- Jaxon -

Blind dates are often associated with negative outcomes.

That's what I read in an article online a few days ago. And now, I am beginning to consider the possibility that the information presented may hold some truth.

An hour into my blind date with Spencer, I'm starting to feel like we're from two different planets. She's confident, but in a way that comes across as self-centered and a little superficial. She's been talking non-stop about her job as a social media influencer, and I'm struggling to keep up with all the jargon.

We are at a trendy new restaurant in the heart of the city. The walls are adorned with modern art pieces, adding a pop of color to the neutral decor. Waiters dart back and forth between tables, delivering plates of food and refilling glasses of wine. The light fixtures are made of frosted glass, casting a soft glow over the tables. Strategically placed spotlights highlight the artwork and create a warm, welcoming ambiance. It's the perfect place to enjoy a romantic dinner or catch up with friends over a glass of wine.

She rambles on. I can't help but wonder if we're even speaking the same language. I'm a high school mathematics teacher, and my work is all about logic and problem-solving. Spencer's work, on the other hand, seems to be all about creating an image and projecting it to the world.

I sink my teeth into the succulent steak. As I chew, I peer up at Spencer. I'm drawn in by her stunning beauty. Her long blonde hair cascades down her back in soft waves, hooking the light and shimmering like liquid gold. Her bright stone-blue eyes flash with a naughty gleam, and her lips turn upward into a coy smile that sets my heart racing.

Despite her bodily quintessence, I can perceive that her interest in me is purely shallow. She seems more intent on talking about herself than getting to know me, and her body language suggests that she's only half-listening to what I have to say.

It seems that Spencer is more interested in her own reflection than the person sitting across from her.

I decided to try and steer the conversation in a different direction.

"So who's your favorite musical artist?" Basic queries usually follow up with simple answers.

You can't go wrong with a simple question.

Right?

Spencer's eyes dart towards me for a moment, but her attention is quickly drawn elsewhere. A group of guys are seated three tables down, all looking around my age. In their early twenties. One man, in selective, snags her eye.

She's not exactly making a great first impression.

One moment she's talking endlessly about herself, and the next she's giving a stranger eye sex.

Who could blame her, though?

This guy reminds me of Michael B. Jordan in Creed—he's got the same obtuse jawline, intense gape, and confident swagger. Unfortunately, he's also got the same predilection to hit on anything with a pulse, including my blind date Spencer. I try to ignore his sleek appearance and focus on getting to know Spencer, but it's hard to compete with someone who looks like he could take on Viktor Drago in the ring.

I definitely had no chance of competing and going toe-to-toe with the next possible big action star.

Spencer's attention was diverted by the man, and she questioned, "What was that?"

"Who's your favorite artist?" I paused, forgetting to emphasize the specific details of the subject.

". . . musically? Anyone in particular?"

She cleared her throat before answering, "It depends. These days, artists tend to be too cliché for my taste."

That's not a bad answer, honestly.

Let's continue and see where this goes.

"My thoughts exactly." My fingers fly over the napkin in my lap as I have a gut feeling that there is steak sauce on the corner of my lips.

"That might be influenced by the genre, as well. What genres are you into?"

"I don't know," Spencer shrugged, peering over at the ensemble of men for the seventh time tonight.

"Indie, rap, R&B —"

"R&B? I'm all about R&B. That's all I listen to."

I get too ahead of myself. For once, I may actually get to tell her a bit about myself and my interests when Spencer smiles. There's a part of me that tells me she finds me awkward and most definitely boring. That's because I am. Always have been. My shyness and awkwardness are what led me to become the man I am today.

I don't know if that is exactly a good thing in my relationship playbook.

Spencer removes the long strands of her blonde locks from her face and nods.

"Oh," Her tone was blunt.

Okay.

I continued on with the conversation. "My favorite artist is The Weeknd, hands down."

She perks a brow in confusion. "Who's The Weeknd?"

"Oh, The Weeknd is a talented musician. He's a Canadian singer, songwriter, and record producer. His real name is Abel Makkonen Tesfaye, but he goes by The Weeknd as a stage name."

God, I sound like a walking online encyclopedia.

That's simply just my inner educational skills taking over.

