The Blonde Theory (26 page)

Molly shrugged. “I kind of keep to myself,” she said. “Besides, I figured some of the senior partners here wouldn’t exactly approve. I guess I don’t really make a big show of it or anything.”

“Oh,” I murmured, still feeling terrible. I hesitated, feeling like I had to ask her a question or express interest in her declaration in some way. “Um, do you have a girlfriend?” I asked.

“Yes,” Molly nodded, peering at me peculiarly. “You’ve met her a bunch. Francesca. You know? The girl who goes to lunch with me a couple of times a week? The one who works at
The New Yorker
?”

“That’s your girlfriend?” I asked incredulously. I
had
met Francesca, a tiny, dark-haired pixie of a girl with a cute, upturned nose and a spattering of freckles. And come to think of it, I had seen Francesca and Molly acting rather affectionately, hugging each other whenever they saw each other, giggling together at private jokes, touching each other’s arms with an implied intimacy. I can’t believe I had never connected the dots. “Of course that’s your girlfriend,” I added softly.

Molly smiled at me. “She’s great,” she said. “I’d love for you to get to know her better. If you want to, I mean.”

“Of course,” I said, again struck with a giant pang of guilt. “How long have you been with her?”

“Two years,” Molly said. “She’s perfect.”

“Lucky you,” I said softly. The more I thought about it, the more I realized that they
were
a perfect match. Huh. Maybe
men
were the problem. Why couldn’t I have been born a lesbian? Then there would have been no preconceived gender stereotypes, no expectation that I would have to be subservient while my partner brought home the bacon and wore the pants in the relationship, so to speak.

“Yes, I’m lucky to have found her,” Molly agreed. “But it’s hard, too, you know? I know I want to spend my life with her, but we can’t get married in New York. And my parents basically disowned me after I came out to them. So it’s not all good, you know?”

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured.

I thought about it for a moment. I had been so absorbed in my own problems and my own dating difficulties these last few weeks—these last three years, in fact—that I had barely considered that other people had problems running much deeper than mine. I instantly felt even worse than I had before for harping on my own problems, and especially for whining to Molly about them.

“I’m so sorry,” I murmured again.

“You apologize too much,” Molly said gently. “You have nothing to be sorry for. But please, consider going out with this guy, okay? I’m telling you, he’s perfect for you. At the very least, you need to go out with a guy who isn’t scared to see the real you.”

I sighed and studied Molly’s face. Behind her thick glasses, her eyes were wide and pleading.

“Exactly how do you know this guy?” I asked suspiciously.

“He’s in my study group for both of the classes I’m taking this semester,” she said. “He’s really smart.”

“You want me to go out with some twenty-two-year-old law student?” I asked, surprised.

Molly laughed. “No,” she said. “He’s thirty-three. He already worked as an accountant for several years, and he just started law school this semester. He just moved to New York. He’s sort of changing paths in life and wanted to give this a try. He’s not that much younger than you, Harper. C’mon, give him a chance. Please?”

“But he’s a student,” I said. “Why in a million years would he want to go out with a woman who has already been working as an attorney for a decade?”

“I don’t think that kind of thing matters to him, Harper,” Molly said. “It shouldn’t matter to you, either.”

I was about to protest again, to tell Molly that there was no way it would ever work out between me and some law student who probably didn’t have two dimes to rub together and was doing the same course work I’d done twelve years ago. Then I remembered the bizarrely prophetic—albeit insulting—words of Sean, the Irish handyman.
Maybe you’re not looking in the right places,
he had said. Much as I hated to admit it because he’d been so rude to me, maybe he was right. I had only dated guys who made as much—or nearly as much—money as I did because I was so afraid of the men feeling inferior. But maybe this had all morphed into a problem of my own making. Maybe I
did
need to try going out with someone a little different.

“Fine,” I finally agreed reluctantly. I really had no desire to go on yet one more horrible date. But Molly looked like she was on the verge of getting down on her knees to beg me. I’d been so obtuse about two things that were so obviously important to her—her school and her sexuality. If agreeing to this favor would begin to make it up to her, then I really didn’t have any choice.

