Status: Finally complete.

Seven Date Me

The Chase

There was this guy I met once. He had a bit of a name around these parts – as most local musicians do. You’d frequently find him gracing the stag at the regular open mic nights. Each performance was different, though. In fact, if it weren’t for his name and smouldering, unforgettable looks, you’d swear it was a different person each night. And you know what? You wouldn’t be that far off from being right.

His name is Gerard. I don’t know what his name translates to, but I think it means ‘a five foot nine, pale, raven haired, hazel eyed God’. I worked as a barista at Starbucks and he’d come in every morning at 10:15am exactly; that’s how I met him. It took maybe two weeks for me to learn that he would never walk through those doors any earlier or any later than that. Most people who frequent Starbucks have a regular order – like Leonard the Supreme Court judge who orders a double shot espresso on his way to court, or Wendy the florist who orders three cinnamon soy lattes every Monday for herself and her colleagues. But Gerard didn’t appear to be like that, which meant I couldn’t have his order set aside for him... at first.

Every day he approached the counter and I spotted him from my position behind the coffee machine I’d listen carefully for his order; it was never the same thing. It took me almost three months to work out that he ordered his coffee based on what day it was.

“Why do you only get vanilla lattes on Wednesdays?” I asked him the day I’d worked out there was a pattern.

He looked startled that I, the barista, was speaking to him instead of just placing his beverage on the counter and calling his name.

“You always order the same thing each day of the week,” I tried again when he just stared at me with doe-like eyes.

“I-I’m a coffee connoisseur,” he stammered before taking his coffee and heading for the exit.

That conversation is how my obsession began.

In the weeks following I continued with my attempts to learn more about him. I started out small, first just sending a smile in his direction when he’d approach the counter. Gerard was someone who thrived on routine, so I would always know when to start lifting my head up from the coffee machine. Each day, 10:15am exactly. I wouldn’t think twice about betting my apartment on it being him when the bell chimed over the door at that time; I knew it would always be him. After about a week, he started to smile back, but his smile differed from day to day. Sometimes it was happy, sometimes nervous, sometimes it was, dare I say, flirtatious. Except for Thursdays. He’d never smile back at me on Thursday.

As the weeks turned into months I began to step up my methods. Occasionally, because it wasn’t an excuse that could be used often, I’d remark to him as he waited by the counter that the coffee machine was on the fritz. It never was of course, but saying that and pretending to fiddling with the various levers and buttons gave me an opportunity to ask him questions. I’d ask him about the weather outside, how the traffic was, or what he thought of the latest disaster on the news, just simple things that would paint me as a friendly, approachable barista in his eyes. This went on for about three weeks and I was starting to think that my efforts were hopeless. Until one beautiful, glorious, magnificent Monday morning in November.

The winter weather had come early this year and the first flakes of snow were falling outside. I was swamped behind the coffee machine with orders for pumpkin spice lattes piling up beside me. At this point in time I didn’t work at Starbucks on Monday’s, but my boss had called me in after our usual Monday morning barista sneezed in one too many coffees. So here I was, in a foul mood for having to be pulled out of my bed on a cold Monday morning, struggling to keep up with all the orders, and to make things worse, the shop’s heating kept cutting out. Each time the bell above the door chimed I’d let out a frustrated sigh, sensing more orders for pumpkin spice lattes were on the way.

Michelle, a lovely college freshman with a sharp blonde bob and cat-like green eyes, was working the register beside me. I heard her thank a customer before she pushed another empty cup my way. My eyes darted toward it, dreading that the initials on the cup would be PSL. I let out a relieved sigh as I saw it was a venti salted caramel mocha instead.

“Hello, Frank.”

My head snapped up. Standing by the counter, looking sexy as hell, was Gerard. Where those around him donned woolly jumpers, beanies, and scarves in colours like charcoal and brown, Gerard stood out in a red leather jacket left unzipped over a plain black shirt with dark skinny jeans and black dress shoes. His hair had been styled in a way that reminded me of Edward Scissorhands. I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and subsequently burnt my hand in the steam.

After letting out a pained gasp and wincing, I managed to greet him back, “Hey – Gerard, right?”

“The one and only,” he affirmed, spreading his arms out like he was presenting himself to a crowd.

He seemed strangely confident today... far too confident for him to be the same guy I’d been obsessed with for months. Later, the reason for this would become clear to me, but in that moment I was rendered speechless simply by his body language, the way he was putting himself on full display, the fact that he could suddenly speak to me. He’d never initiated conversation before today. I liked it very much, don’t get me wrong, I was just shocked beyond belief that it was happening – and how it was happening.

