A Date with Denver Gillespie

I already knew from the ten minutes I had been waiting that Denver Gillespie was going to be a disaster. A glass of Merlot was my only companion as I tapped my fingertips against the stained wood table. Uncle Jim’s was hardly a purveyor of fine cuisine, but my mom had suggested it as a favorite little family restaurant—that also had a dedicated wine list which was small but manageable.

The only thing missing was Denver herself.

I liked surprises, so I hadn’t looked up any of Denver’s social media or scoured for dirt about her online. All I knew was that she was some aging beauty queen’s daughter. My mother had joined Dawn Gillespie’s crocheting club six months ago; ever since our mothers had bonded over their crafty pet projects, the discussion with my mom never failed to come up when I spoke with her on the phone: “Denver’s such a nice girl, Shane. You could do a whole lot worse. Won’t you go out with her at least once?”

Finally, last week I caved after some nightmare stories with online dating apps. I needed a blind date to cleanse my palate and make me believe there were actually still sane people in this world. Besides, how bad could one date like this be?

When the front door jingled open, I looked up with hope, only to find that sense curdled like spoiled milk.

Standing in the doorway was a girl who might have looked like Marilyn Monroe—if the woman had ever dared to let herself go while she had been alive. Her blonde hair was set in a curled bob, but she almost looked stuffed into her dress, which was a solid blue number that was a bit snug around the girl’s curves. A different type of dress would have suited her more; the style just wasn’t flattering on a girl her size. The only thing that gave me any hint of spark was the girl’s smile with its pretty pink lip gloss.

Well. I managed to offer a smile towards the girl as she walked forward, and I stood. She’s cute, I guess, like a chipmunk or something.

“Hi,” she said, her face flushed and her voice a little breathless, “I’m Denver. You’re Shane?”

I held out my hand for hers, and we shook. I tried not to linger on the fact that her hand was a bit sweaty.

“Yeah, Shane Crawford, though I’m sure my mom filled you in with a fact sheet.”

She laughed, and I warmed a little to her. Just a tiny bit. It was a good laugh, a nice laugh.

“Well, I can’t share my sources, but I heard you’re a writer from New York,” Denver said, sliding onto the chair opposite mine. “My mama’s dying to know if you’ve met any of her favorite authors.”

I settled back into my seat. “I wish. Chances are if they’re a bestseller then I definitely wouldn’t have been able to meet them.”

“Aww, too bad,” Denver said, puffing out her cheeks in a way that was endearing in its own way.

“So, how did you get that name? I don’t think I’ve ever met a girl named Denver. Does your mom have a thing for Colorado or something?”

“Oh, no, it’s just where she and Daddy met. She’s sentimental that way.”

“Mmm.” I picked up my wine glass and took a sip. Small talk was never my forte. “So are you a beauty queen like your mom?”

There was a breath of silence that had me worried I had said the wrong thing—I mean, even if I wasn’t attracted to her, I still wanted to make a good impression—but then she smiled and shook her head. “Farthest I got was doing the walk for Little Miss Kentucky when I was a tiny thing. Mama realized pretty quick that I wasn’t going to follow in her footsteps.”

“Huh,” I said, and I was about ready to ask another question until the waitress came by with menus.

“Can I get you a drink, sweetheart?” the waitress asked, and I saw the way Denver glanced at my half-empty wine before she answered.

“Just a sweet tea, if you could, with lemon,” Denver said before the waitress flitted away.

“Sorry,” I said, as soon as I figured my voice was out of earshot. “I got here a little early, so I ordered a glass and—”

“That’s fine, that’s fine,” Denver replied, waving her hand. “I’m the one who should apologize for being late.”

I didn’t press her on details, but she looked uncomfortable. Time to move on to another subject.

“What do you think you want for an entrée?” I asked, picking up one of the menus. “I might have to go with a steak. It’ll go well with the Merlot.”

Denver shifted in her seat while she looked down at her own menu. “I might just go with the cheese plate, something light.”

I didn’t know if I had stepped on a land mine—was it all right to talk food with someone who had more weight than average?—but I figured if I tread carefully it wouldn’t be a problem.

“What brought you to your mother’s neck of the woods, Shane?” Denver asked without looking up.

Talk about tough subjects. “Oh, well, I’m just here for the summer. I plan on starting graduate school at NYU in the fall.”

“That sounds ambitious,” Denver murmured.