“Wait,” I said after thinking about it for a minute. “I don’t have to act like a dumb blonde or anything, do I? Because I’m done with that.”

“No, you don’t have to act like a dumb blonde,” Molly said with a smile. “Just be yourself.”

I nodded reluctantly, and Molly flounced out of the room to call the mystery man. Three minutes later, she was back, grinning from ear to ear. She told me I was to meet him tomorrow night at the The Long Hop, a British pub in my neighborhood. She scribbled down the name and address of the pub and the time I was supposed to meet him on a notepad, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to me.

“Don’t be late!” she said cheerfully.

I looked at the paper then back at Molly. I forced a smile and tried to feel better about the whole situation. Really, how bad could it be?

I had the sinking feeling those were famous last words.

Chapter Twenty-two

T
he next night at seven twenty, after a long day of work and an even longer day of explaining what had happened with Matt to a disappointed Meg, Emmie, and Jill over lunch, I sat at the corner of the bar at The Long Hop, drumming my fingers nervously. The place was emptier than I’d expected it to be; apparently this was the lull between the bar’s buzzing happy hour and its post-10-pm hip nightlife, complete with DJ and dance floor. But at seven twenty, it was just me, a handful of other people who looked about my age drinking at the bar, a pair of guys playing darts in the corner, and a lone bartender who was languidly drying martini glasses while whistling to himself.

I was casually hip in my favorite pair of slim-cut Robin’s Jeans, a black Amy Tangerine tee with the Chinese symbol for happiness stitched across the front in pink, big silver hoop earrings, and a pair of silver stilettos. I had washed and dried my hair and re-applied my makeup after work, and I was feeling more confident than usual as I waited for my mystery date.

Despite my begging, Molly had offered few details about him except to say that he had blondish brown hair, was on the tall side, and had a smile that would turn her on if she weren’t a lesbian. I wasn’t exactly sure how I was supposed to take that. She refused to even tell me his name; she had simply said that he would find me.

I felt inexplicably nervous and unsettled as I waited, the moments ticking by slowly. The mystery guy was supposed to meet me at seven thirty, and as I checked my watch and saw that it was seven thirty-one, I started to get a bit annoyed, which I knew was insane, because obviously I was supposed to give someone a window of more than one minute before getting peeved. I supposed it was because I was on edge anyhow. I didn’t really want to be here. The last thing in the world I wanted to be doing was going on another date. I wanted to be at home pouting instead. I still felt wounded and humiliated after the incident with Matt. I figured that I certainly didn’t need yet one more thing to bring me down another notch—particularly not yet another bad blind date.

“Harper?” A deep male voice cut into my thoughts, and I turned, expecting to see my mystery man. Instead, my jaw fell open.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I muttered, shaking my head as I tried to get ahold of myself. It was Sean. The smug handyman Sean. “What on earth are you doing here?”

Great. Just what I needed. The preachy handyman, sticking his nose where it didn’t belong yet again, ruining my date by psychoanalyzing me or something.

“I might ask you the same thing,” he said with a grin, apparently oblivious to the fact that I was shooting little daggers at him with my eyes. “This is my bar, you know.”

“What, like you own it?” I asked flatly.

He laughed, low and deep. “No, of course not,” he said in that thick brogue of his that I found attractive, despite my annoyance at him. “I mean, it’s the pub I come to all the time. The one that has Murphy’s on tap. Remember?”

“Yeah, your precious Murphy’s,” I muttered. I was starting to suspect that another Murphy’s was at work here: Murphy’s Law. How else could you explain why the irritatingly chipper handyman seemed to materialize every time I was on the verge of romantic disaster? It had at least been somewhat understandable when he showed up at my apartment a few times during the series of towel mix-ups. But this was ridiculous. Apparently the universe thought it would be supremely funny to plunk him randomly onto the bar stool next to mine as I waited for a date I was dreading. Suffice it to say, I wasn’t amused.

“Still a bit mad about the other day, are ya?” he asked with a lilting grin.

“It’s just that my personal life is really none of your business,” I said stiffly.