He jutted his hip to the side and rested his hand on it casually, looking at me with a smile that showed off his small teeth. I flicked my eyes back down to the work at hand, spotting the large red mark on my hand caused by my own stupidity. To this day, that mark still remains. I placed the pumpkin spice latte I’d been preparing up on the counter and called out the name scrawled on the cup. A lanky hipster stepped forward, grabbed the cup, and stalked off with his Doctor Who scarf flapping out behind him. I reached for the next cup in my line, but not before turning the venti salted caramel mocha cup to see if my suspicions were correct. They were – Gerard’s order.

“Busy day, I see,” Gerard commented over the noise of the people around us.

“Extremely,” I replied, having to speak even louder than him because of my proximity to the machine.

“You’re not usually here on Monday’s,” he commented casually. I risked a glance up at him and saw that he looked pleased that I was here.

“Our usual barista went home sick, or was forced home... whichever. So, here I am,” I told him.

I kept my head down, focussing on my next pumpkin spice latte. There were three more waiting in the queue before I’d get to Gerard’s order. Even though it meant I’d have to work three times as hard once Gerard got his coffee, I slowed my pace down to prolong our conversation.

This felt like the first time I could ask deeper questions of Gerard, but I couldn’t push things too far, so I considered what I wanted and needed to know carefully before I asked him anything. It occurred to me that all I knew about him was his name and that frequented open mic nights.

“You off to college after this?” I asked him tactfully, keeping my voice as casual as I could.

“At thirty years old, I sincerely hope not,” he replied playfully, finishing the sentence off with a throaty chuckle. He composed himself, flicking a section of his jet black hair out of his eyes, then said, “I work in a library, actually.”

The cup I was filling fumbled, steaming hot coffee flying up to land on my hand. I hissed and wiped it on my green apron. He’s a librarian. This guy, wearing red leather with Edward Scissorhands hair is a librarian. Despite my shock at this revelation, I feel a sense of pride for being able to get an occupation and an age out of the one question.

“How about you?” I hear him ask. “Are you off to college after your shift?”

“No,” I replied curtly.

I didn’t mean to be so short with him, but I was carrying around the relatively fresh scares of a lost career back then. Whenever people asked me about college I couldn’t help becoming tense because it reminded me of what I worked so hard for to get and no longer had. Let’s face it, no one truly wants to spend their lives making coffee at Starbucks.

If Gerard was offended by my tone then, he hid it well. “I suppose you’re not old enough for it yet, right?”

I was still tender about this line of questioning, but I kept my tone in check. “I’m twenty-six, so I guess you could say that I’m too old, too.”

He waved my response off with a pale hand. “You’re never too old for a new adventure!”

What a great segue... for me at least. “And are you the adventurous sort?” I asked, flicking my eyes up briefly so I could see what effect the question had on him.

My question didn’t faze him in the least and his reply came quickly. “Regularly. It’s just part of who I am. Take life and run with it because it’s not like you’re going to make it out alive anyway.” He smiled that broad, small toothed grin of his that I would one day crave to see. “I’ve never lived a week without doing something crazy.”

So, he’s adventurous, and potentially dangerous, I thought to myself. I finished off two pumpkin spice lattes and called out the names. My eyes collided with Gerard’s in a smouldering gaze. It took all the self control I had not to jump the counter and attack him with my lips. He flashed me that smile once more, which really didn’t help the situation any further, but I forced myself to return to making coffee.

How far could I push this conversation, though?

“What kind of crazy things do you do?” I pressed further, my stomach in knots.

“Well, just last week I went hang gliding,” he told me as if it were the most commonplace thing for someone to do, “and today I intend to dress up as Hellboy and go to a Marvel comic book convention where Stan Lee’s doing a signing.”

I laughed uncontrollably at his manic idea, earning myself confused looks from the other Starbucks patrons. My eyes went blurry from tears of laughter, but I was able to see that Gerard was enjoying my reaction.

“You should ask him to sign a copy of The Phantom,” I suggested to him as my laughter died out.

“Great idea!” he enthused.

“Bianca!” I called while I put the last pumpkin spice latte before Gerard’s order on the counter.

The woman, a leggy redhead in a leather miniskirt completely contradictory to the snow outside, snatched up the cup and fixed me with a narrow-eyed glare. “About time,” she muttered under her breath as she walked away.

