“Why wouldn’t it be?” laughed Mrs. Fried, a little too loudly and a little too long. “Tatty and I will be out later, and we’d like you to join us for dinner at Bouchon. Our reservation is at seven. Please make sure you look presentable. Maybe wear that new black sweater I just brought home for you. The cut is so slimming.”

Chayala stared at the phone incredulously. The things that mothers could get away with saying, it was really remarkable.

“Chayala? Hello? Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard, Ma. I’ll see you at seven.”

She pressed end and tried to ignore the pit in her stomach. Her unease wasn’t assuaged by her mother’s chipper tone. She turned off her car and slid out of the driver’s seat. Five quick steps, and she felt the tension slide from her shoulders. Her personal oasis. She paused for a moment at the door to the office-slash-warehouse space she called home, as she had every weekday morning for the last four years.

Her parents, despite their… old school communication style, had been her staunch supporters throughout the birth of her company, covering so many of the initial renovation costs and turning what was once an empty shell of a warehouse into the thriving office she loved.

Chayala flicked several switches and watched the lights flood the 7,200-square-foot space. Thank Hashem for the success of the small business she’d worked so hard to grow. Her eyes landed on the brand-new HUIS sign she’d had installed just last month after the $25,000 rebrand had wrapped. The new logo was exactly what she’d envisioned; clean and fun, young, but still trustworthy.

Sales in the last month, especially the new stemware line and the under-sink organizers, were already proving the rebrand was worth the spend. She pushed the vestiges of the conversation with her mother out of her mind and strode purposefully to her office. She paused in front of the mirrored glass door with her name etched on the surface and caught a glimpse of her reflection. The fit-and-flare olive dress with the floral, drapey sleeves made her feel professional and approachable and could be depended on not to embarrass her if she bumped into a shadchan on her coffee run. And besides, olive complemented her wavy auburn hair way better than black. Look presentable, indeed.

There was muscle memory, and then there was a level of checked-out Dassi found almost amusing — she could do her classic “first date” look in a catatonic state. Weird, considering it took a lot of effort to make it look like you put in very little effort. Maybe not so weird, considering she’d done it so many times before. Black hair effortlessly tousled, check. Blue eyes not too done but not too underdone, check.

She didn’t even have that new podcast of funny dating fails on. She was just spacing out and poof! It was 45 minutes later and her contour looked perfect. Maybe she should see someone about that.

Her phone buzzed.

Aly: bet on?

Dassi: as always

Aly: when’s pickup time?

Dassi: 6, aka in 5 min, which means he probably doesn’t have a normal job. Who’s ready for a date at 6?

Aly: well, you, big talker.

Dassi:  I work for my stepfather, it’s not exactly like I’ll be fired if I leave at 4. Which PROVES MY POINT.

Aly: yeah, yeah. You’re the VP of Sales. not exactly slumming it. Anyway, boys don’t take 2 hours to get ready for their own wedding, let alone a date. Ok, same terms. If he’s worth a 2nd date, you’re paying for food tomorrow.

Dassi: If he’s DOA, it’s on you. And ftr, if it’s on me we’re getting food, not dinner. The difference between food and dinner is like a hundred bucks.

Dassi grinned and put her phone on silent. There was truly nothing like good friends, especially her group of friends. She and Chayala had been friends since seminary days, but the other two had slipped into their groove seamlessly. First Shira, who’d been friends with some of Dassi’s own camp friends (who’d all since married and dropped off the face); then Aly, originally Chayala’s sister Malky’s biology tutor, but who was only too happy to have a group of FFB girls at the same life stage. Dassi didn’t take it for granted. Drama-free friends were hard to come by at any age.

She dropped her phone into the inside pocket of her first-date jacket, slung it over her first-date black dress, and slipped on her first-date heels, giving herself a dispassionate glance in her mirror before heading downstairs. Her mother smiled, that fake first-date this-is-the-first-day-of-the-rest-of-your-life! smile that had Dassi suppressing an eye roll.

The doorbell rang.

“On time at least,” she muttered as she and her mother and stepfather headed to the door to meet her 97th date.

Oh, wait, 98th? She’d nearly forgotten about that flip-out accountant from Teaneck who took her to a park near her house for an hour. Dassi wondered what she’d do when the hundredth young man crossed her parent’s threshold. Shower him with confetti and present him with a lifetime supply of Diet Coke without lemon?

She turned her attention to her date, who was now looking at her expectantly. She tossed a “good night” over her shoulder and walked with him to his car, something shiny and sleek that suggested he might have a normal job, after all.

He opened her door for her, and she settled in, using those fleeting seconds until he got into the driver’s side to arrange her features into her first-date face: relaxed and friendly. Heaven forbid her face should reflect the running commentary in her head! That’d make anyone serve up an ice cold one-and-done.

He caught her off guard with his opening statement. That was impressive, considering how she prided herself, at 29, to have lived virtually every dating scenario by now.

“So I know we’re supposed to go to a lounge, and I didn’t tell the shadchan, but I really prefer to do dinner. I hope that’s okay with you. I have a sister, I know how much time and energy it takes to go on a date, especially a first date, and it seems like the least I could do.”

His easy grin was disarming, his delivery utterly confident. Dassi was speechless. Problem was she’d already eaten her customary pre-dinnerless-date dinner (Turkey sandwich on 647, sliced tomato, and deli mustard on one side only), but she could roll with the punches.

Despite the thoughtful start, as the drive went on, her guilty-until-proven-innocent mindset was difficult to shake. Not that that was a surprise. She’d had three preteen years of therapy after her parents’ divorce that confirmed that she was — what do you know — hesitant to trust people. And also, apparently, proficient at masking her shaky self-confidence with biting sarcasm. That last bit she’d overheard her mother whispering on the phone to her grandmother, which did wonders for a person’s shaky self-confidence, truly.

Dassi let her thoughts wander back to real time, where her date, who clearly didn’t struggle with the same things she did, was monologuing about his day. By the time his car pulled up to Bouchon thirty minutes later (what was his name again? Avi or Ari?), Dassi was making an effort to stay neutral, but not yet ready to surreptitiously text Aly a quick “pay up.” She forced herself not to spiral through the what-ifs and should-shes, to stay in the moment and keep the conversation going.

At least Avi/Ari was making it easy for her. She’d already heard all about his recent trip to Israel, his job in finance (apparently in foreign markets that close early), and his family who all loved him and couldn’t manage without him.

Well, good thing she was getting a nice dinner out of the deal. Also, if someone were to invent an eye-roll suppressor, that’d be great.

It was when the waiter was clearing their appetizers (roasted cauliflower with something very delicious as a garnish for her, beef tartar for him, which was probably a clear sign he was a serial killer — who orders raw beef on a first date?) that Dassi looked across the room and saw a flash of auburn waves and a drapey, floral, olive sleeve she knew only too well.

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 823)