“Ay, that’s for sure, then,” he said. “So what are ya doing here all by yerself tonight?”

I rolled my eyes at him. Hadn’t we just discussed the invasion of my personal life?

“Havin’ a night out at the pub alone, are ya?” he persisted.

“No,” I snapped. “For your information, I’m waiting for a date.”

“Oh, are ya now?” he crowed. “So who’s the lucky lad?”

“For your information,” I said as haughtily as possible, “it’s a very friendly—and very cute—law student who’s about my age. Okay? He’ll be here any minute. You’ll see.”

However, with the minutes ticking by, I was growing increasingly sure that Molly’s perfect guy wasn’t going to show. It was almost seven forty-five. If he didn’t arrive, it would be a new low in humiliation, as Sean the handyman would have a front-row seat to my downfall.

“He sounds like a nice guy,” he said with a wink.

“I’m sure he is,” I said. “Not that I need your approval.”

“Of course not,” Sean demurred. “But I
am
glad to see that you’re datin’ outside your comfort zone.”

“What?” I asked crossly.

“Agreeing to a date with a lowly law student, I mean,” he said, nodding approvingly. “I do believe you’re making a change for the better, Miss Harper Roberts. I think you’re opening your mind. Good for you.”

“Thanks,” I said drily, wishing to end the conversation and feeling awkward, because of course Sean was right. As usual. How was it that he seemed to know more about me than I was capable of figuring out on my own? It was really annoying. I craned my neck, hoping I might catch sight of a cute, sandy-haired law--student-y guy approaching me with a charming grin on his face. No such luck. I slumped my shoulders and turned back to Sean with a sigh. “Is there something else you need?”

I hated sounding so mean. But I really didn’t need him standing around judging me. Especially as it was growing increasingly obvious that this fantastic date of mine was going to be a no-show. I was just about ready to throw in the towel on dating altogether. Clearly, I was disastrous at it.

“Well, aren’t ya gonna ask me what
I’m
doing here tonight, all by myself?” he asked, the dimples in his cheeks growing deeper as his grin grew wider.

“Sure,” I conceded. Perhaps indulging him would make him leave more quickly. “What are you doing here tonight all by yourself?” I asked in a tone tinged with just the slightest bit of mockery.

“One of the girls from my study group set me up on a blind date with her boss,” Sean said without missing a beat, his eyes twinkling. “Any idea where I might be able to find a single, thirty-five-year-old patent attorney around here?”

I gulped. My mouth was suddenly very dry, and I felt as if I might fall off my bar stool.

“What?” I croaked.

“My friend Molly,” he said “She’s in the two night classes I’m taking for law school this semester. We study together. And she told me somethin’ about her really nice boss, who, for some strange reason, doesn’t think that she’s as appealing to men as she really is.”

I stared.

“
You’re
the guy Molly is trying to set me up with?” I asked, a little breathless. It slowly began to register. He
was
really friendly, even if his helpfulness was sometimes misdirected or unwanted. He
had
specifically said that a woman’s career wouldn’t matter to him. And he
did
have an adorable smile, I had to admit, although it was considerably less charming when he was wearing it while making me think about my problems. “But that’s impossible,” I protested. “She said she was setting me up with someone who used to be an accountant.”

“Harper, you’ve got to learn to look beneath the surface, ya know,” he said. “I’ve been taking law classes at NYU starting six weeks ago. It’s what I came over to the States for. It’s what I decided I wanted to do with my life. Tax law, actually, considering my background is in accounting. Did you know that? That I was an accountant in Ireland?”

“No,” I said weakly.

“Ay, I musta forgotten to mention it. Anyhow, it was time for a change, time to get out of Cork, like I told ya. So here I am, attendin’ NYU. It’s no easy feat makin’ the loan payments, which is why I’m crashin’ on my friend’s couch and workin’ part-time to put myself through school. It’ll be a long few years, but I’m hopin’ I can save enough this summer to start going to school full-time this fall.”

I stared at him for another moment, until a thought occurred to me.

