120, Gabi. What's 121 when you've done 120?

Yes, you heard right, 120 blind dates. Not one, not two, not even a hundred—no, I'm the fool that's been on 120.

They were fun at first, especially when Mum picked the guy because he was always perfect on paper and dull in practice, leaving me to liven up the evening with inappropriate jokes and thinly veiled jabs.

In fact, they were so fun that I looked forward to the moment when I met him, a small smile playing on the corners of my lips as our eyes met and I took my seat; the moment when we'd introduce ourselves, my name melting on the tip of his tongue; and, most importantly, the moment when we clicked, when my eyes ignited and the butterflies began to swarm, my body falling forwards in sync with his. I loved when we connected, when everything fell into place, and it just felt right.

But, in the spirit of full disclosure, that never happened.

There was no clicking, no falling, no melting.

Every date was the same as the last: awkward conversation, strained smiles and my calling for the bill before the topic of dessert or drinks could be raised.

So why have I continued?

Why am I about to go on date number 121?

Well, because I have something to prove. The thing is, I don't know what, and I doubt I ever will.

Anyway, tonight is date 121 with the elusive Parker Danby. Alicia set it up this time, the promise of a fun evening with the recently relocated American leaving me with one question.

"Does he know I'm black?" I asked last Wednesday, the two of us sitting in an overly expensive bar near Liverpool street for mid-week drinks. "Because you know I can't deal with another lowkey racist being surprised when I arrive and then talking about his recent trip to South Africa or Barbados or wherever the hell he was when he saw 'more black people than usual'."

That last bit is a direct quote, by the way.

"Or." I continued the tirade. "For him to say that he thought I worked in consultancy, and then when I challenge him as to why I wouldn't, he says something about me being rather on the young side and then takes a large gulp of his drink and mutters the word 'touchy'. Baring in mind he knew I was twenty-five before the date, so my age shouldn't surprise him."

"Okay, Gabi." Alicia laughed, her hand reaching out to pin mine to the sticky table we were seated at. "I get it, but yes, he knows you're black. I showed him a picture and everything."

"And he's okay with it?"

"Why else would he agree to the date?."

"Boredom."

She rolled her eyes and laughed, the last of her long island thrown down her throat as she jumped up and asked if I were ready for another round.

At the time, her insistence on changing the subject seemed a little shifty. Out of everyone involved in my blind date scheme, Alicia always ended up picking the lowkey racists. I know she never did it intentionally, all the men were relatively nice to her, which suggested they weren't racist—hence the preface: lowkey or term LR—but friendship is always easier than a relationship, and when a black woman is sitting in front of an LR for dating purposes, their true colours always shine through. I guess that's why I stopped accepting Alicia's offers for a while. But with nothing to do, and no date lined up, blind or otherwise, I had no excuse to avoid it.

So, now I'm here. Alicia managed to bully me into my best form-fitting blue jeans, the frayed hem grazing against my exposed ankle and my favourite white sweater with a v so deep it leaves little to the imagination. My afro is pulled back tight and wrapped around itself. Alicia even managed to pin me down, her toothbrush and gel going to work on my baby hairs. So, when I catch my reflection in the building's windows, I look exactly how Alicia wanted me to, leaving me with nothing else to do but enter.

He's somewhere inside, and although this is usually the moment when my stomach tightens, and I can't help but dig my nails into my palms until the imprint is so deep it doesn't disappear until halfway into the evening, the knowledge that we're playing mini-golf calms me down.

Why?

Because most guys force me to spend at least an hour and a half in an unnecessarily swanky restaurant, downing glass after glass of red wine until it's acceptable for me to force the bill and leave. In fact, out of the now 121 men I've gone out with, Parker is only the fifth who has taken me to do something fun—or at least fun-adjacent because although I'm good at mini-golf, I don't particularly like it. Still, it's a step up from dinner and wine so who am I to complain. Plus, the four before him are the only people who've made it to a second date, so maybe this is a good omen.

In fact, it is.

With a renewed sense of self, I take a deep breath and push against the front door, the light autumn breeze automatically being replaced by artificial heat. The host steps forward, a preppy smile lighting up her features as she asks for the name on the booking.

"It should be under Parker, Parker Danby," I tell her, my hand reaching up to scratch the back of my neck as she nods and tells me to follow.

The place is surprisingly quiet, a family of four just finishing their round while a couple begins a new one. The emptiness is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I'll be able to focus on Parker, and a curse for the exact same reason.

Fuck.

The host walks away from the first course and leads me through an open door. Thankfully, there are a few more people on this course, the sound of conversation lulling away my nausea.

"He's over there." She nods towards a man in a black sweater.

His back is to us, and yet I find myself oddly transfixed, my eyes running from his crisp white trainers up to his perfect fade, his hair subdued into waves. I'm so transfixed that by the time I turn to thank the host, my polite smile ready and waiting, she's all but disappeared, leaving me to force myself to finally meet him.

I'm about two feet away when he turns, the air knocking itself out of me. His full lips stretch upwards and part, revealing a set of ridiculously straight teeth, and his dark brown eyes crinkle in the corner.

Fuck.

"You're Gabi, right?" he checks, his smile somehow widening as I nod before blinking and forcing myself to speak. Only nothing comes out, and I'm still at a loss for how soft his voice is, or rather silky. It's like velvet, and as he says my name, it sounds foreign to my own ears, the simple word given a whole new meaning when shrouded in the cloak of his accent.

