“For days I'm hearing meow, meow, meow, like there's a ghost cat haunting my house. It's kind of spooky, and it starts freaking me out. I look and look, but I can't find where it's coming from. And, I mean, I look everywhere…”

Blaine covers his mouth and snickers. Ryan is such a dynamic storyteller, Blaine feels like he's there with him, searching his house for the mysterious meowing that's plagued him day and night. Ryan pauses his story and chuckles, too, gorgeous green eyes glittering, and Blaine waits patiently to hear the rest of the saga.

“So, to make a long story short, I take apart the entire cabinet, and finally I find the culprit – the cutest Manx cat I have ever seen. She'd made a nest in the insulation…and had kittens! Five of them! I couldn't believe it!”

“Awww! What did you do?”

“The only thing I could do,” Ryan says, taking a sip of his wine – Justin 2014 Cabernet Sauvignon Rose Wine Paso Robles. It sounded so tasty when Ryan ordered it, Blaine couldn't help himself. He ordered a glass, too. And Ryan was not wrong. It's tangy and fruity, with hints of plum and raspberry. The alcohol doesn't overwhelm the palette, but it's racy enough to bring color to Blaine's cheeks. “I adopted her. I named her Rogue.”

“And the kittens?”

“I was going to find homes for them, but I couldn't part with them. Besides, I have more than enough room.” Ryan runs his index finger around the rim of his glass. “You know, I've never owned a cat before, but now I have six.” He sighs, a fond smile crossing his lips. “As silly as it sounds, I can't picture living without them now. They make everything so much more interesting.”

Blaine turns his head to hide his answering smile. He could listen to Ryan talk all night. But he's not just a great storyteller. He happens to be sweet, funny, attractive (God is he attractive. But, of course, Blaine has always been a sucker for green eyes, though blue are really his favorites). And as if that wasn't enough, he works at one of the most successful banks in the city. But he doesn't wear his wealth on his sleeve, doesn't flaunt it like a selling point. His shirt is from The Gap, the wine he ordered costs $20 a bottle, and he came here on the subway. Personality, modesty, good looks, and a career. Blaine sighs. In his opinion, Ryan is close to the perfect guy, and this blind date is going amazingly.

Too bad it isn't his.

“Oh my God, Ryan,” Serena – Ryan's date – laughs, wiping her eyes with her napkin. She reaches across the table to touch his hand. Ryan's eyes flick to her hand on his, and he smiles brighter.

Oh yeah, Blaine thinks, raising his wine glass and finishing the last of his Rose. They're having a fabulous time.

Blaine rolls his wrist and checks the time on his watch. 9:45. He's been sitting at the table next to theirs for over an hour, waiting. Blaine figured out thirty minutes ago that his blind date wasn't coming. He's gotten no texts. No calls. No apologies. No explanation why. Ryan and Serena might have a glowing future together, but his date for the evening is most definitely a bust. The wait staff knows it, too. Every time the waitress stops by to refill his water glass, it's with a small, sad smile, and a sigh. She's long since stopped asking him if he needs more time to order.

Blaine reaches for his cell phone, but stops with his hand on his pocket. He's not going to be that guy. He's not going to send another text. He's not going to give this man an easy out, but he refuses to give him the benefit of the doubt and say, “Well, I guess you got caught up. Text me back and we can reschedule for another time.” But he wishes he knew why. Why doesn't dating work out for him? He's not a half-bad guy, if he does say so himself. He's reasonably attractive (at least, he's always thought so), he has a good job, he's pursuing his passion. And he's not asking for much. He's not looking for the perfect man, just a nice one. One who might share some of his interests, like musical theater, exotic food, old black-and-white films, and the occasional Star Wars revival. But on the whole, he just wants to find a man who wants to spend time with him, get to know him, go to a movie with him, who maybe isn't ashamed of doing cutesy, romantic things, like hold the door open for him, pull his chair out for him, or offer to split half his plate – the way Ryan did with Serena.

Ryan.

