By five o’clock, I’ve worked myself into such a frenzy that I consider texting Sandra and Lucy for advice. But I already know what they’ll say – go, live a little.
So, I don’t. I keep it to myself, letting the nerves eat away at me.
If I don’t go, I’ll hate myself for chickening out. If I do go, at least I can get it over with. Be polite, make it clear this is a one off, have a quick drink… and leave.
It’s the right thing to do. Deep down, though, I know it’s about more than it being the right thing to do. It’s about George. He didn’t even fight for me. He didn’t even try. And maybe, just maybe, going to meet this stranger is my way of proving I can survive without him. And maybe it will be great. Or more likely, it will be a disaster, but that’s ok, because no one need ever know about it but me.
At least spending the last few hours overthinking this has meant I haven’t stalked George’s social media once, and that’s got to be a win.
Chapter Six
Pippa
I stand in front of my closet like it’s some kind of enemy combatant. I suppose in a way, it is. It’s an enemy I have to defeat before I can leave the house. I’ve been standing here for the last fifteen minutes with my arms folded and my head cocked to one side, glaring at the rail of clothes in front of me. As if one of the outfits will decide to play ball and hold up a neon sign that says wear me, I’m perfect for a date that’s not a date.
What even is that, anyway? A not date, date. A fake date. A ‘you were peer pressured into meeting some random guy from a bar because your friends are relentless’ kind of date. There’s no category in the fashion guides for that. There really should be. I can’t be the only one with pushy friends. In fact, I bet this happens more often than people suspect.
I drag a couple of hangers out and consider the clothes on them. A short black dress? No. That will look like I’m trying too hard. An oversized hoodie and leggings? Nope. That’s like not trying at all. Or worse, he could interpret it as a Netflix and chill with me vibe. A silky blouse with tailored trousers? That’sgetting closer, but it’s still not right. I’d look like I was heading for a job interview, not to a bar to meet someone who may or may not even show up. I could say I came straight from work, but then if I mentioned working from home, that would make me sound unhinged.
I groan and flop onto the edge of my bed, running both hands through my hair. Why do I even care what I wear? I don’t want this to be a big deal. It isn’t a big deal. I just don’t want to look like an absolute mess if he does show up. But I also don’t want to give the impression that I’m already planning my wedding outfit since Sandra and Lucy roped me into this strange situation. There has to be something in between those two options.
Ok, Pippa, think. Jeans. Jeans are safe. Jeans say I’m cool, I’m casual, I didn’t spend three hours panicking in front of my wardrobe.
I pull out my favorite pair of jeans. They are a dark wash, low-waisted pair, and they make my ass look like it owns a gym membership, even though the last time I saw the inside of a gym was when I got lost while looking for the vending machines after a lovely trip to the sauna.
I decide to pair them with a soft pink jumper. It’s cozy and not revealing, but it is fitted enough to still look feminine. It skims in at just the right places, and the color makes my skin look less ghostly under indoor lighting, which is a bonus.
That just leaves shoes. I turn my attention to my shoe collection at the bottom of the closet. What about sneakers? No, too casual. My eyes fall on my favorite black skyscraper heels. No, they are shoes that say I made a real effort today, which is definitely not the look I am going for here.
I purse up my mouth as I consider my other options. Then my gaze lands on the perfect pair. My nude heels. Yes. The little block heeled ones that add just enough height to make me feellike I am not slumming it in flats without making me wobble like a baby deer. They’ll say I tried, but not too hard.
I slip the clothes on and give myself a once-over in the mirror. The outfit works. I leave my hair loose, an ideal curtain to hide behind if I need a quiet moment after saying or doing something embarrassing. I keep my makeup light, applying just mascara, tinted moisturizer, and a pale pink lip gloss. I think I have nailed the casual look and made it look effortless. And only I know how much effort went into looking like I didn’t put any effort in at all. Why is it harder to look like you haven’t tried than it is to look all out glam.
By the time I leave the house, I’ve almost convinced myself that it’s fine. That I’m fine. That this is fine. All is fine. Almost.
I arrive at Mason’s and step inside. The bar is busier than I expected it to be considering it is a Tuesday. Warm lighting glows on the wooden tables scattered across the empty dance floor, and the chatter of people mixes with clinking glasses. I approach the bar, and Mason grins at me.
“Where are your partners in crime tonight?” he asks.
“Ah, it’s just me tonight, I’m afraid,” I reply with a smile, thankful that Sandra only works weekend nights and does day shifts through the week.
“Oh, it’s the big date night, is it?” he says, his grin widening. “Do you want the Jessica dress?”
“God no,” I blurt out.
Peter laughs knowingly, and I feel the heat creep up my neck. Blasted dress.
I order a gin and tonic because it feels like the kind of drink that makes me appear sophisticated but approachable. Carrying my drink with me, I grab a small table by the wall and settle in. I am a little bit early, because that’s just me, so of course, the first thing I do is pull out my cell phone. I debate telling Sandra and Lucy where I am, but I don’t text them yet. He might not evenshow and then there will be nothing to tell. Instead, I fall down the black hole that is Facebook. And there it is. George’s latest post. I try to tell myself that’s not what I was looking for, but that’s a lie and I know it.
The post contains a photo of two opera tickets, neatly arranged next to a glossy program with Madame Butterfly written in swooping letters. The caption on the post reads:Saturday night can’t come soon enough.
My stomach twists, a weird combination of envy and curiosity. George is going to the opera, somewhere he always wanted to take me, and I always resisted. I would give anything now for one of those tickets to be mine. I wonder who he’s taking with him. A woman?
No, surely not! It’s far too soon for that.
We only broke up a few weeks ago. Maybe he’s going with his best friend, but do two men really go to the opera together if they’re not involved romantically? I don’t really know, but my gut feeling is no. Maybe he will take his mom. She is cultured, like she actually knows the difference between Puccini and pasta shapes.
I zoom in on the picture, as if that’s going to tell me anything more, then I quickly click out of Facebook and lock my cell phone. What am I doing? Stalking my ex on Facebook while waiting for my ‘not date’ to start? This is tragic. Absolutely tragic.
