I should have walked out of this date the minute he mentioned Ryan’s name. Trevor’s supposed to be wooing me, not weaseling his way into meeting Ryan.
“Maybe if it works out between us, you could put in a good word for me, right?”
The couple holding hands skates by us again, laughing even louder. I swear, they’re mocking me with how well their fucking date is going.
“I think I’d be an asset to the table,” Trevor continues, “I played four tournaments in Vegas this year, and I didn’t win, but?—”
“I have to use the bathroom,” I blurt out.
Trevor blinks at me. “Oh. Okay, do you want me to…”
“Go ahead and keep skating.” With a wave, I skate over to the exit as quickly as my mediocre ice-skating skills allow.
I take a seat on the wooden bench outside the rink and lean over to unlace my skates. My fingers tremble on the laces, but it’s not from the cold. I’m furious at the injustice of the whole thing. My date would seriously rather be flirting with Ryan than me. It’s like I can’t escape him, no matter where I go.
After I yank the skates off, I go to the rental counter to swap them for my high-heeled boots. I thought I looked pretty cute in my black wool coat and boots, accessorized with a red scarf that matches my lipstick.
Not that it mattered. I could have been Angelina Jolie and Trevor still wouldn’t care, not with a meeting with Ryan on theline. It was a total waste of my time and my outfit. Keepr should really let me report guys who do that.
Once my boots are zipped up, I stride out into the chilly night. Eventually Trevor will figure out I’ve ditched him. Or maybe he’ll forget all about me. He might spend hours skating in circles, rehearsing some speech about how much he deserves to kiss Ryan’s scuffed sneakers.
I hug my arms around myself and walk home as quickly as I can. I know I should have stayed on that date longer to get more material for my article. I just couldn’t stand listening to him trying to impress a man who wasn’t even there. When I trudge into the building lobby, I head right for our mailboxes. There, I find the first good news of the day—the present I ordered for the White Elephant party is here. The party starts in a couple of days, and since I ordered from a specialty site, I was worried the delivery wouldn’t arrive in time.
Ryan’s not home when I get up to the apartment. Good—hopefully, he’ll party all night, so I can get some much-needed alone time.
Walking to my bedroom, I strip off my cute date outfit and toss it in the hamper. Once I’m in my comfy pajamas, I pull my favorite big purple fuzzy blanket out of the closet. With the blanket wrapped around me, I pull up my laptop and start writing.
Going on a date is an act of hope. You hope this might be a guy you want to go on a second date with. You hope he’ll be attracted to you, and vice versa. You hope that the indefinable thing you can’t measure on an app—chemistry—will be there.
Unfortunately, your hope is usually smashed like a piñata.
There are so many ways for a man to disappoint you. He can be boring, rude, selfish, or creepy. He can drag you to a shitty dive bar that smells like feet and urine, or escort you to an expensive restaurant and conveniently “forget” hiscredit card. He can pretend he’s allergic to deodorant or condoms or feelings. He can act shitty to a waiter or give you insults disguised as compliments. He can spend the whole night workshopping his terrible stand-up routine on you. Those aren’t just random examples—they’ve all happened to me or my friends, sometime in the past decade.
After enough disappointing dates, you have to wonder what the point of it all is. And if you only have a month to go on twelve dates, the disappointments come faster and harder than usual. It reminds you why you hit pause on dating in the first place.
Why do men think they’re allowed to play with your emotions? Women aren’t games. We can be won or lost, but we’re not supposed to be played.
The words flow from my mind to the page in a bummed-out stream of consciousness. I’ve written five whole pages by the time I run out of things to say. Five, useless pages that barely talk about the actual date. I can’t turn any of this in to Ingrid. I just feel exhausted and depressed.
Wrapping the big purple blanket around my shoulders, I drag myself out of my bedroom and head for the kitchen. Fortunately, the only other living creature I see is Waffle, napping by the window. No Ryan yet.
In the freezer, I’ve got a carton of ice cream waiting for me in case of emergencies. I scoop myself a big bowl, then bring it back to the sofa for a nice long sulking session. I open up my profile on Sequel and pick the first TV show that comes up.Breaking Bad.I’ve had enough guys tell me I had to watch it, I guess this was inevitable eventually.
I’m only five minutes in when the elevator doors open. I don’t even turn around—I don’t want to see Ryan’s face right now.
“Home already, Pips?” he drawls. “It’s barely nine. Your date really couldn’t wait to get rid of you, huh?”
When I don’t answer him, he leans over the back of the sofa and pokes my cheek.
“Hellooooo, earth to Pippa!”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “I’m not in the mood,” I say in a monotone voice.
Ryan’s silent for a moment. “What are you eating?” he asks finally.
I glare up at him, holding up my ice cream bowl as a silent explanation. He shakes his head and grabs the bowl out of my hand. Fury rises to the surface of my mind, breaking through the thick layer of sadness.
“Give that back!” I demand.