“Someone didn’t take their anti-bitch pills this morning,” Gerard said loudly, looking after her intentionally.

I giggled to myself and regretfully picked up Gerard’s cup. The temptation to tell Gerard that the machine is on the fritz was great, but I hadn’t done any ground work to set up that excuse, so unfortunately I would have to give him is coffee within a minute. This was the most we’d ever spoken; I didn’t want it to end. But alas, it did.

“Here you go,” I said, holding his salted caramel mocha out to him.

He took it gently, flashed me that smile of his. “Thanks, Frankie.”

I watched him walk from the counter to the door, those hips of his swinging from side to side. He turned left and walked down the street, not looking back to Starbucks at all. All I wanted in that moment was for him to come back and invite me to join him at the comic convention. He didn’t, of course, and I was left with seven cups laid out beside the machine and a bunch of disgruntled customers glaring at me expectantly. The word Frankie echoed in my head all day.

~X:X:X~


That first real conversation between us was monumental. It paved the way for a closer relationship between us and destroyed my free time. I did, what I now consider, a dumb thing. I spoke to my boss when my shift ended that Monday. After profusely apologising for the back log of orders I had for a good portion of the morning, I asked him if I could work seven days a week. That’s right – seven. He laughed at first, but then his eyes went wide as he realised I was serious. He was always after willing workers, so when I told him that I desperately wanted to do it he agreed. I switched all my afternoon shifts to morning ones and spread them out across seven days. Adjusting to the schedule change nearly killed me, but it was worth it to be able to see Gerard every single day.

For the two weeks following that encounter, I worked hard each morning to get on top of my orders before Gerard arrived at 10:15am. When he came through the door each morning, Saturday and Sunday included (I wasn’t sure if he came by on weekends), he would smile at me, a different smile each time, and start up a conversation with me as I made his coffee. Speaking to him each day, about more than just the traffic and weather, was just as odd as his smiles. Some days he’d seem really nervous with me when just one day earlier he was bright, exuberant, and totally comfortable. I never knew what I would get from him day to day. At this point, I still hadn’t sussed out if he was dating anyone, so I couldn’t attribute his, dare I say, moodiness to that. I couldn’t attribute it to anything, because really, as much as I was trying to change it, I knew nothing.

After four months of what I like to call intensive observation, I truly stepped things up with Gerard. I took things outside of the Starbucks environment.

New Year had passed and we were well and truly in the depths of winter. Snow fell quite heavily over most of New Jersey, stopping a lot of customers coming into the shop. Gerard wasn’t one of them, though. Honestly, I think he was too stuck in his routine to change it for a little bad weather. His orders were still the same, but every few days I’d prepare a pastry of some description (usually a chocolate croissant) before he got there and hand it to him with his coffee. I’ll never forget the first time I did that for him.

It was the first weekend of the New Year. A Sunday. Yesterday he was talking about how much he loved the way I made his Hazelnut Macchiato, how much he loved every kind of coffee I made for him. It came totally out of left field to me. He had spoken of his love for certain things quite a few times, but never of his love for anything I did. I wanted to hear more of his praise.

We were having a slow morning, as most winter Sunday’s tended to be, so I was able to step away from the coffee machine for a few minutes just after ten o’clock to warm up a chocolate croissant. I stashed it beneath the counter and got back into my familiar position behind the coffee machine just as the bell chimed above the door at 10:15am exactly. I smiled up at Gerard as he approached the register. There was only one person in front of him, who was unsure of what they wanted and were hence taking forever, so I grabbed the largest sized cup from the stack beside me and got a start on Gerard’s caramel macchiato. A minute later he made his order and came over to lean against the wall beside the counter.

“Morning, Frankie,” he greeted me cheerily.

“Hey.” I knew my face lit up whenever Gerard called me Frankie so I kept my head down, pretending to be busy on an order, until I’d gotten over my initial glee.

“Did you have any trouble getting here this morning?” he asked me.

Composed now, I flicked my eyes up to his face and was met with a look of genuine concern. “Not much; I know a few short cuts that help me avoid the snow. You?”

“Oh, it could have been easier, but where there’s a will there’s a way!”

I found myself smiling at his optimism. The snow had been quite dense for the last two days, which had brought out the worst in a lot of our customers; they were impatient and irritable at the best of times. Gerard’s chipper attitude was refreshing.

