The Climax (Aka The Last First Date)
Because I knew Kent wouldn’t be rec eptive to meeting Rita, at least initially, I started planting seeds of her
existence—like letting it “slip” that I thought the woman I was meeting right after him would actually be
“perfect” for him. Naturally, he wanted to know more about her. “Sorry, gotta go!” I teased. “She’s already
in the waiting room, but I’ll see you again soon.” Slowly, I worked the understated Greek gem into our
conversations. “She’s the most amazing sound healer, whose main job is in finance. Such an interesting
combo, don’t you think?” Kent scoffed. “I’m not sure I could take a sound healer seriously.” “Well, you
would if she healed you,” I asserted. Then, I dropped the phrase that’s pure kryptonite for people like Kent.
“I thought about introducing her to you, but then I realized: she probably wouldn’t be into it.” “What? Why
the hell not?” He puffed out his chest, seemingly offended. “I’m the best.”
“You’re great,” I agreed with him amusedly. “But she usually doesn’t go for men your age.” “My age?” he
wondered, somewhat affronted. “How old is she?” “Your age,” I answered, stifling a smile. “But that’s
pr eposterous.” “Why? She says men your age aren’t youthful enough. Of course, I pointed out there’s
exc eptions. Like you.” “You’re damn right me.” If I took every client’s “checklist” as gospel, Brian
wouldn’t be in love today with Vega, who came from a culture he’d never been exposed to before; Destiny
wouldn’t be married to a man who makes less money than she does; and Kent wouldn’t have finally gone
on a date with Rita, whom at one point he would have considered an “offensive” six months younger than
him. My job, at least some of the time, is to nudge clients out of their comfort zones and to challenge their
occasionally limited worldviews in order to help them achieve happiness. “That sound healer you
mentioned before,” Kent had followed up over email. “Think she’d grab drinks with me?” She did, and he
couldn’t even wait until the morning after to gush about their date. I was ecstatic. “Before we get into it, let
me say you were right. She is my type: a great mix of quirky, de ep, talkative, smart, and sexy. I was
worried when you told me her age— but the truth is, I found myself thinking thoughts during the date that
were the kind of thoughts people think about people they’re attracted to. I enjoyed watching her order food
with very specific modifications and referring to how loudly the person next to us was talking. It reminded
me of me. We made vague plans to see each other again before she goes to Greece.” Rita’s feedback,
however, was comically to the point: “We had a good time. He seemed a bit off-put by our distance,
though. What did he say about me?”
As I lovingly imagined Kent’s first date with Rita, I found myself revisiting the first one I had with Dave.
As a teen, I’d always fantasized about being the lead in
my own rom-com, but what I didn’t predict was that my future husband would be the one to write it. I still
recall the black minidress and heels I wore that night, and the newfound confidence that came along with
them, and my recent breakup. I carried—no, more like strutted—that energy down the st eps of my West
Hollywood apartment all the way to the passenger side of Dave’s sleek Lexus sedan, where he stood
waiting to open the door for me in his red-checkered button-down shirt. It’s not every day that you get to
literally pick up your matchmaker, and Dave was dressed for the assignment. What’s more, he’d made two
reservations—one at Ysabel and another at Beauty and Essex—and asked which I’d prefer. I wound up
selecting Ysabel (I’d gone to a networking event at B&E the year before, and loved the idea of trying
somewhere new). We joke to this day about what would have happened had I chosen differently. Perhaps
in a parallel universe, the valet at Beauty and Essex would have banged up his car, impacting his mood that
night, or we would have been seated somewhere too noisy, and we wouldn’t have ended up together.
“What can I get you, Tiger?” Our waiter addressed Dave with enthusiasm. (Either “Tiger” was his pet
name for every dapper-looking guy who dined at his establishment, or he detected our palpable chemistry.)
Despite Dave’s questionable lack of relationship experience, his first-date etiquette was flawless. He
ordered a variety of tapas that catered to my preferences and was a total gentleman. And he indulged me in
a topic I normally encourage clients to stay away from on a first date: work. I was curious how he’d gotten
his start in reality TV. Funnily enough, it turned out that my cousin had been a contestant on the very first
NYC-based show Dave ever worked on, called Change of Heart. The show featured various couples sent
on dates with other people. By the end of it, they had to decide if they wanted to remain in their current
relationships or if they’d had a “change of heart.” When the mention of my cousin came up, Dave
immediately looked concerned and asked what her name was—after which he excused himself to the
bathroom. I was horrified. Alone at our table, I imagined every worst-case scenario, most of which ended
with Dave making out with my adored older cousin (which would have been an absolute nonstarter for
me).
Why else would he have left so abruptly? Until that point, the date felt too good to be true. So, maybe it
was. Fortunately, Dave returned with an explanation not quite as bad as the one in my head. He
remembered my cousin well, it turned out, because they’re both around the same age, Jewish, and went to
Syracuse. And, as fate would have it, she hooked up with another contestant in the back seat of the car
Dave was supposed to be filming in. “You shot a porn with my cousin?!” I nearly choked on my salad.
“No, no!” He turned bright red. “I never hit record. Plus, I was facing the road the entire time.” While the
small-worldness of the situation was astounding, the image of my cousin getting hot and heavy in the back
seat of a production car—while Dave and the driver, Jamie (a good friend of his), struggled not to
listen—was not. “Tell me something else,” I said to him, in desperate need of a distraction. “What about
another show of yours? Anything you created you’re particularly proud of?” He instantly lit up, telling me
about a recent one he shot for VH1 called Making Mr. Right. I hadn’t heard of it at the time, but incredibly,
the series starred three assistant matchmakers. Their job was to guide fourteen men on their journeys to
find love, but there was a twist: those three women weren’t matchmakers at all, but rather single women on
a mission to turn the contestants into perfect matches for themselves! While that’s not exactly what
happened with me and Dave—at least not consciously—perhaps the show encouraged Dave to give
matchmaking a try in the first place. Without realizing it, he had laid the foundation of what would become
his very own love story, and, consequently, mine. It was the rom-com I always wanted! As he and I geared
up later for my next embryo transfer, I wondered whether this was the beginning of our sequel.