

Most importantly, I'm learning that I don't need to be like Breanne, or change my personality, for someone to like me.

It's true: You'll be liked, loved, and adored, for exactly who you are as long as you're true to yourself.