Blaine peeks back over at the happy couple.

As Ryan stares into Serena's eyes and signals for the check, Blaine knows that he needs to face facts and get this over with. His roommate Rachel has, yet again, succeeded in finding him a date that's not interested in actually dating. Where does she even find these guys? More to the point, why hasn't he learned to say no? Unfortunately, he won't get to gripe to her about it until Monday when she comes back from some live band karaoke cruise she went on with her dads, so Blaine has a long, lonely weekend of re-runs and cookie dough ice-cream to look forward to until then.

Blaine takes one last sip from the lukewarm water in his overfilled glass, and decides to ask for the check. He feels awful paying $7 for a single glass of wine, a half-eaten basket of rye rolls, and a wasted hour of their time. He plans on slipping in a $50 tip, hoping it will be enough that, if he ever does come back, they won't remember him for not ordering and spit in his food.

He looks around the dining room in search of his waitress – a lovely young red-head with a permanent pout. He doesn't see his waitress rushing toward his table, but a man – a tall, remarkably handsome man, cheeks flushed as if he's been running in the cold, and brilliant blue eyes aimed his way, along with a warm, inviting smile.

“Oh…my…God, I am so sorry that I'm late,” the man says, pulling out a chair and sitting across from Blaine. “I wish I could say that I was stuck behind a seven car pile-up, or something monumental, but I really have no exciting excuse.”

The man smiles at Blaine, and Blaine looks suspiciously back, turning his head left and right, searching for an explanation.

“I…I'm sorry,” Blaine says, addressing the man, mostly through side-eye glances. “Are you looking for me?”

“Yes,” the man says, extending an arm across the table. “I'm your date for the evening. I'm Rachel's friend, Carl.”

Blaine raises an eyebrow.

“You? You're Carl?”

The man's smile becomes wider, but in a tense sort of way, and he nods.

“Yes,” he says. “Yes, I am.” Blaine looks left and right again, obviously skeptical, and the man sighs. He folds his hand on the table. “Look, Blaine, I know I was supposed to be here at a quarter to nine, and I know you've probably called and texted a hundred times. I'm really, really sorry.” He looks down at his thumbs, fidgeting as he speaks. “I know this is going to sound lame, but I got caught up at work, and then I missed my train. I wanted to call you, but I left my phone at the office.” The man sighs again, deeper, the air leaving his body causing him to flatten a bit. “This has been a pretty awful day, all things considered, and I was really looking forward to this date tonight. I would like the opportunity to make it up to you.” The man looks up at Blaine through long, brown lashes, a sincere expression of regret on his face, eyes pleading for a second chance. “Will you let me try?”

Blaine doesn't quite believe that Carl ever intended on showing up at all. But then, why is he there? Did some other plans he made fall through? Did he feel guilty for blowing Blaine off and turn around at the last minute? Blaine knows he has every right to leave - to stand up, say goodbye, and go on his merry way. But Carl did show up – the first of about three blind dates to even bother – so maybe Blaine should give him a chance.

He's mulling it over when he catches sight of the man staring at him, a flirty smile on his lips that Blaine can't help finding positively alluring.

“Please?” the man mouths, the hands he had folded on the table finding their way up to his chin to aid in his begging. “Please?”

Blaine smiles back and rolls his eyes to pry his gaze away from the man's mouth.

“Alright,” Blaine says. “It sounds like you had a hard day. I can't fault you for that.” The man looks relieved, but his smile turns slightly impish, and Blaine finds himself giggling without meaning to. “Why don't we have a bite to eat and get to know each other?”

“Great,” Carl says. “That sounds great. Thank you.”

Blaine opens his menu and looks over the names and descriptions of the dishes he practically has memorized.

“I was thinking about having the salmon burger.”

“Ooo, that does sound good,” Carl says, opening his menu, “but you know, I come here a lot and I have to say, the Fettucine Alfredo is to die for. I always order it.”

Blaine scans the menu. Fettucine Alfredo is usually his go-to dish at any new restaurant. How did he miss it?