“What about you?” I asked, ready to turn the tables with some interrogation of my own. I never liked being the center of attention like that. “My mom told me you’re back in school. Anything you’re interested in pursuing?”

Denver didn’t answer right away. “Oh, you know, just trying to find my footing in life. Ever since Daddy passed away, my mama’s been having some health issues of her own.”

“Oh.” Now I felt like an idiot. An insensitive idiot. “I’m sorry to hear about your dad. My mom didn’t tell me.” Or maybe she did and I just didn’t listen.

Denver waved her hand again. “It’s just a part of life,” she said.

A silence fell over us again before the waitress came back and took our orders. Filet mignon with a baked potato for me, the fruit and cheese plate for Denver. I tried not to think about how she ordered something small, as if she were purposely eating less because she wanted to make sure I saw she wasn’t just a big girl who had a voracious appetite.

By the time the food arrived, we had fallen into an easy flow of chatter. Because I grew up with my dad in New York, it was rather quaint to hear some small-town stories from someone like Denver, who had only ever visited a city back in her high school days.

“The galleries were the most stunning things I’ve ever seen,” Denver said as she recounted her senior trip to Chicago, where she had visited the Art Institute once.

“The Met’s pretty great too,” I said, and her face lit up.

“Maybe if I ever visit New York you could be my tour guide,” Denver said, the hint of a flirtation in her voice.

But I wasn’t feeling it, no matter how nice she was. I drained the rest of my wine after I took my last bite of steak.

When the plates were cleared away, I leaned forward so that my voice could go softer but still allow her to hear me.

“Look,” I said, “we both know why our mothers tried to meddle in our love lives. They’re trying to be supportive, but deep down their worst fear is that we’ll end up alone for the rest of our lives just because we happen to like women rather than men. And you can’t throw two strangers at each other and hope they’ll have some magical connection, no matter if they’re gay or not.”

Denver just stared at me with gleaming eyes before she looked down at her lap. She even offered a little laugh, like she didn’t know what else to do. “You get straight to the heart of things, don’t you, Shane? Is that because you’re a writer?”

“I don’t like beating around the bush,” I said, sitting back in my seat. Denver wouldn’t look at me, and I even felt a little bad as I watched her. She probably didn’t have many dating opportunities, small town that she had grown up in.

“And I think you’re awfully mean-spirited,” Denver said.

My mouth popped open. “What?”

This time, Denver did meet my eyes. “Why shouldn’t your mother be afraid you’re going to end up alone? It’s hard enough out there for—for regular people to meet, so how much harder is it with how we are? I think your mom’s heart is in the right place, trying to find someone you might click with.”

“And you think I’m mean for not being happy about it?” I asked.

Denver shrugged. “You’ve been a bit rude, if you’d like to know, acting as if this date really put you out. I was just hoping we could chat over some good food and maybe enjoy each other’s company.”

My hand curled over my crumpled fabric napkin. “I wasn’t the one who was late for this date,” I said.

Denver’s eyes blinked rapidly before she took a breath and said, “I had a shift at Wal-Mart down the road that ended at six. I had to take the bus home, shower, and get dressed up before catching the next bus back to this area. I’m sorry you had to wait a few extra minutes just because the bus driver was late.”

Suddenly it made sense why she had looked flushed and a bit frazzled upon coming into the restaurant. And it had been my fault for not asking why she had been late. Maybe if I had been thinking I could have offered to pick her up, but I hadn’t asked my mother for Denver’s cell number.

The more I thought about it, the more I was the bad guy in this situation all around.

“Denver, I’m sorry—” But she shook her head.

“I don’t know what I expected, but I thought a city girl might be just the thing I needed. But I saw the way you looked at me when I came in, Shane. I know I’m not your dream girl—or maybe anyone’s dream girl. But I still deserve decency and respect.”

Before I could stop her, Denver went into her purse and pulled out a handful of twenty dollar bills. “Here’s for dinner. I’m sorry for wasting your time.”

Then Denver Gillespie walked out of my life without any permission from me. I just stared at the money on the table and wondered what would have happened if I were a different kind of woman. Maybe I could have fallen for someone like Denver—gotten to know her more past all the superficial aspects and seen to the heart of who she was.

But I wouldn’t know, not now. I was just another big city snob at the end of the day.

When the waitress came past the table again, I lifted my hand. “Another glass of Merlot, please.”

At least the wine had been good.