Maybe I'm reading into it. Maybe it's the romantic drought in which I perpetually find myself, my imagination coloring in the man-shaped outline I've dreamed up.
"What are you wearing?" Kerrigan asks.
I glance in the mirror as I rattle off my outfit. "A denim skort that ties on my hip, and a white tank top with scalloped edges."
"Hmm," she says, and not in a reassuring way. "Add a cardigan. That way you can slide it off one shoulder when you're sitting across from him. It'll make him think of undressing you."
I make a face at my reflection, but it's meant for the ho I'm on the phone with. "I'm not sleeping with him on the first date. The first meeting. Whatever we're calling it."
"There's nothing wrong with it," my sister says, adopting the defensive but also superior tone she uses when she spouts words likesex-positivity. "Besides, I didn't say to sleep with him. Making him picture undressing you is a far cry from getting horizontal."
She takes a deep breath, but I cut her off before she can dive into her lecture. I've heard it all from her before, and besides, my sister has an affinity for shrooms. I'd fight a rabid coati for her, but she is not to be trusted when she's been munching on fungi.
"It's not rightfor me, Kerrigan. Now, get your head in the game. I already passed on the red dress because I don't want to look like a hooker. I'm not going to undress in front of the man."
She sighs because I'm just that hopeless. Her eye roll is almost audible through the phone. "Paloma was kidding. She's from the land of thongs and sungas."
I shudder at the memory of Paloma showing me a photo of her family on the beach in Brazil, all the males wearing sungas. I asked her why I needed to see the silhouette of everyone, including her sixty-year-old father's, babymaker. She muttered something derogatory about my being a prudish American.
"I need talking points," I tell Kerrigan, studying my shoe collection. "Should I wear flats? What if he's short?"
"We love a short king," Kerrigan trills.
"You have the worst habit of repeating phrases you see people who are cooler than you post on social media."
"I really do," she agrees readily. "Wear the tan sandals that give you a couple inches."
I examine my hot pink pedicure, toes already encased in the tan sandals that give me a couple inches. "Perfect. Thanks, Kerr."
"You'll do great. This'll be fun. Dominic will be the prize you're awarded for going on all those awful dates recently."
"Let's hope," I say flippantly. "At some point I have to break my streak of meeting the human equivalent of fruitcake."
"Dense and unappetizing," Kerrigan announces with conviction.
Over the past few months, my dates more closely resemble the punchline of a joke. Mama's boys, dude bros (pronouncedbruh), and one ballsy kleptomaniac whose astronomical good looks did not offset the salt shaker I caught him tossing in his backpack during our first (and last) date. Further proof of my theory that even pretty people can be weird.
"Ok, I gotta go." I grab my purse off my bed, looping it around my shoulder.
"If all else fails, make a show of lowering your cardigan."
"Bye, Kerrigan."
She shoots back. "Puritan."
"You belong on a beach in Brazil."
"I wholeheartedly agree."
"I love you."
"I love you, too. Remember, your mouth can't get pregnant. Byeeee."
The connection ends, and I shake my head. Kerrigan describes herself asunhinged, and I'm inclined to agree.
Not in a million years would I admit this to my sister, but I nab a cardigan from my closet on my way out. Just in case.
CHAPTER 3