“That sounds good, too,” Blaine says with an indecisive whine.

Carl's mouth twists at the corner while he considers those two options.

“I've got an idea,” he says, “you get the burger, I'll get the Alfredo, and we can split. What do you say? Or does that sound too middle school?”

Blaine hides behind his menu, the smile on his face going from cautiously optimistic to ridiculous.

“That sounds like a great idea,” Blaine says. “We should totally do that.”

***

“Okay, so, we're already running late, and it's starting to rain…” Carl says, gesturing with his hands as he gets more into the story he's telling, and Blaine watches, wide eyed. If Blaine thought Ryan was a good storyteller, it's only because he hadn't met this man yet. “Like Monsoon level downpour. We're supposed to be on stage an hour ago, and she texts me and says, ‘Stall for thirty minutes.' And I'm like, Stall? We were supposed to be singing the opening number already, how am I going to stall?” Carl pauses to catch his breath in the middle of a laugh, while Blaine's already in tears, picturing Carl racing through the rain, trying to make it to the Gershwin Theater by curtain with his umbrella completely inverted, broken by an unforgiving gust of wind, and missing one shoe. “She gets to the theater, finally, but before the rain started, she had just finished getting a $250 spray tan…”

“$250!?” Blaine exclaims.

“Or something like that,” Carl says after a sip of water. “Whatever it was, it was insanely expensive.”

“And the rain ruined it?” Blaine guesses. He's leaning across the table now, captivated by Carl's every word, and Carl notices with the same flick of his blue eyes that Ryan did when Serena touched his hand.

“No,” Carl says, shaking his head, “her dog did. He got scared by the thunder and peed on her leg. She looked like an orange zebra! It was awful!”

“But…but wouldn't the costume cover that?”

Carl, unable to say another word, puts a finger on his nose, indicating that Blaine is right, and they both start laughing. Carl wheezes and Blaine snorts, which makes them both laugh harder. The entire restaurant turns and looks their way, but neither one of them notices. Even if they did, they wouldn't care.

Blaine, having ordered a second glass of wine, takes a healthy sip, but the buzz he gets from the alcohol is nothing compared to the one he already has from this date with Carl.

“I have to say,” Blaine says as the laughter dies down, “I was a little hinky about being set up, but Carl, this is going so well.”

“Yeah. Yeah, it is,” Carl agrees, becoming suddenly quiet.

“I mean, I've never met a real live Munchkin before.”

Carl laughs, but it's not like before - not as effervescent and carefree. Blaine looks down at the empty plates on the table, at the stray pieces of pasta and the crumbs from the burger they shared, not a single full bite left. As it turned out, they both ordered really well. Blaine didn't think it was possible for two things to be so compatible.

“I know you had a rotten day, but thank you for showing up. This was probably the most perfect blind date ever.” Blaine watches Carl, concerned that his attention seems to be slipping away.

Before he gets to comment, Carl beats him to it: “Blaine, I have a confession to make.”

Blaine feels the butterflies that have been dancing in his stomach during dinner drop dead, as if hit by a sudden frost.

“Yes, Carl?”

The man flinches.

“My name…isn't Carl,” he says. “It's Kurt. Kurt Hummel. And I wasn't your blind date. I'm not the man your friend set you up with.”

Blaine looks down at his hands, wiping them on the napkin in his lap.

“I had a feeling,” Blaine confesses. “I mean, you don't seem like the type of man my friend would usually set me up with.”

“What kind of men does she usually set you up with?”

Blaine chuckles. “I don't know, actually. They don't tend to show up.” Kurt gasps, but Blaine has to ask, “I don't understand…why? Why did you do this?”

“I came in after work for a drink, and I saw you sitting at this table, waiting for your date.” Kurt smiles. “I have to admit, I thought you were cute, so I kept looking. I heard you talking to the waitress and making jokes, and you sounded like such a nice guy. You told her about how your friend set you up, how excited you were. Then I heard you calling, saw you texting, and waiting and waiting and…

“And you took pity on me,” Blaine says with a grimace.

