Page 17 of Finding Mr. July

J onathan is out of the office Friday without explanation.

You’d think he might have mentioned a dentist appointment or feeling under the weather, but no.

My phone burns a hole in my desk next to me as I create my first marketing blast for the calendar (“Sign up here to be notified when it drops!”) using a cute snap from the first shoot, but I’m committed to not texting him.

After last night, who knows what unfiltered truths might escape my fingertips?

Besides, he was the one who brought up professionalism this time.

Finally, we’re in agreement about something.

I’m dying for a glass of wine by the time I enter the bar downstairs after work.

Another day, another date. This guy actually is a model, which is the only reason I’ve agreed to meet him.

His personality has left a lot to be desired so far.

Mikael is a Swedish giant at six foot seven, stereotypically blond and blue-eyed, and he’s already drawn the attention of two other women at the bar when I enter.

It doesn’t escape me that they hand him a note while I order.

In a smooth move, he tucks it into his pocket while simultaneously escorting me by the elbow to one of the round two-tops by the window.

The space is less than half full of people, and the early hour makes it feel like a completely different venue from when I was here last. Still, the ambiance is lazy and casual, the lights dim but helped by the afternoon sun outside, and when the pinot grigio hits my bloodstream, the stress and tension of the day melt away, leaving a pleasantly warm gooiness behind.

I blame that for allowing the conversation to go longer than I’d planned.

Mikael can talk. Mostly about himself and how he’s been to LA, Toronto, and London in the past two weeks (“You’re lucky I could squeeze you in,” wink wink ), but also about food.

This guy loves his food. I finish my wine, tuning in and out of what he’s saying when he gets to how smoked salmon goes with capers, but only a specific kind of capers, preferably on freshly made bagels from a particular bakery in New York.

They ship, in case I’m interested. Something about his accent puts me in an almost trance-like state.

This is why, when he suddenly suggests we go back to his place, it takes me a moment to catch up. I thought we were only talking—or he was—but he thinks we’ve hit it off and reached the time for the main event.

“I don’t live far,” he says, signaling for the check. “A few blocks. Do you want to walk or call a car?”

I blink at him. Those are my only two options, huh? “Um, I actually need to head home soon. Sorry.”

His face turns into a question mark.

“I should have said something sooner, but I’m not looking for a hookup. The real reason I’m here is because I’m looking for models for a project. Models with dogs, to be specific. You do have a dog, right?”

“Cujo, yeah. But wait… Are you telling me that I’ve spent”—he checks his expensive-looking watch—“forty-five minutes on this conversation, and you were never going to come back to mine?”

“Like I said, I apologize. I should have been clear from the start.”

“You think? I turned down several other females for you.”

O-kay, so total douche canoe. I grind my teeth together and stand. “The night is still young. I’m sure they’ll be ecstatic when you call. Thanks for your time.” I turn but don’t get far before he calls my name. Or he calls “Molly,” but close enough.

“What’s the modeling gig?” he asks.

And so, while the ick factor is high, I do arrive home with a commitment from Mikael to pose for the calendar. It’s a dubious score, but a score all the same. Especially since it’s his job, and he knows I can’t pay him.

I haven’t been home long before it is clear that padding around in my sweats without plans on this Friday night poses a risk of the phone-related kind.

No word from Jonathan means my imagination is running amok, conjuring alternating scenarios of him injured and amnesia-riddled in some hospital with less dramatic ones where last night made him not want to talk to me ever again.

Neither is reasonable, of course, but too much time on one’s hands can be a real mindfuck.

To distract myself, I trail Jude around the house as he does his weekly cleaning. He puts a dust rag in my hand and points to places where I might wipe, but I don’t think he’s happy with my work because he goes over everything a second time.

“How pathetic are we that we’re at home cleaning on a Friday night,” I complain.

“Not pathetic. Hygienic.” Jude pulls out the vacuum from the closet. “And if you’re so bored, why don’t you call Rachel? She’s usually up for going out.”

“She’s on a date.”

That makes him stop what he’s doing. “Really. Who’s the guy?”

“That beach volleyball player we met at Alki.”

“The one who inspired the calendar.”

I nod.

“Huh.” He untangles the cord and plugs in the machine.

“Which means I can’t call her. So I’m still bored.”

“Maybe you should have gone home with what’s his name after all.”

“Mikael. Ugh, no. I’d rather be bored forever.”

Jude laughs. “Tell you what. Morris is almost out of food, so I’ve got to swing by the pet store when I’m done here. Come with me, and we can grab dinner, too.”

My spirits lift instantly. I can always count on Jude to come through for me. Hopefully I can repay the favor soon.

“You had me at ‘dinner,’ but as so happens, visiting pet stores is actually on my to-do list for this weekend, too.”

Jude pauses what he’s doing. “Why? Do you have a secret hamster squirreled away in your room? A cockatoo I don’t know about?”

I play along. “What? I didn’t tell you about Frank and Beans, my flatulent ferrets?”

Jude’s eyes narrow. “That’s awfully specific. Should I be concerned?”