“Lydia!” I called out. Although Gerard’s coffee had been ready for a while now, she did technically order first, and I have to handle the customers in order.

The plump woman bustled up to the counter, taking her coffee and actually thanking me for making it for her. I offered her a smile before she toddled off to sit at one of the tables. When she was seated, I grabbed Gerard’s cup and handed it to him.

“Thanks, Frankie,” he replied happily, pushing himself off the wall.

“And here’s a little extra something,” I mumbled nervously, offering him the brown paper bag.

He cocked an eyebrow at me questioningly, but there was still a smile on his face. My stomach slowly began to unknot itself. He took the bag from my extended hand and opened it.

“A chocolate croissant?” he asked. His eyes flicked up the menu boards above my hand, scanning left to right and back again. He placed his coffee on the counter and dug around in his back pocket until he had extracted his wallet. “How much do I owe you? Uh... three dollars...”

I held up my hands and shook my head. “No, no, no! My treat. Put your wallet away.”

He obeyed me hesitantly. “You sure?”

“Positive.”

“Okay, then...” He took his coffee again and smiled gratefully. “You’re a gem, Frankie.”

Triumph bubbled away inside me as I watched him head for the exit. The saying “the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach” came to mind. All I’d wanted to do since my obsession with him begun was to cement myself in his heart and mind, and I felt like I may have just done that.

Another order had come in while I was serving Gerard, so I picked up the cup and got started on the white chocolate mocha. The smile didn’t leave my face as I worked.

“Hey, Frank?”

The cup fumbled in my hand at the sound of Gerard’s voice. I looked up and there he was looking back at me with a small smile on his face.

“Y-yes?”

My eyes widened as he leaned over the counter and placed a kiss to my forehead. In that moment I felt paralysed. I couldn’t move, but I didn’t want to either. The smell of Gerard’s cologne was enticing; I wanted to be closer. He drew back and straightened all too quickly for my liking, flashed me that warm smile once more, and left without a word. His musky scent remained on the air, though, and that’s all I needed.

That kiss from Gerard encouraged me to do what I’d been considering doing for weeks – to go to an open mic night where he was the star attraction. I checked the bulletin board in the shop on my way out after my shift that Sunday. He would be on that Thursday, which made feel nervous and excited at the same time. I had every intention of going, but no intention of letting him see me.

I’d seen Gerard perform at open mic nights a few times, but that was all before my obsession with him had began. Back then, he was just another performer to me. He was good, really good, but I wasn’t the sort of person who approached open mic-ers; why bother when there was nothing I could do for them? Talent scouts, though, they were always hounding him when he stepped back out into the audience after he reached his three song limit. Seeing as he was working at a library, it was safe to assume that he hadn’t taken any of their offers. That surprised me, because he was super talented.

That Thursday I arrived at the clubhouse an hour into the open mic night. This place tended to leave their best and most regular performers until the end so people would stay longer, buy more drinks, and perhaps pay to have a go themselves, so I predicted Gerard would be one of the last to hit the stage. I bought a beer from the bar and sought out a table near the back where I would be out of Gerard’s line of sight. I only had to sit through six performances before the emcee stepped onto the stage with her graffiti-backed clipboard and introduced him to the small crowd.

“Alrighty – up next is one of our awesome regulars,” she announced in a booming voice. “Prepare your rock and roll ears for the lyrical perfection that is Gerard fucking Way!”

The butterflies fluttered about madly in my stomach as Gerard stepped out onto the stage from behind the deep purple curtains. There was a distant look in his eyes as he approached the mic stand. His face was as hard as stone, and I have to admit, it frightened me a little.

“I’m doing original stuff tonight,” he said cuttingly.

He turned to the house band and instructed them briefly. It’d been a while since I’d seen him on stage – easily six months – but I didn’t recall him being that rough and vacant back then. I considering leaving, fearing that this performance would tarnish my opinion of him, but before I had the chance to stand the band started to play and Gerard approached the mic once more.

His voice was magic – this beautiful combination of raw and angelic. The songs he sung that night were dark, angry, and one hundred percent sincere. You could tell he was taken over by the emotions they were written under. Whatever it was that drew those songs out of him, he was back there, relieving every memory like it was his current reality. On some strange level, despite his mind being far away from the clubhouse, he connected with the audience; they were mesmerised by his performance. I spotted a couple of people singing along with him, which was incredible as he didn’t have an album or even a single out – one quick Google search before I left home had confirmed that.