"Sorry? I mean, yes, I'm Gabi."

He offers me his hand. I take it and melt a little, his long fingers wrapping around mine and squeezing before drawing away, my fingertips left tingling.

"Alicia's told me so much about you," he says as he leads me towards the first round, a tray of drinks, two golf sticks and a bucket of balls waiting for us.

"I'm guessing that's how you know about the margaritas?" I ask as I raise my glass to his, the salt-rimmed tumblers clinking as our eyes meet.

"Guilty." He looks away and bites his lip, my heartbeat going into overdrive. "She said it's the quickest way to your heart."

On the inside, I'm goo, my essence a sticky pink liquid that slips and slides in glee. Yet, despite this, I manage to string together a sentence, saving me from repeating my earlier mistake.

"You're a smooth talker," I say, a teasing smile even toying on the corners of my lips.

"No, I'm American."

"Isn't that one and the same?"

He shrugs and takes another sip of his drink. "I guess you'll have to wait and see."

The game is relatively quick, the two of us sinking ball after ball until only a point separates the winner and loser.

As he prepares to take his turn, my eyes hone in on his hands, watching as his fingers flex around the golf stick, his knuckles straining before the slight movement of his wrist sends the ball flying, only this time it isn't a hole in one.

He spins on his heel, our eyes meeting as we take a step towards one another, the shock of the moment hanging in the air between us and becoming compressed as we take another, his hand reaching out for mine. But at the last minute, he draws back and smiles instead. My anticipation wanes for a second before returning in full force as I make a mental note of how beautiful he is when he smiles. And yes, I mean beautiful. Handsome is too generic, and pretty is untrue because he's not a pretty-boy or gorgeous or stunning, he's beautiful in that delicate way with his soft voice, careful hands and watchful eyes.

He's beautiful—period. And now I know this, I think I know what I've been trying to prove.

"Gabi."

I shake myself and look up at him, my lips stretching up to mirror his.

"Yes?"

"I was wondering if you wanted to grab a bite to eat."

"A bite?" I squeak, the option of a way out suddenly not as attractive as it usually is.

"Yeah, a bite." His front teeth plunge into his bottom lip again, and I'm putty in his hands, my head beginning to move up and down before I can even consider what continuing this date means.

"I would love to." I finally verbalise my agreement, my right hand stretching out for my left, my nails digging into the skin between my knuckles, only this time it's not because I'm nervous, but because I'm excited, and I'm never excited—not on a blind date anyway.

"Okay, cool, let's go." His hand reaches out again and hovers over the small of my back, the air that builds between his palm and my sweater crackling as we walk towards the exit.

The host from earlier waves us off, and as I shoot her one last smile, I'm almost sure that she sends a wink my way and mouths good luck, causing my lips to stretch further upwards—I'll need all the luck I can get.

Parker manoeuvres through the narrow East London streets with the skills of a local, his long legs carrying us through the evening crowds at a speed which I couldn't help but appreciate. In under twenty minutes, we reach the canal, and he leads me into a small restaurant nestled between two East London staples.

"I've always wanted to come here," I tell him once we're seated in a window booth, our order scribbled on the waiter's notepad, the softly lit canalside acting as the perfect backdrop to our meal.

"You have?" His eyes widen, and I nod.

"But I always end up in the place next door."

"Why?" he asks.

I shrug, and before I can stop myself, the truth is out. "Comfort. I always go with what I know."

I'm sure it seems weird to you, the girl who's been on 121 blind dates is scared of the unknown, but maybe that's why Parker is number 121. Perhaps the blind dates aren't about the unknown, perhaps they're about finding something familiar. Finding someone who I can be comfortable around, who I can be myself with.

"Me too," he admits once he takes a sip of his beer. "I hate deviating from the norm, my norm."

His answer surprises me, and I find myself asking about his move here. I mean moving from one country to another is a pretty major deviation.

"I didn't have a choice," he tells me, his voice tinged with something close to regret. "But I should've come earlier."

"Why?"

"My mom moved here five years ago, in fact, the only reason she stayed in New York as long as she did was because of me. Her entire family live in London, most of them moved straight here from the Caribbean while Mom decided on the US. They're the reason I know about this place. I'd spend summers here, cycling by the canal, hanging out in Victoria Park."

"So you're a city boy?"

"Are you a city girl?"

I lean forward, his body following my lead, our hands inching towards one another until his fingertips graze against mine. The entire restaurant fades away, the noise, the smell of the food, everything. And there we are, the two of us in the void, our eyes locked, small smiles dancing across our lips.

"In spirit," I say, and he bursts into laughter, his head falling back as his hand finally grabs hold of mine, his soft skin enveloping me, impure thoughts skirting around the edge of my conscience.

Fuck.

"Alicia was right, you are funny."

"She told you I'm funny?" I chuckle. That's high praise from Alicia.

"Yeah. My first day at work she said I looked like I needed a good laugh, which sounded very British at the time, and then gave me your number."

"Just like that?"

"Just like that...but I'm glad. Before today I didn't realise she was right."

"Well, I'm happy to have been of service."

"Cheers to that."

He raises his beer, me my margarita, and we clink glasses, only this time when our eyes lock its different, because this time I know we've clicked. This time, I know it's possible.

And that's what I've been looking for. Not familiarity, or similarity or any other -arity. No, I've been looking for a connection. Who would've thought that it would take a 120 failed attempts to finally find the right one.

121 by MissLaughALot_