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  At least, that is what I want to believe, even if I don’t want to admit it to anyone, especially myself.

  9

  Saturday morning is prime doggy time in Logan Square. Dumpling and I have a routine. First, we head up to the boulevard, Dumpling marking every possible vertical surface, greeting his friends as we go. There is Ollie, the bloodhound, all ears and jowls, who gently places one huge paw on Dumpling’s diminutive head like a benediction. Dumpling delicately nibbles his ankle in return. The black Schipperke from around the corner does some intense butt sniffage before indulging in a little WWF maneuver that flips Dumpling over with ease. They bark joyfully while they romp, but the schipperke becomes focused on the need to poop. We head up to La Boulangerie at the corner of Milwaukee and Logan to pick up a crepe for breakfast, and a baguette for later, running into Sweetness, a yellow lab so gorgeous he looks like a painting. Sweetness is the king of the high five, and I give him a treat when he obliges me.

  On our way back home we run into a boxer, which is always a problem. Dumpling hates boxers. His secret Mohawk pops straight up, and he hunkers down, growling low and glaring intently. I put myself between him and the offending creature, shrugging at the twentysomething hipster boy who is walking him, all ironic facial hair and skinny pants. Once the boxer is gone, Dumpling stands up and shakes, his back fur returning to normal.

  “Really? What is it with the damn boxers? Huh?”

  I could swear he shrugs.

  We are almost home when Dumpling finally decides to get down to business, producing a poop literally almost larger than his head. He stands over it pridefully.

  “Yes, good boy. You are such a good boy.” Dumpling spins in a circle and barks. I toss him a treat, and quickly manage the blue-bag duties. We wander down to drop the package in the garbage can on the corner, where Dumpling automatically sits, so that we can cross the street safely together. I tie him up outside New Wave Coffee and zip in to get a hot chocolate, my weekend treat. By the time I am finished, a small crowd has gathered.

  “He is so cute, Mommy!” A little girl in a Hannah Montana shirt is on one knee receiving loving kisses all over her face.

  “He’s weird-looking,” says a boy I presume is her older brother, his head tilted to one side and squinting at Dumpling. “His head is way too small.”

  “Is he yours?” The girl looks up at me.

  “Yep, he sure is.” I lean down to untie the leash.

  “He’s very sweet,” the mom says. “C’mon, Ella. Time to go. The doggie has to go too.”

  “What’s his name?” Ella asks, rising slowly.

  “Dumpling.”

  She smiles, front teeth missing. “That’s a silly name.”

  I smile back. “He’s a silly dog. Just look at him!”

  “Bye, Dumpling. I love you!” Ella leans down and kisses his head, before turning to walk away with her mom and brother. Just like that. I love you. Love at first meeting. Pity it doesn’t happen after you are six.

  Dumpling and I head home. I give him his breakfast and, in order to feel a tiny bit productive, mix myself a small tester bowl of the latest granola with fruit and yogurt. I finally seem to have nailed a delicious low-fat, low-calorie version that is high-fiber and healthy but doesn’t taste like a bowl of twigs. Only took eleven attempts. But I think it works, and make some notes to send to Patrick.

  The phone rings promptly at eleven.

  “Hi, RJ. Nice to finally speak with you!” Don’t sound too eager, Alana, it is just a phone call. RJ’s e-mails are consistently witty, charming, self-deprecating but not self-loathing. Flirty but not lascivious. Grown-up e-mails. Courting e-mails. He replies promptly, but not immediately. He has started to feel like a when and not an if, and I find it exhilarating and terrifying.

  “Indeed. You’re a busy lady.”

  “That I am. And you can’t stay in one time zone.”

  He laughs. I like his laugh. It is genuine, and makes me wonder for the millionth time what he looks like. He laughs handsomely. I’m in major freaking trouble.

  “Guilty as charged. Q-four is our biggest, busiest quarter, and I am running around like a headless chicken trying to keep the clients happy and gear them up for a great end of this year so that I can hit them up for increased business in Q-one next year.”