Truly, I don't mean to impose and come off as obnoxiously obsessive. But The Weeknd is by far one of the greatest musicians of all time.

"You've never heard of him?" I ask.

Has she been living under a rock for the past decade? I mean, who has never heard of The Weeknd?

"Nope," I can scent the dullness in her voice. "Doesn't ring a bell."

"Well, you should listen to a few of his songs —"

"Um, could you excuse me for one minute? I need to run to the ladies' room," she announces, hastily scooting back her wooden chair. Her hands clutch onto her designer purse that was safely resting around the right ear of her seat.

"Of course."

When Spencer sails away to where the bathrooms are located, the off-brand version of Michael B. Jordan absolves himself from his table and darts in the same direction. It's hard not to feel suspicious. Especially since Spencer's shadows disappear from the light not seconds before.

I believe that it's time I collect the bill now.

Lizzy, the waitress that served us is nowhere to be found in this chaos. My eyes compass around the large space as I try my best to find her.

Finally, I spot her in the far corner of the restaurant. She had taken a brisk break before diving back into the fray.

After several attempts to flag down our server, I finally caught her attention by making brief eye contact. "Excuse me, ma'am," I said, hoping she wouldn't be too annoyed by my interruption. "Could I have the check, please?"

The server nodded and said, "Sure, I'll bring it right over."

"Finally," I muttered to myself.

Now I can get the hell out of here.

Spencer struts out from around the corner. Her glossy lips, now a deeper shade of red, whiff at an intimate encounter. Unkempt strands of chestnut hair frame her face, and she alters her dress, revealing an inkling of cleavage. She didn't excuse herself to use the restroom—the flush on her cheeks and the abiding redolence of cologne suggested a steamy make-out session with the man she had laid eyes on less than twenty minutes ago.

To start, her skin-tight metallic dress was disheveled, creased, and crumpled in all the wrong places. The linen fabric had lost its luster, and the hemline was now a jumbled mess of wrinkles that made it difficult to ignore. My eyes skyline upwards. I noticed a smear of crimson-red lipstick that was clearly out of place. The color contrasted harshly with the pale skin around her lips, the outline of which was blotted and choppy, signifying that she had been in a hurry.

Spencer paddles her honey-colored plait behind her left ear and plops down in the seat with a hitched breath.

"Sorry I took so long," she apologizes.

"No worries," I lied, trying to hide my annoyance.

"I'm actually waiting for the waitress to return with our check." I flash my card her way for proof, the plastic shining in the dim light.

Smiling, Spencer opens her purse.

She rummages through the contents inside, her fingers deftly searching for something. I can't ignore the array of objects spilling out: her phone, a compact mirror, lipstick, and a small bottle of perfume, to name a few.

It's no wonder women's purses are always so big—they seem to carry their entire life with them.

I watched patiently as my date pulled out a petite wallet. From it, she extracted two crisp one hundred dollar bills, the sound of the paper rustling in the quiet restaurant. Right before I could respond to shun her actions, Lizzy returned with a small, black leather book—our bill for tonight.

Spencer impatiently snatches it from the teen's hand and scans it back and forth.

"Spencer, I got —" I paused, unsure of how to react. "How much is it?"

In the pocket sleeve of her wallet, Spencer slides in a bill with President Benjamin Franklin's face embedded on the front, the crinkling of the cash loading.

"Here, babe." Spencer holds up the cash to Lizzy "Keep the change." She tosses the money onto the tray and stands up, ready to leave.

Lizzy's eyes widen at the sight of the cash in front of her, her mouth agape in shock. No one has ever tipped her so generously before, and the money is eye candy for her. "A-Are you serious?" she questions in a shaky manner

"Yes, girl. You deserve it."

Quite suddenly, I am being dragged from my chair, my balance thrown off-kilter. Before I am completely able to gain my footing, Spencer is compiling my grey blazer, the fabric bunching in her fists. The people around us look in our direction. They were confused as to why there was so much commotion at our table. Lizzy swiftly dodges Spencer's body and is off.

"Y'all have a good night." Lizzy waved off.

Our blind date is officially done.

The first thing that reels me is the soft curve of her waist, accentuated by the snug, form-fitting dress she's wearing. We approach the exit, I steal a peek of her toned arms and shapely legs, the definition in her muscles hinting at a rigorous workout regimen.