When he finished his set, he kicked the mic stand over and strode from the stage, disappearing behind the tattered purple curtain. I didn’t trust myself to be in the same room as him when he came out into the audience, so I gulped down the last of my beer and made a quick escape out the door just as cheers erupted from those closest to the stage.

~X:X:X~


The open mic night was an eye opener, to say the least. I spent the following week fighting the urge to bring it up to him when he came in for his morning coffee. I kept it in, though, because how creepy would it be for him to know I was there, lurking in the shadows because I didn’t want him to see me? I had so many questions that I wanted to ask him, all stemming from his attitude on stage. I never let them escape my mouth, I just followed our easy morning routine and used the techniques that I knew worked safely.

By time February rolled around I wanted more. I wanted to ask him out on a date. Several more excursions to open mic nights taught me that he was clearly bisexual. One night, a Tuesday, he dragged some guy up on stage and grinded against him in an overtly sexually manner, then a few days later at his next performance he sung a ballad to a girl he “thought was absolutely beautiful” before kissing her cheek. I felt uncomfortable as I watched him with both of these people, but it gave me an insight into what I hoped I would get out of this intensive observation.

Finally, I plucked up the courage to ask him out, and that was the day that all the strange pieces of information I had collected of him fell into place.

It was a Wednesday. I’d been working on a speech in my head of how to ask him out since Sunday. I was nervous, extremely so, but I was determined to do it. That morning seemed to drag on; we weren’t particularly busy, which gave me more time – too much time – to watch the clock. When ten o’clock finally struck my stomach began to twist itself into knots that the world’s best contortionist could not replicate. As each minute ticked by my hands began to shake more. Coffee spilt, I got burnt, and it only got worse when the bell above the door chimed at exactly 10:15am.

Gerard, wearing a thick woollen sweater with a maroon scarf wrapped around the neck and baggy blue jeans, approached the register. He offered me a small smile when our eyes met, then averted his them quickly. I had already started to make his vanilla latte when he began reciting his order to the cashier.

“Hi, Frankie,” he said softly when he was stood in front of the counter; his hands were buried deep in his pockets and he kept his head down.

“Hey,” I greeted him back calmly although I was really a nervous wreck.

“The snow’s easing up,” he remarked. Some days he makes small talk, today just happened to be one of them.

I placed the latte on the counter, which I had half ready by time he came over, and slid a brown paper bag toward him. He opened it tentatively.

“A scone.” He flicked his hazel eyes up to mine. “Thank you. How much?”

Usually I would wave him off and tell him it was on the house. Not today, though. That question from him was the cue for my speech to begin.

“Not a cent,” I said, then added slowly, “just go on a date with me.”

My question threw him off for a second, but once he had comprehended that I was asking him out his eyes widened to the size of saucers. The seconds ticked by slowly and I grew more and nervous. You don’t generally ask someone out unless you think there’s a realistic chance that they’re going to say yes, which is why it took me months to get to the point where I felt comfortable attempting to, so to have him stand there so visibly shocked made me feel ridiculous and unbelievably pathetic. I really thought he would.

After an agonisingly long silence, he said quietly, “I like you, Frank, but I just can’t. I’m sorry.”

He grabbed a handful of coins out of his pocket and dropped them on the counter before he hurriedly took his coffee and scone and walked toward the door quickly with his head down. I stood there, watching his retreating figure, feeling hurt by his rejection. Now, most people in my position would do one of two things; they would either, a, take break in the bathroom to compose themselves, or b, throw themselves back into to work to distract themselves from thinking about it. I, of course, did neither.

Like an idiot, I jumped back from the coffee machine and rushed out from behind the counter through the small gate. The girl working the register at the time shouted out to me as I brushed past her, but I ignored her, determined to catch up with Gerard.

“Where are you going?” my boss yelled as he came out to see what all the commotion was.

“I’m taking my break!” I called out to no one in particular, not looking back once and yanking the door open.

Leaving my post was a careless thing to do because, other than my boss, I was the only one qualified to work the coffee machine. He didn’t particularly like using it, but would do it a couple of times a day when those of us who did shift work took our twenty minute breaks. Later, when I did return to Starbucks he sat me down for a long lecture about responsibility, and I expected it at the time when I ran out, but like I said, I was determined to catch up with Gerard – and I did.

“Hey!” I called out to him as I caught up with him near the end of the block.

