The person who took the reservation must’ve written down the wrong number, but it’s no big deal. They can clear the extra set of plates when Roger arrives. Tall, blond, with warm brown eyes, he’s an architect and exactly the kind of man I should date: gentle, charming, polite, doesn’t yell at strangers, and I’m sure he’s never ambush-kissed anyone in his entire life.

Roger arrives a few minutes later, and I stand up to greet him. We hug. My nostrils fill with his scent, and I can’t help but think the smell is wrong. Nothing foul, just the wrong scent.

And what would be the right scent? that same pestering voice asks.

Sandalwood and pine trees, I reply automatically, thinking of Lucas’ cologne.

Oh, heck no. See? This is what he wanted: to get inside my head.

I will not think about Shrek or the way he kisses or smells.

I. Will. Not.

Whatever you need to tell yourself, the pesky voice taunts.

As Roger and I pull apart, I show him our table, saying, “The restaurant must’ve gotten your reservation wrong; they gave us a table for three.”

“Oh, no, that’s right,” he says, nonchalant. “There’s someone I want you to meet.”

For the first time, I notice a short woman in her middle fifties/early sixties lurking behind Roger. She’s dressed in a conservative pastel pink tweed suit. On a Project Runway episode, the judges would describe her outfit as matronly. And that’s exactly how she looks with her pearl earrings and necklace, heavy makeup, and chin-length, red curls so thoroughly hair-sprayed they don’t move when she does.

Roger steps aside and makes the introduction. “Vivian, I wanted you to meet my mother, Ursula Chapman. Mom, this is Vivian.”

I shake the woman’s hand, and while she sits at our table, I whisper in Roger’s ear, “You brought your mother to our second date?”

“Yeah,” he replies, not even trying to keep his tone low. “I told you I valued my mom’s opinion.”

Um, not exactly. On our previous date, I mentioned my recent troubles with Tegan and school, and he said kids should always listen to their mothers. From that deceivingly innocent comment, I didn’t imagine that, to him, the concept also applied to adults well past thirty.

Still standing and whispering, I ask, “And why is your mother joining us, exactly?”

Roger grabs my hands. “Vivian, I had a wonderful time with you on our first date, but before things can move forward in our relationship, I need to know we’re compatible. I mean, what if we kept dating, and then Mom didn’t approve of you?”

What, indeed, I comment silently in my head, having a Charlotte on Sex and the City moment.