me, I remember thinking. And then there was the anticipation of walking her to the door, of being asked inside. But it didn’t happen.
“I’ll meet you there. Thanks, Paul,” she said, blinking again, the color still in her cheeks. She tapped a pencil on her desk. She needed to get back to work, I realized.
“See you tonight,” I told her, disappointed I’d be arriving alone. I was hopeful I wouldn’t be leaving by myself after dinner. I was officially smitten. I knew I would do everything in my power to make Mia realize what a catch I was, too. It was time for my best moves, my most charming seduction. Of course I would succeed, I always do. When you’ve got it, you’ve got it. I’m not bragging, really, I’m just telling you there are some things I’m really good at and this—women—is one of them.
At dinner, I continued my offensive. When the chocolate crème brûlée arrived, you should have seen her face.
“This is my favorite dessert,” she said, clapping her hands as they slid the decadent custard in front of her at the table. “How did you know?”
It’s funny the things you can learn on the internet, the little details that can betray so much about a person if only you know where to look. Like pictures on a society magazine’s website—a lovely young woman at a banquet with her wealthy parents, dainty dishes of a certain decadent dessert on the tables in front of them. I’ve never been one to pass up the opportunity to glean information on the people in my life—colleagues, clients, business rivals. Women. You never know, do you, when a trivial bit of background might turn the tide in your favor. But I could hardly tell Mia any of that; it was our first date, after all. Instead I smiled, gave her the signature wink and said, “A lucky guess.”
With the pleasant memory of a Mia who savored her desserts fresh in my mind, I have succeeded in tuning out the horrible country music bombarding my brain and focus instead on the happiness I feel driving into Lakeside without having to pay a fee. The gates don’t drop until Memorial Day weekend. I smile as I drive the Flex, too quickly per the posted 15 Miles per Hour sign, into our blissful little retreat. Whenever I drive into this place, with its charming cottages, most with rocking chairs dotting their porches, this community with its vast stretches of green-grass parks and big blue sky and water views, I’m reminded that I’ve made it. I know everything will be fine, no matter what the future brings. I’ve always believed that. Mia still loves me. I take a deep breath, sucking in pure Americana.
Enjoy the drive, I tell myself, noticing the little cottages in pink and white and red and green lining the street, with their tulip flags flapping, their cement geese dressed for spring. Enjoy driving through this picturesque Eden, heading toward Lake Erie, a lake so shallow all of the water turns over every two and a half years. Bet you didn’t know that.
Did you know if you didn’t put your foot on the brake as you came to the end of this street, you’d drive across some bright green grass, over the dark sand beach and into the water, ending up at the bottom of the shallowest Great Lake in the United States?
It’s still deep enough to kill you, of course.
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