  Okay, Alana. Just be honest. “RJ, I know you have said a little bit in your e-mails, but can you explain to me exactly what it is that you do?” Because I? Am an idiot about most things, and director of Client Development for an Internet media consulting company sounds like bladdity bladdayblah blah bippetty boppetty boo to me.

  He chuckles again. “Really? I’m a schlepper. I’m a salesman. I just don’t sell physical products. What I sell is an ability for an online retailer to target their potential clients with very specialized Internet advertising, and I package both the advertising hits themselves with the functionality to manage how it is delivered. But at the end of the day, I’m just a seller. I go to my clients and I sell them the ability to increase their reach, to up their direct sales.”

  My Call Waiting beeps. I can see it is Patrick.

  And for the first time in six years, I ignore it.

  “Okay, that actually makes sense to me. Sorry, I’m just technologically completely inept.”

  “So am I. We have a whole floor full of twentysomethings who deal with the actual technology. I just find out the needs of the clients and try to translate that for the guys who do the programming.”

  Beep.

  “Do you need to get that?”

  “Nope. Not at all. You’ll forgive me, but um, how did you get into that business?”

  “You mean because I have a degree in art history, and then went to art school, the whole time singing in a punk pop band?”

  “How do I say this? Yes, in a nutshell. It just seems like such a leap from musician-slash-artist to corporate guy.”

  He laughs again. I could jump into that laugh and paddle around like a happy duckling. “I can guarantee you that I’m the only one from my graduating class that is working in my industry.”

  Beep. Fucker. I am IGNORING YOU.

  “What about the art and the music? Not following those dreams?” Not that I’m sad about it. I’ve dated guys who never got over not becoming the rock star–slash–pro athlete–slash–movie star. They are endlessly resentful of the life they think they had to settle for.

  “Preempted by a need to live indoors and feed myself. I turned the passion for making art into a passion for collecting and being a spectator, so I love to go to museums and galleries and occasionally buy something if it’s within my ability. And I took up the electric guitar again, mostly just noodling around at home, but my company has a house band that we put together for all the events and parties, and I sing and play with them so that keeps me feeling connected to the rock ’n’ roll in my heart. In the meantime, I fell into a job that I really love and happen to be reasonably good at, so I get the best of all possible worlds.” Thank goodness. He seems very secure in the choices he’s made and, even better, seems really content and happy with his life.

  Beep.

  “Someone is mucho popular. I really don’t mind holding.”

  Sigh. “I’ll be right back.”

  I click over. “What?”

  “Someone is cranky. What’re you doing?”

  “I’m on the other line. What do you need?”

  “Oh, can you do one thirty instead of one? I want to get a massage.”

  “Fine.”

  “Okay.”

  I click back over.

  “Hi, sorry.”

  “No problem. Everything okay?”

  “Completely fine. That is very cool, what you were saying about your work. I feel the same way. Although most people who do what I do did go to culinary school, so that isn’t so incongruous. But I got into what is probably the most specialized segment of the food industry accidentally, and just got very lucky.”

  “It’s very r
efreshing to meet someone who loves what they do.”

  “I agree. But I’m lucky, most of my friends are pretty happy in their careers.”

  “Most of your friends are rich and famous.”

  Now it is my turn to laugh. “I suppose I do run in something of a rarified crowd,” I say in my fake hoity-toity voice.

  Beep. GODDAMNIT. I am ignoring you, Patrick Conlon, you complete crapbucket.

  “Don’t downplay. Let’s see, from what you’ve told me so far, your crowd includes the talk-show host most likely to fill Oprah’s stilettos, one of the world’s most recognizable television chefs and restaurateurs, and a New York Times bestselling author.”

  “Ghostwriter,” I correct him.

  “Okay, so her name may not be on the books, but isn’t it cooler to know the person who actually wrote the books that sell all those millions of copies rather than the faker whose name is on them?”

