Don’t wait for me

I take one final glance in the mirror; long wavy hair half pinned back with soft strands line my face. Onyx eyeliner borders tightly along my lashes, highlighting my russet cat eyes. And a muted rosewood rouge on my lips gives them a youthful roundness. I look — pretty, exotic even. And the thought of canceling tugs on my instincts, but I brush it away as nerves getting the best of me. The excessive questioning of every decision, from which dress I should wear —or should I go with the pantsuit? To conversation starters and which topics to avoid — ex spouses — has my stomach in knots.

I slip out of the pant suit quickly and into the little black dress I tried on first. A simple clutch in hand, I walk out into the night. The wet pavement from the heavy rain only moments ago glistens with each step, and remnants of scattered stars hide beneath a melancholy sky. The air is warm and it drapes my skin, coating me in a sheet of temporary calmness. I slow my pace, turning instinctively down the long avenue; paved with nooks of clothing boutiques and restaurants.

It’s only a first-date. I repeat this to myself over and over again. I met Josh online, nearly three years ago after he commented on my blog post on micro-container gardening. He shared his tips for planting tulips in Florida, using pre-chilled bulbs. I was intrigued. We spent months back and forth discussing the benefits of micro gardening and shared our setbacks in the process. Josh was an online friend, a sounding board for my hobbie, and a platonic escape from my failing marriage. Never did I imagine we’d ever meet. But then again, there was a lot I didn’t know about Josh. For one, I learned he’s a top executive at one of the largest insurance corporations in the southeast; a detail I found extraordinary given his attentiveness and knowledge of my simple hobbie.

Shortly after his divorce, I discovered my husband was having an affair — with our twenty something year old dog walker. Details of our failing marriages fell loosely from our tongues and our online conversations began to venture into personal territory. After the dust had settled and my divorce was finalized an email appeared in my inbox. It was from Josh. He would be flying to Miami for business and was interested in meeting me. To expand our conversation of gardening, and perhaps explore a new hobby —one of good food and ever better wine, he had written. And I’ve been a nervous wreck ever since.

I refrained from googling him. Even after his divorce. Even after mine. And even after I agreed to meet him at Le Jolie. I round the corner, my quickened steps match the flutter rhythm of my heart beating, and the restaurant— ensconced between a bookstore and tarot card reading site, comes into view. It's a beautiful night; a crowd pours out of the restaurant and into the street as throngs of locals, and even a few tourists, wait for a table. Le Jolie does not take reservations, and the angst can be felt in the buzzing of conversation outside. As I make my way through the crowd, my phone buzzes in my purse. A text from Josh. I’m here.

The butterflies rise in my belly. How Josh managed to reserve a table at the most sought after restaurant in town is an absolute mystery. The hostess looks me over briefly and motions to the crowd outside. “I’m sorry but it’s going to be a while before a table opens up. I can add your name to the list or you can take a seat at the bar if you’d prefer.” A tall and slender man in a fitted blue suit walks over to the hostess, sliding a note into her palm. His features are sharp but friendly, and he nods at me briefly and smiles. “How can I help you?” He asks. The hostess fidgets with the note in her hands, carefully opening the creases of the folded paper. “My name is Ella, I’m here to meet Mr. —

Before I can say another word the maitre d’s eyes widen. “My apologies to keep you waiting,” he says, and quickly he ushers me away, mumbling something into his head set. He escorts me past the bar and the cluster of tightly spaced tables, and into the back end of the restaurant; an open space of booths and private canopies arranged at different angles for the utmost of privacy.

The upbeat chanson music and decor make the space feel like a completely different restaurant. “My apologies again,” the maitre d’ says, “the hostess is new and still learning the process at Le Jolie, but I assure you it will never happen again.” He says something quick into his head set, something about a bottle of merlot, year ‘97.

He leads me to a canopy, secluded from the rest. Floor length chiffon curtains part in the center revealing a solid oak wood plank table with mini plates of butter and foie gras. A rounded black and white striped couch surrounds the table as a tall and handsome man rises to his feet. A broad smile spreads across his strong jaw line and — he’s beaming.