“No, I was angry,” Kurt says. “I was angry that some dumb fuck got the chance to have a date with such a great seeming guy like you, and he just bailed. Opportunities like that don't come by all the time, Blaine, and he threw his away. But I saw an opportunity, and I took it. And no matter what you think about me now, I'm glad I did, Blaine. Because you're great. You're really great. And I hope that you'll forgive me and let me take you out on a real first date.”

The table becomes quiet - Kurt watching Blaine, Blaine looking at his lap. The whole restaurant seems to have gone silent, as if everyone around them, who has listened to them laugh and talk and watched them share their meal, is waiting to see what Blaine is going to say. From somewhere off toward the kitchen door, Kurt thinks he sees a few of the waitresses peeking around a corner, watching their table a little too intently.

“What else was a lie?” Blaine asks. “Everything you said over dinner, was any of that true?”

“All of it,” Kurt says. “Everything I said, about living in Ohio, going to NYADA, performing in Wicked, it's all true, I promise. Here…wait…” Kurt opens his jacket and reaches into his pocket, pulling out his phone. He touches the screen, swipes it a few times, and then hands it to Blaine. “Take a look. I've had this phone forever,” Kurt says as Blaine flips through the photos. “There are some in there of me at NYADA, a couple from dress rehearsals at the Gershwin…oh, and we were in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade. There should be a picture of me on a float.” Blaine swipes through photo after photo of Kurt performing on stage, taking a selfie with a group of guys holding prop swords and shields, dressed in a black leotard and doing something that might be mime – Blaine can't really tell. There are also pictures of Kurt standing outside the Gershwin Theater, of Kurt being fitted for his costume, having his makeup applied, and then there's the float – a big impressive contraption made to look like Oz, with Glinda in a bubble, Elphaba on her broom, and down among the crowd of Munchkins, Blaine spots Kurt, singing full voice in the middle of whatever song they are performing.

So, Kurt is telling the truth.

“I don't know, Kurt,” Blaine says, handing the phone back. “I mean, yeah, you're telling the truth, but…”

“But…” Kurt asks, his smile fading.

Blaine shrugs. “I don't know anything about you.”

“Fair enough,” Kurt says, slipping his phone back in his pocket. “But can I ask you a question?”

Blaine nods. “I guess.”

“What did you know about Carl before you showed up here to meet him?”

“Well, I…” Blaine sits there with his mouth open, expecting words to come out that don't exist, because he didn't know anything about Carl. Not even what he looked like. Rachel told him that he showed Carl a picture, and that Carl would know him when he saw him. But other than that, all he had was Rachel's assurance that they would work well together. In reality, Carl could have stopped by at some point, seen Blaine waiting for him, and then turned around and left, and Blaine would have never known. But Kurt, on the other hand - he's been talking to Kurt all through dinner. He knows where Kurt grew up, the name of his high school, that he lived with his father and his mother died when he was young, that he interned at Vogue when he first moved to New York City, and now he's in the chorus of a Broadway play.

Blaine's not sure he knows as much about his roommate, and he lives with her.

“You've got me,” Blaine says, shaking his head. “Alright, Kurt. You're right. I would love to go on a real first date with you.”

Kurt reaches his hand across the table and Blaine takes it, and Blaine suddenly remembers the look Ryan had in his eye before he signaled for the check.

Kurt has a similar look.

Kurt raises his hand for the check, but after not seeing her for most of their meal, their waitress walks by and puts a plate down in the center of the table - a slice of cheesecake smothered in strawberries, with two forks.

“Uh, waitress?” Kurt calls to the woman before she can walk away.

“Yes, sir?”

“What's this?” he asks, confused by the sudden appearance of food.

“It's cheesecake,” she says, as if that isn't apparent. “It's the house special.”

“But, we didn't order dessert,” Blaine points out, looking at the cake and then back at the woman who delivered it.

“I know,” she says with a wink. “It's on the house.”