  Emily is going to love him. “I’ve always thought so.” We’re allowed to say that Em is a ghostwriter, and even that books she has written have been on the list; we just aren’t allowed to say which actual books she has written or for whom. Between us, the woman for whom Emily writes such witty and wonderful material is a spoiled, bored trust-fund baby whose daddy got her the book deal to begin with, ignoring the fact that his precious baby got kicked out of fourteen prep schools, never went to college, and cannot string four words together coherently when she is sober, which is rare. We all just refer to her as Princess Drunkypoo.

  Beep.

  “Same person, or is it a movie star or head of state?” He doesn’t sound at all annoyed.

  “Same person. I’ll be back in one second.”

  I click over again. “WHAT???”

  “Are you still on the phone?”

  “Yes, I am still on the phone. What is it you want?”

  “My masseuse can’t take me, so we are back to one o’clock.”

  “Great. See you then.”

  I click back over to RJ. The conversation flows insanely easily. We find that we have a ridiculous amount in common: obscure bands we both love, old movies we can’t stop watching. We are both crazy for L’As Du Fallafel in Paris. When I mention the name of the tiny town in the South of France where I spent a week with a local chef, it turns out that he has a friend there. Who just happens to live in the house I walked by every day on my way to the market, dreaming of a life where I could buy the house and open a small café in one of the outbuildings. We talked about our families, his upbringing in Tennessee and mine in Chicago. And then, as it always does in these situations, the conversation turns to how we met.

  “So, how is EDestiny working out for you?” he asks.

  “Um, that is sort of an interesting question.”

  “Because?”

  “Because I really wasn’t on there for dating, per se.” I’m going with honest.

  “Intriguing, oh woman of mystery. Do tell, why were you on there?” His voice sounds as if he is smiling.

  So I explain about the history of online dating and horrible matches, and the game of checking in on the free weekends for the fun of it, hoping that he will be flattered that I reached out and not offended that I’m dissing his dating site. Instead, he listens, chuckles where appropriate, asks about some of the more egregious bad matches, and is generally charming and sweet and completely understanding about the whole thing.

  When I get to the end of my saga, I ask him, “How about you, are you having good success with the old Destinometer?”

  “Well, it is interesting that you admit you weren’t really there looking for a date, because neither was I.”

  Hmm. “Well, that is equally intriguing, oh man of mystery. And why, pray tell, are you on EDestiny not looking for dates?” Here it comes. The married thing. I can just feel it, the bastard.

  “You know that whole Internet media consulting thing I do?”

  “Yes?”

  “EDestiny is one of my biggest clients. I was there to test the functionality of the site. That’s why there is no picture, and so little information. I just put in the minimum stuff so I could effectively see how the site operates and how I can help them maximize the way they interact with their current and potential clients.”

  “You’re not married?” I can’t believe I just let that slip.

  “Not since 1998.”

  “That is an enormous relief.”

  “Did you really think I’d be married?”

  “It wouldn’t be the first time. How long were you married?”

  “Seven years. Have you ever been married?”

  Oy. “Yes, once, very briefly, just over a year. Divorced in 1996.”

  “Sounds like there is a story there.”

  Boy, he said it. “I think I’ll save that one for when we have a decent bottle of wine.” Presumptuous me.

  “Even better. What are the chances we can get that on our calendars? If it isn’t too forward or fast, I would love to take you to dinner if you’d be ready for that.”

  My heart melts. Not afternoon coffee, or “Let’s meet for drinks.” No tester date just to be sure you can escape without risking too much time or laying out too much cash. A real, live dinner date. I frankly can’t remember the last time a guy asked me out for one of those. “I would love to have dinner with you.”

  We check our calendars and realize that, despite it only being the first week of November, the first weekend night we can schedule our date for is the Saturday after Thanksgiving. Which he also gets huge points for, not booking a weeknight dinner, when an early morning at work is a good excuse to cut things short. A real, live, Saturday-night dinner date. Be still my heart.