“So this was all your idea, then, was it?” I demanded. “What, was this supposed to teach me some kind of lesson about life or something?” That figured. Although I’d been dreading it for the most part, there was a small part of me that had been looking forward to the date. Instead, it was Sean, and he had apparently taken me on as some sort of project. No thanks. I didn’t need to be anyone’s project.

Sean looked surprised, then he smiled again.

“No, actually,” he said, “I had no idea Molly worked for you. I don’t exactly go to study group talkin’ about overflowing toilets and such, ya know. But I had given Molly some advice about a problem she was havin’ with her girlfriend a few weeks ago, so we got into a conversation about datin’ and such. I suppose that’s why she felt comfortable asking me to go on a date with her boss.”

“
She
asked
you
?” I said skeptically. “With no idea that we knew each other?”

“Absolutely.” Sean nodded. “I swear it on the grave of me mother. She didn’t tell me your name until after I’d agreed to the blind date.”

“And when she said my name?” I asked carefully. “How did you react? You probably wanted to change your mind, right? But you’re here out of some sort of obligation? Some sense that you need to teach me a lesson?”

“No,” Sean said, looking surprised. “I’m here because I really want to be. I told Molly that I already knew you. And then I told her that I already liked you.”

“You
what
?” I replied. “That’s impossible. I’ve been nothing but rude to you.”

“Ay, because I’ve been stickin’ my nose where it doesn’t belong, I suspect,” Sean said. “I can’t really blame you, now, can I?”

“I haven’t exactly been overly friendly either,” I muttered reluctantly. I studied him for a moment, not sure what to think. I hadn’t even considered going out on a date with someone like Sean—not even that first morning when he showed up at my apartment and I noticed abstractly how cute he was. He was right: I hadn’t bothered to look beneath the surface and see him as anything more than a handyman. It hadn’t occurred to me that there was more to him than met the eye. I’d been so closed-minded that I’d only seen him as the guy who had the power to fix my toilets, not as someone who could be intelligent, kind, and, well, datable. I’d been so caught up in my own insecurities about how men felt about me and whether or not they felt threatened by my job that I had unconsciously dismissed anyone whom I assumed didn’t fit. It wasn’t that I thought I was too good for someone who had a lower-level job than me—far from it. I was deathly afraid of falling in love with someone and then seeing him walk away, like Peter had, as soon as the financial and status differences between our jobs became too much to bear.

I thought about Jill and the disaster she had stepped into by marrying someone who fit into her preconceived mold of the “perfect guy” without taking the time to really get to know him. I thought about Emmie, who was the same age as I was but didn’t seem all that worried about her romantic future, although I always seemed to be fretting about winding up old and alone. I thought about Meg, who loved her job but loved her husband—a jovial, down-to-earth electrician—more. And I thought about Molly and the many challenges she faced.

I knew then, with a sudden clarity I’d been lacking, that I had to change my perspective. I’d been thinking of things all wrong, basing every dating decision on my experience with Peter, assuming that every man who came after him would think just like he had. And by selecting guys who were, for all intents and purposes, a lot like Peter, I had spent the last three years morosely confirming my own theory and slipping deeper and deeper into self-doubt. But maybe Sean had been right when he had suggested, last week, that at least part of the problem was within me. Troubling as that was to consider, maybe this whole dating conundrum that I’d been experiencing the last three years was, at its root, of my own making.

Finally, I focused on Sean, who was smiling as he waited for me to speak again. His eyes were big and blue; his sandy hair was tousled, and he had a small cluster of freckles across the bridge of his nose that I’d never noticed before. He had deep dimples, broad shoulders, and, as Molly had pointed out, one hell of a gorgeous smile. I flushed a little as I noticed how attractive he really was for the first time. It would take awhile to adjust the way I’d been thinking for the past three years, and indeed to really, truly learn to open up again without throwing up my defenses. But as far as I was concerned, there was no better place to start.

“So are you going to just sit there?” I finally asked Sean, smiling at him. “Or are you going to take me out on a date?”

Sean’s grin grew wider and his blue eyes twinkled enticingly at me.

“Well, Miss Harper Roberts,” he said, nudging me playfully. “I thought you’d never ask.”