You only get one chance to make a bad first impression
WHATEVER PRESS RELEASESClara sent out following their coffee date worked, because just four days after bringing her onboard, turnout had more than doubled for their second seminar. Naomi appreciated the broader audience, the peppering of gray hair and crow’s feet mixing among the sunburned shoulders of eager-eyed college students filling the chairs in the JCC classroom.
Like Shameless, these discussions of modern intimacy worked better when they included an array of experiences. Being single wasn’t reserved for the young and hot.
“Today we’re going to talk about first dates,” Naomi said. A few people nodded. An eager guy in the second row set the audio recorder on his cell phone. “Specifically, we’re going to talk about how you should stop viewing them like job interviews—hiding your weaknesses and overplaying your strengths—and start treating them like games of chicken.”
That earned her a few eyebrow raises.
“Look, your time is valuable, and presumably so is the other person’s, so just cut to the chase. Tell him you’re high maintenance and let him rise to the occasion. Fill her in on your crippling self-loathing, but,and here’s the important part”—she held up her index finger—“only if you’re taking steps to address it.”
A hand went into the air, a guy with a tattooed sleeve full of different kinds of pizza. “What if you’re broke?”
“Definitely tell your date that you’re broke. They’re going to find out sooner or later. Do you have any idea how much time and energy it takes to fake being rich?” Over the last twelve years in L.A., she’d seen plenty of people try it. She shook her head at the image. “Pass.”
Another guy, with a delicate jaw and a crop-top with Dolly Parton on it, caught her eye. “What if you’re a virgin?”
“You don’t have to tell someone your sexual history on a first date, or ever, if you don’t want to. That’s your business. In my experience, having sex—even lots of sex—doesn’t make anyone a better or more qualified partner, and a person who deserves you will know that.”
Naomi didn’t hide her sexual history from anyone she dated, but she also definitely didn’t think they were entitled to the information. Still, she wanted to make sure this guy, and everyone here, knew they could give themselves permission to bring it up on their terms.
She chewed her lip for a moment, considering.
“If it’s something you’re nervous about, and you want to share it with the person you’re seeing, you absolutely can bring it up in a casual, ‘hey, let’s skip the part where we ask about each other’s siblings, and talk about things that might actually affect whether we want to see each other again after tonight’ kinda way.”
Dolly Parton Shirt nodded gratefully, and Naomi’s heart melted. This feeling, tiny liberations and radical transparency, this was why she’d wanted so badly to teach in person. So she could see people’s faces when they shed their shame. It was amazing that one look of hesitant confidence could cancel out so many years of disapproval and distrust.
Naomi swallowed an unwelcome swell of emotion. “Okay, who else wants ceremonial permission to air their dirty laundry on a first date?”
Every hand went into the air, including Ethan’s. Somethingsuspiciously like butterflies took flight in her stomach when he returned herReally?look with a grin.
“Okay,” she said, to him and the room both, “let’s do this.”
After a few more shouted-out confessions, the seminar conversation quickly melded into a blend of commiserations, recommendations, and catharsis.
The more comfortable the audience grew, the more Naomi realized she didn’t need her prepared notes to fill an hour-and-a-half session with lecturing. She just needed to present a hard-won but still admittedly imperfect theory or two about the syllabus-dictated dating milestone and then hold space for people to process and respond. No one would ever be a dating expert. It was too variable a subject for that kind of intellectual hierarchy.
But Naomi figured she could be a sort of conductor for discourse. She relished the chance to use techniques she’d learned for her psych degree, teasing out truths from amid the cyclone of hope and insecurity that permeated the room.
Even more, she appreciated the distraction from Ethan and his soft-looking cardigan. The more buttoned-up he dressed, the more she wanted to unravel him. Her attraction was messy and wild and... unwelcome. He’d made it perfectly clear to Clara that he didn’t want anything unprofessional to do with her. That the very idea was beyond comprehension.
Naomi was handling it about as well as could be expected, which was to say not at all. Her best bet at this point seemed to be avoiding him. That wasn’t so hard, really. What was once a week in a classroom full of people? She could get through the next month and a half with minimal non-electronic interaction.
She had basically unlimited access to sex toys and a buffet of hot, sexually experienced friends. Naomi hardly qualified as hard up. And if something deep in her chest protested, well, too fucking bad. She’d taken this job to helpother peopleget lucky.
When the alarm on Ethan’s phone—changed to sound like an old-fashioned school bell—rang, signaling the end of their time together, she found herself reluctant to end the night.
“Okay, this week we are focusing on putting ourselves out there both emotionally and also literally,” she said as a close to the session. “We’re doing a little experiment. I want you to arrange for at least one first date before we meet again. Two if you’re feeling well-rested.” She waved away a few groans.
“Ask out your butcher. He looks great out of that bloody smock. Take him for coffee or a cocktail. Something you can cap at an hour if need be. None of us are sitting out the unofficial lab portion of this course, okay?”
Naomi gathered her things as people started heading for the exit. If she was quick enough, she might get out of there before Ethan and his blue eyes decided to ask her about her day. His consistent, genuine concern for her was hard to shake. A woman could get used to that sort of treatment, if she didn’t watch herself.
When they’d arrived in the parking lot at the same time earlier that evening, he’d noticed one of her tires was low and gotten down on his knees, in fucking slacks, to inspect it. The man had zero regard for his clothing.
She shoved her phone into her bag and tried to make a break for the door. If she was lucky, she and her wimpy tire would make it out of there in one piece.
“Ms. Grant?” A blonde Naomi recognized from the first lecture stopped in front of her. She wore a green dress under her jean jacket and the sameFeminist Killjoypin. At close range, Naomi noticed she had pale pink streaks running through her highlights. She shivered as goose bumps broke out on her arms. This blond woman reminded her of someone, though she couldn’t decide who.