He turned around slowly when I did and it occurred to me that I hadn’t really thought out what I’d say when I did see him again. I stared at him for a long moment while I thought of what to say; he looked at his feet nervously.

“You said you like me, so why won’t you go out with me?” I finally asked, knowing there was a pained expression on my face.

Gerard shook his head, still not affording me any eye contact. “It’s complicated.”

He went to walk away again, but I reached out and grabbed his elbow. That’s when at last he looked at me; he seemed to be hurting as much as I did.

“Please, Gerard,” I begged meaningfully. I had to know. “Why won’t you go out with me?”

He sighed heavily. “It not you I won’t go out with; I-I can’t date anybody.” He took a long pause, returning his attention to his feet. “It’s like I’m not just one person... there’s more than one side to me.”

“So you’re a little bipolar – aren’t we all? That’s easy to work around. We just have to–”

“No,” he interrupted. He sighed again. “It’s more than that.” Another pause. “I have multiple personality disorder.”

The penny dropped.

Gerard gestured for me to sit down on a nearby bench. I was too shell-shocked to say anything, so I followed his instructions. I sat rigid with my hands in my lap. The words ‘multiple personality disorder’ circulated around in my mind like a song on repeat.

“I’ve been this way for as long as I can remember,” he informed me shamefully. I should have told him then that there was nothing to be ashamed of, but I remained silent. “Every day of the week I’m a different kind of person and it’s always the same personality on the same day no matter what I do to try and change it.”

He came to sit beside me, but kept a healthy distance between us. I was still too shocked to speak, now sitting slightly slumped. It took a long time for him to work up the courage to divulge more of his story to me.

“On Sunday’s I am always happy and optimistic – I couldn’t cry even if I wanted to, so I can’t go to funerals or anything of the like. Monday’s I’m bold and adventurous – I become extremely confident and do crazy things because I can’t stand to sit still. On Tuesday’s my body recovers from my Monday antics and I’m always tired and lethargic so I stay inside most of the day.”

As he told me this my mind began remembering the moments of abnormality that had plagued me during the time I’d known him. I know understood why he never gave me the same kind of smile day after day, why sometimes he was really open with his conversation and other times completely shut off; it was all making sense now.

“Wednesday’s – today – I’m shy and introverted; I can’t approach new people or go new places, and having conversations like this one is incredibly hard for me.” He turned to me then, making sure the meaning of those words got through to me. It did. “Thursdays... I hate Thursdays... because I’m always angry and violent... I hurt people. And on Friday I become remorseful for my actions the day before – I feel so guilty about the things I do.” He pauses. “And then there’s Saturday, where I’m sweet and romantic; I just want people to know how special they are.”

Gerard took a mouthful of his vanilla latte and got to his feet slowly. I managed to meet his pained eyes. The way he stood conveyed that shyness he had mentioned; his arms were close by his sides and his shoulders were slumped.

“I’m not built for dating anyone, Frank.” The fact that he didn’t call me Frankie hurt more than the rejection. “I can do one night stands, but relationships... they just don’t work, and you’re not the kind of guy I could just sleep with. I’m sorry.”

As he began to walk away something inside me came to life; I discovered just how badly I wanted to go out with him. I jumped to my feet and called out his name. He faced me again, looking a little scared of what I would say.

“Let me seven date you, then,” I say boldly. I spoke hurriedly as the solution came to my mind, throwing out each word as I thought of it. “Every day for one week, I’ll take you on a date planned to suit that day’s personality. If after that week you don’t think it’ll work out between us, then we’ll part friends.”

“I’m not worth all that effort...” he said sceptically.

I took a step toward him and forced him to look into my eyes. “Let me make that decision myself – let me seven date you.”

He looked away from me and I feared he’d say no. Instead he dug in his pocket for a pen and wrote something on the brown paper bag before removing his scone and handing the paper bag to me. The black scrawl turned out to be a phone number.

“If you really want to do this,” he began nervously, “we should start on Sunday. Text me when you sort out the details. I won’t be offended if you change your mind, though.”

I gave him a reassuring smile. “I really like you Gerard – I won’t be changing my mind, trust me.”

Seven dates. I had seven dates to win his heart and I was determined to do it. The following four days were spent figuring out what we would do each day. Each date would be completely different to the one before it, and each date would be perfect; I was sure of it.

Let me share them with you, because they have shaped the rest of my life.
♠ ♠ ♠
Happy Birthday Charlee!
Stay Tuned.