And the way her dress highlights her hips.

Oh, god. . .

Such a shame that this couldn't work out.

"Thanks for paying. You didn't have to do that. I'm the one who is supposed to be paying for the meal." Guilt courses through my mind. I'm a gentleman and I should have paid for our meal. Not her.

"It's the least I could do."

What was that supposed to mean?

The night was still young. I had hoped to ignite between us was completely demolished by the man who had gobbled her as his dessert.

I awkwardly muster up the courage to speak.

"Let me walk you to your car?" I pose.

Spencer avoids making eye contact "I had called an Uber earlier," she replies, her voice distant. What could she possibly be so focused on?

"All right," I say, trying to piece my words together. "Well, do you mind if I sit here and wait with you? I —"

"That won't be necessary," she cuts in "You've already done enough for me. But thank you, though."

I haven't done anything.

All of Spencer's furtive actions began to tie together, creating a clearer picture of why she had been so anxious to end our somewhat mediocre blind date. To my right, I managed to catch a glimpse of the handsome fella sneaking past us in the parking lot.

Ah, I see where this is going.

"No problem. I had a great time," I reply.

Spencer nods.

"My cousin really knows how to pick 'em," she responds cryptically.

What could she possibly mean by that? Should I be highly offended?

My brows center together in bafflement.

"Cousin?"

"Taiden, my cousin. He set up this entire thing," she explains, her words sinking in slowly.

This had to be some kind of joke.

Taiden, my friend, playing matchmaker the entire time by setting me up with his relative?

Undeniably baffled by the situation, I can't deny the fact that this blind date was an arrangement from the start. The realization habits in, leaving me torn between feeling deceived about Taiden's intentions.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I rubbed my chin nervously, experiencing a flush of embarrassment prowling up my neck. "I had no idea," I muttered.

I'm going to kill him.

Spencer forced a smile, trying to ease the tension.

"Taiden always keeps you on your toes, doesn't he?" she commented, pulling out her phone.

I laughed, trying to lighten the mood. "That he does," I agreed, though my mind was still reeling.

Multiple text notifications file on her screen. The awkwardness between us became agonizing.

Suddenly, an engine roared to life in the parking lot, sending oscillations through the basis. I could see the cloudless beams of light mirroring off the shrubs. Anxious, Spencer ricocheted back, then locked her ice eyes with my emerald-green ones. Her siren stare was fierce like she was trying to read my thoughts.

"It was nice meeting you," Spencer said, extending her hand.

I did the same, shaking her hand firmly as we said our goodbyes. "You, too," I replied, pulling out my keys and mashing the button to start my keyless entry. My car thundered the lot. The sound of the pipes echoed through the wind. I could feel Spencer's vision on me, but I didn't dare look back to my proud flex.

The ladies always seem to enjoy a wealthy man in a nice whip.

"Nice car, by the way," she commented, though I could tell she wasn't interested in my starling-blue vehicle. It was just a polite gesture, like everything else she had done that evening.

Mission failed.

"Thanks," I replied, ending the conversation.

After saying goodbye to Spencer, I hiked to my coupe feeling like each step was taking an epoch. Hopping inside, I tossed my jacket aside and cranked up the air conditioning. Through the glass of the back window, I studied Spencer. She snuck over to a sleek black car. I assumed it was a Toyota belonging to the gentleman she had met earlier that night.

At least she wouldn't have a boring evening.

I sighed at the heft of the past two years without dating. My skills were rusty, and this disastrous blind date had only proved it. Maybe it was for the best.

"Way to get back into the game, Jaxon," I whisper to myself in disgust. This is pathetic.

Though, I lucked out, huh? At least now I know she's not a gold digger. She's not one of those girls who only date guys with money. I've heard horror stories about those types and even had my fair share of encounters. They only care about what kind of car you drive or how much money you make.

But not Spencer.

It's hilarious to think I once believed my luxurious car would make me more attractive. Turns out, personality beats horsepower every time. So, I guess my brand-new Mercedes-Benz AMG GT doesn't quite measure up to a ten-year-old Toyota Prius.

Go figure.

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