“Only if you’re allergic to ferrets.”

He rolls his eyes. “Hols…”

“Fine. It’s because of the photo shoots. Surely some attractive men work in pet stores?”

“At Marla’s? Unlikely.”

Marla was once a client of Dad’s, so we’re on a first-name basis with the shop owner and have a standing 10 percent discount at her store.

“Yeah, maybe not. But I’ll come either way.” If nothing else, Jude’s company should prevent me from dwelling on the Jonathan situation, which in itself is a win.

“If you wipe down the countertops, we’ll get out of here faster,” Jude says.

I scowl at him. “This feels very twenty-five years ago except, back then, you paid me to do your chores for you.”

“No regrets. First drink is on me.” The vacuum roars to life.

“Deal,” I say, but he can no longer hear me, which, judging by his gleeful smile, he’s only too happy about. I toss the dust rag at him before I go to make the already-tidy kitchen cleaner.

We grab seats at the bar at Facinelli’s and get shoestring fries to share while waiting for our pasta.

It’s food before errands, and I’m enjoying my (blessedly Swede-free) glass of wine when Jude runs a hand through his too-long strands in a move I’ve seen many a time.

He’s either about to ask for a favor or lay a hard truth on me.

“Uh-oh,” I say. “What’s going on?”

He takes a sip of his Manhattan, puts the glass down, and rests his palms together as if taking a moment. “I had a second interview yesterday. That’s why I was late home.”

Truth it is. “And?”

“And it went great. I think they’ll make an offer.”

I lean against the low backrest and let this sink in. “Well, shit.”

He frowns. “You think it’s a bad idea.”

“I didn’t say that. It’s just happening pretty quickly. When will you know for sure?”

“Sometime next week. I’m still in talks with two other firms, too. Who knows what’ll happen?” He takes a big swallow of his drink.

“Have you told Mom and Dad?”

“No. I’ll wait until it’s official.”

“Mom will lose her mind.”

He chuckles. “She will, won’t she?”

“But in a good way.” I toss several fries into my mouth and chew. “Ava, on the other hand…”

“I know.” He falls serious, his gaze locking someplace far away.

I hesitate. “Look, I totally understand why you want to move, and I’m all for pursuing new opportunities—obviously—but does it have to be now? No one wants to move in the middle of high school.”

“Hols, I…” He sighs. “It could be great for my career. It would be great for Mom and Dad. And lately I’ve just felt like I need something to happen, you know? Anything.”

This is my chance. “What if I told you that you could shake things up here?”

“Meaning?”

I steel myself and lean forward. “Okay, don’t be mad.

” I tell him about the dating profile I created for him and that there are two responses that seem promising.

“Regardless of where your career takes you, this could be good practice. Sort of easing into it.” I move my hand forward in a smooth move to illustrate. “What do you think?”

He drains his drink before responding, which doesn’t bode well. “What do I think?” he asks finally. “I think you mean well, but you’ve lost your marbles. I’m talking about moving to another state. The last thing I want is to date someone here.”

“It’s one date. Not a commitment. Even if you do move—which is not yet set in stone, mind you—having a date or two under your belt can’t hurt.”

“I love you, but the answer is no. Absolutely not.”

“But—”

“Nope.”

“But I just—”

“Nuh-uh-uh.”

My shoulders slump. I’ve known him long enough to know there’s no point arguing when he gets like this. “Fine.”

“Good.”

Jeez. It’s just a meal. Or a drink even. A drink with a woman who might make him smile. But okay. I’ll let him think he’s won. For now. I decide to extend an olive branch to mollify the situation. “So, tell me more about this job, then.”

He relaxes again. “You really want to know?”

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

While we finish our food, he describes the firm and the conversations he’s had with the partners.

It’s more money, a better career track, and Austin has over three hundred sunny days per year.

By the time our plates are empty, it’s easy even for me to picture him relaxing in a sun-soaked backyard.

As big of a change as this is, I have to admit it could be good for him.

But that still doesn’t mean it has to happen now.

As an added bonus on top of a nice dinner, my misgivings for the pet store visit also turn out to be unfounded.

For a Friday night, it’s hopping with customers, and when we reach the back shelves, we learn why.

Most of the other customers are lined up against the window facing the administrative offices because the owner’s beagle has had puppies that will soon be put up for adoption.

“Please remind me that Morris wouldn’t do well with a sibling,” Jude says, his eyes heart-shaped at the seven sets of tiny floppy ears before us.

I do, and I’m about to add that a puppy would make an interstate move all the more stressful, but then a good-looking guy enters the puppy room with food, and new hope infuses my mission for the visit.

“Hold that thought,” I say, and backtrack to the service desk where I spotted Marla earlier.

Ten minutes later, I’ve been introduced to Marla’s nephew, Theo, who’s working for her until the end of the year, and Jude’s gotten to hold a puppy.

I drew the longest straw, though, because while Jude leaves the store without a puppy, I leave it with a tentative photo shoot scheduled for Sunday.

Theo and the puppies will make a great November spread.