A Date for Midnight (The Dating Series) - L.P. Dover Page 0,2

the door. Once I’m under the covered walkway, I shake and wipe off the snow from my coat, wiggling a little when some flakes fall down my scarf. Shit, it’s cold.

As I walk toward the door, it swings inward. Yes, open! I can’t remember the last time I stepped foot into a grocery store. If I need anything, I have it delivered, or my maid brings my groceries when she comes every week. When I think about not running my own errands, I know it’s frivolous, but it saves on a headache. It’s not always easy walking freely around. If it’s not the paparazzi taking your pictures, it’s the tour busses pointing you out. If one fan screams, they all come running. If one fan tries to act nonchalant while attempting to take a selfie, another notices and then they want one, and the next and the next. I appease them all because it’s in my nature to be a good guy, and I figure if I’m out and about and they ask nicely, why not? Most of my peers aren’t this way and I get it. Like tonight, I want to be the Bostonian who grew up outside of Fenway park, waiting for a foul ball or an elusive out of the park homerun. Still, to this day, I haven’t caught one, but I have thrown out the first pitch there. I don’t want to be the guy the tabloids slam every chance they get or bombard at dinner. If someone is respectful and waiting for me outside, I’m happy to oblige most of their requests.

Inside, the store is as quiet as the empty parking lot. There’s someone working at the customer service desk and I can faintly hear a machine, possibly cleaning the floors. I keep my head down as I walk the aisles, looking for the beer section. When I finally happen upon it, I’m lost. When did so many beers become available?

“I really need to get out more. Be more human,” I mutter to myself.

I stop in front of the IPA’s and look over each brand and each flavor. Every few bottles, I pick one up and read the label, checking for the alcohol content. The last thing I want to do is get blitzed out of my mind and have to stagger home.

The machine I heard earlier comes down the aisle I’m standing in. It is, in fact, cleaning the floors. I keep myself inside the open door and continue to look at the beers. Each time I think I found one I’ll like, I spot another one, and another one.

“So many choices.”

Is this a sign I should drink more? Or should I go with the old standby of some domestic brand. Yeah, that’s probably a good idea, but tonight, I want to branch out. I think I have it narrowed down to three beers. I hold the three bottles awkwardly in my hands, while my knee keeps the cooler door ajar. I play Eeny, Meeny, Miney, Moe in my head while trying to decide which one is going out with me. It shouldn’t be a hard decision, but apparently it is.

2

Natalie

Of all the times for a massive snowstorm to hit Boston, it had to be on my only day off. Not to mention it’s New Year’s Eve. I blow out a breath and watch the steam billow from my lips. Tightening up my heavy winter coat, I start walking down the street.

I’ve trudged countless miles in the snow, but nothing as crazy as tonight. It’s deep already and it’s still coming down. I have to admit though, it looks like a winter wonderland. Usually, I’d drive to Emerson’s apartment from mine, but there is no way I can get my little Honda out of the parking garage with all this snow. Luckily, Emerson and her husband live only five blocks away, so it isn’t a long haul.

We were supposed to go bar hopping to bring in the New Year, but with the crazy winter weather, Emerson and Callum decided to have some friends over, which is fine with me. Emerson and I met in nursing school and we’ve been best friends ever since. I was her maid of honor when she married Callum a couple of years ago and now that I’m divorced, he has been trying to set me up constantly. I’m curious to see who he’s lined up for me to meet tonight. So far, none of his previous set-ups have worked