  “Well, I’m glad we got that on the books!” RJ says. “I’m tempted to ask you to schedule a second date now, just to make sure the rest of your year doesn’t fill up!”

  “Not fair, you have six business trips yourself, mister.”

  “Guilty. I should probably admit that while I would of course rather see you sooner than later, the distance doesn’t really make me nervous. I feel like you and I are going to be friends, real friends, even if the in-person chemistry isn’t there for romance. So I don’t feel like there is pressure to move faster or try to squish in some short little first meeting. I hope you don’t mind my saying that.”

  I love that he feels comfortable expressing that feeling, because it is what I have been feeling the whole time we’ve been talking. “I don’t mind at all, because I agree completely.”

  Beep. I am going to FUCKING KILL HIM.

  “Do you need to?”

  “No. I don’t really.”

  “I would like to keep talking between now and our date if that is okay.”

  Beep. “I’m counting on it.”

  “Well then, can I call you again tomorrow?”

  I look at my schedule. “I should be home by nine thirty, latest.”

  “So I’ll call at ten? Give you time to walk the dog and get settled?”

  Beep. “Wonderful.”

  “Good-bye, Alana. I look forward to continuing this tomorrow night. Go tell your other boyfriend that he can have you back now.”

  “I’m looking forward to talking again. Bye, RJ.” I purposely don’t deny that it could be another man. After all, it’s okay to retain some sense of competition with guys.

  I turn and look down at Dumpling, who sits up to look back at me. “Oh. My.”

  My phone rings. “WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT. NOW?”

  “I was going to say that my masseuse has an opening at three, and I can’t take it, but you seemed sort of tense, so if you want the appointment, it’s my treat.”

  I check my watch. Forty-two minutes. I have blown the record for staying annoyed at him out of the water. “That is very sweet. I’d love a massage. Thank you.”

  “All righty. I’ll set it up.”

  “Thanks, Patrick. I’ll see you in an hour.”

  “And, Alana?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Y
ou really have to try to relax, nothing is that serious.”

  I hang up the phone. “What am I going to do with that man? And more important, is it possible to lose twenty pounds in three weeks before I have to meet RJ? And what on earth am I going to wear?” Dumpling sighs, stands up, spins once, and then flops back down as if to say, “Don’t get your hopes up, Crazy Pants. You have no idea what he even looks like; he’s still just theoretically good. Don’t set yourself up for disappointment.”

  Which, while logical, is looking like it is going to be much easier said than done.

  My meeting with Patrick at Uncommon Ground coffeehouse is brief, and basic. I hand off the drafts of the first twenty-five recipes I’ve done for the new cookbook, so that he can play with them and make them more Patrick-y. He gives me a bunch of ideas he has been toying with, jumping-off points for me to play with for the next set of tests. We chat about the upcoming week of shooting, go over the ten shows we have scheduled, and I talk him through a couple interesting new gadgets I found that he is going to be using on-air. The person writing his blog for the Food TV website has agreed to freelance write a blog for his personal website as well to keep the same voice, but will need some help pulling the right recipes together. Just one more little thing to add to my plate.

  “So. I think that is all I have. Do you have anything for me, Alana-cabana?”

  “Um, I think that is probably it. Bruce says the network is planning on a Grilling Week around Fourth of July, so we might be on deck to shoot a special extra episode. I’ve pulled together an initial menu based on some of the better grilled stuff at PCGrub, thought you might want to do the shoot there, I know your PR team would be delighted.”

  “Yeah, that sounds like a plan. It hasn’t been featured since last year’s ‘Check, Please!’ episode, so it will make the media whores happy.”

  “Okay, I will see what I can do to get that in the works.”

  “Great. And now you should go for your soothing forty-twenty.”

  “What the hell is a forty-twenty?”

  He grins. “A massage. Forty minutes of relaxation, and twenty minutes of trying not to fart.”