When the laughter subsides, Em gets up and heads to the kitchen. She returns a moment later with a bottle of beer and more slightly salted potato chips. This woman can drink beer like it’s freaking water. Me? The yeast factor makes it like eating a loaf of alcoholic bread, which would be a great afternoon snack if I wasn’t heading to a sleep study later this evening.
“I can’t,” I say, exercising restraint. I can’t be inebriated around Xander anymore. I don’t need less inhibitions around him. If anything, I need more. Way more.
“Coughlin’s Law: Drink or be gone,” she says, quotingCocktailwhile producing a bottle of water.
“That is very kind of you,” I say, taking the bottle gratefully and drowning myself in the cool H20. How does water taste so good when it has no taste?
Seconds later, the bottle is officially empty and I already feel better.
Em settles on the couch next to me.
“So, what’d you get up to last night?” I ask.
“I went drunk shopping online and found you the perfect dress for the wedding,” she replies. “Want to see?”
She whips out her phone and shows me a photo of a blood-orange, puffed-sleeve, deep V neck, exposed back, cut above the knees wedding dress.
“It’s perfect.” I’ve been feeling guilty about ditching Em as my wedding date but apparently she doesn’t care to take my feelings into consideration because she says, “Xander is going to lose his mind when he sees you wearing this.”
“Do I really have to bring Xander as my date?” I raise my eyebrows, but it’s no use. Me dating is like crack to her. I can see the unhinged written all over her face. She’s on a mission now.
“Emphatically yes.”
“Pfftt.Is there a rulebook on dating?” I say, almost sarcastic.
“Many. Why?” she replies, serious. Because of course there’s a self-help section at Barnes & Noble filled with dating advice, with my mom’s book smack bang in the middle. See what I mean by incompetent?
“You have so much to learn,” she says, patting my arm. “Since this is what you do now. You date.”
“Do I?”
“Don’t you?”
I study her. No, I don’t date. I have one-night stands. And then I sneak out before the morning. Although I notice my heart beats a little quicker as I picture Xander all dressed up, hair styled, opening car doors, kissing on sidewalks.
And then I think about the reason why I’m even thinking about dating Xander to begin with. For the sake of the sleep study.
“I am dating Xander Miller.” Officially. On the record.
“Holy shit,” Em says at the confession. That’s all she says. It appears that dating Xander Miller has rendered us both speechless.
We turn back to the movie as Tom Cruise cheats on Elisabeth with the older rich woman. Andthisis exactly why I don’t date.
I reach over and swipe Em’s bottle of beer. I take a sip.
Coughlin’s Law: Drink or be gone.
Xander and I stand at the entrance to a rando carnival I’ve never seen before in my life. It’s complete with a circus tent, grown-ass men wearing clown costumes, and a Ferris wheel. Here I am. Wednesday afternoon. On a second date.
We have been the height of respectability during the last few nights of the sleep study. I would like to publicly thank me. I want to thank me for keeping my hands to myself. I want to thank me for keeping my hands out of my own pants. And I want to thank me for keeping Xander out of my dreams.
“When you said ‘carnival,’ you really meant carnival,” I say, turning to Xander, who looks like he’s a celebrity in disguise trying to do “normal people things” with a red plaid shirt and dark blue baseball cap. Turns out, the man with the capsule wardrobe has range.
“What does ‘carnival’ mean to you?” Xander says, raising his eyebrows.
“A murder scene waiting to happen,” I say. “There isn’t a single crime procedural show that doesn’t have a circus serial killer episode.”
“You’re dark,” he says, laughing. “And have questionable taste in television.”