In my imagination Josh was in his late forties, had a receding hairline, was twenty pounds overweight and had a boyish face. That is not who stands before me. Josh is younger, I’d guess 40 at most. A crisp black suit and white button down underneath reveal salt and pepper hairs that map his chest and pair perfectly with his thick and dark swept hair and five o’clock stubble. His steel green eyes stare deeply into mine and he takes my hand into his and brings them to his lips.

“It’s an absolute pleasure to finally meet you,” he says. I’m gawking. At him. At my hand. At the spot where his lips touched.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he says, wrapping a strong arm around my waist and bringing my body closer to his. I’m glad he’s so comfortable, so at ease with himself; his confidence gives me time to recognize and adjust my own. And my body—so close to his—feels natural. “ I took the liberty of choosing our wine for us this evening. A 97” vintage merlot.”

Never would I have imagined Josh so forthcoming. So relaxed. And so sexy. And it’s a welcome relief. Tonight I can allow myself to melt into his well planned and thought out evening. His strong hands press mine, reading my mind perhaps as he tugs at my fingers, dashing me a devilish grin. “Are we going to drink standing too?” I ask, meeting his gaze and feeling the tension in my body loosen, and for the first time all night I think— everything is just perfect.

It’s Josh. The same man I’ve been sharing tips with online, tidbits of my personal life and a plethora of gardening advice, hacks and stories of my failed attempts. And he’s more sophisticated, more handsome—striking even, and more mysterious than I ever could have imagined. He opens his mouth to reply just as the maitre d’ comes into view, a bottle of wine in his hand. He hesitates for a moment, unsure of how to interrupt the two of us, our hands interlocked and our eyes refusing to part. I lower my chin to the maitre d’.

“My apologies Mr. Evans for interrupting,” he says, revealing two wine glasses in his hand and setting them down before us while he opens the bottle of wine in one swift motion. Did he just say Mr. Evans? Surely I heard wrong. Edwards is Josh’ last name. I smile, reassuring myself as Josh hands me a glass of merlot.

“Thank you,” I manage, a breath escaping my lips. A buzzing sound in my purse and we both notice but neither of us moves. A single chill runs through my spine. The magic in his eyes, the familiarity between us. Surely I heard wrong.

“A toast,” he says, looking into my eyes and melting my heart in two, “to the beautiful woman who stole my heart, with a letter from hers.” A confused smile tugs at my lips. We wrote letters back and forth, this is true. But that stole his heart? Mostly they were notes back and forth about flowers, plants, spices and herbs, and climates and ideal soils for each. A lump forms in my throat and I let out a nervous laugh. “Cheers,” I reply, drinking the glass of wine far too quickly and avoiding his dark green eyes that smolder my insides, and turn my knees into jelly.

“Would you just excuse me for one second?” I ask, taking my phone from my purse as I press the green icon frantically. One new text message. I smile at Josh, whose face is now unreadable, and my cheeks flush crimson; how rude I am for checking my phone right now but these thoughts need to be laid to rest. Surely he is Josh. Surely I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be. Where I need to be. God I hope so.

Hey, are you coming? The text reads, My heart races, and the blood drains from my face. It’s from Josh, and the message was sent one minute ago. My phone buzzes again, squirming in my sweaty palms and I nearly drop it to the ground. I’m at the bar, the text reads, I couldn’t secure us a table just yet but I ordered you a glass of merlot in the meantime, just text me when you’re here. I fling the phone into my purse and I look up to meet eyes again with this man, this stranger, who in a matter of minutes has my heart pounding and my insides warm from his touch. And I look like I’ve just seen a ghost.

“Is everything ok?” Mr. Evans asks, resting his hand on the small of my back and gathering me closer to him. Just then the hostess appears, a pretty blonde woman by her side with a wide grin across her face, she stops cold at the sight of us. “Sebastian?” She asks, with mounting hysteria in her voice. “It’s Ella,” she says, her hand resting across her chest. Sebastian Evans looks at her inquisitively before locking eyes with me once more, a bewildered look smeared across his beautiful face.