A giant hourglass filled with purple gemstones that looked like tiny galaxies pushed itself into my thoughts. It would make a pretty picture if it wasn’t for the big sticks of dynamite rigged to the bottom of the glass. A blinking thirty showed in bright red numbers, and the gemstones moved from the top to the bottom in sync with the timer.
Oh, that was just perfect.A countdown until I turned the big three-zero—like there was some giant doomsday clock that would explode if I wasn’t married or something close by that big birthday. Was that the norm? What society dictated? What Headmaster Hopkirk wanted? My parents didn’t get married until well into their thirties and had me at forty. Then again, my younger sister got married when she was twenty-two, and they were so in love it made your teeth ache.
Why couldn’t I think about swinging in a hammock tied between two palm trees on a deserted beach somewhere? Or even how badly I needed to rearrange my sock drawer. Anything was better than thinking about my life imploding at thirty—or at the rate I was going, well before that number.
After half of my wine was gone and I was contemplating another glass, there was a lull in the one-sided conversation. I perked up when he mentioned leaving the office early to head to the club with his friends and use the gym.
Definitely not because I was a gym rat or anything—it was just a nice change of pace to talk about something I could contribute to. Extracurricular activities were a safe topic.
“Oh, agreed. I would rather go to the gym than be out in this heat. I took a Zumba class a few years ago and have been meaning to find something like that again. Do you do anything particular at the club? Maybe basketball? You certainly have the build for it,” I said, noticing his knees were no more than an inch or two away from brushing underneath the bar.
He sighed and rolled his eyes. Then sighed again—this petulant noise that bubbled up from his throat and sounded like a child on the verge of having a tantrum.
“Why would you say that, Emma?”
I tilted my head, replaying my response as he pursed his lips.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry. I’m confused. Did I say the wrong thing? I mean, I enjoyed the Zumba class, but don’t really like lifting weights. I guess it could help define my arms, but I’d rather move my entire body than do curls and such.”
His frown deepened, making my pulse increase and my palms sweat. “Isn’t getting to know each other what we’re supposed to be doing? Talking about our interests and the like?”
I shrugged, and he sighed again, sounding like a disappointed parent. My anxiousness amped to a thousand percent as he looked at me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe. “I mean, our talks have been nice over the app, but there is definitely something to be said for meeting in person and seeing if there is a spark. Wouldn’t you say?”
I chuckled, hoping it would lighten the moment—but it didn’t. Tyler was making things horribly uncomfortable, and I rubbed my hands on my legs, dispelling some of my nervous energy.
“Why would you assume that I played basketball, Emma?”
“Um. Because it’s something that’s offered at most clubs, right? I mean, my dad has taken up pickleball lately, but I honestly don’t understand what all the hype is about. You look like you’d excel at basketball. Maybe? Am I off base? Are you more of a racquetball kinda guy? Perhaps a runner?”
“No. I’m not a racquetball player, Emma.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and finished the rest of his beer. The bartender stepped in front of us, and before I could open my mouth to order another glass of wine, Tyler waved him off without a word. I drew my bottom lip between my teeth and watched as he walked to the register, managing to meet his eyes and shrug, trying to silently send an apology for Tyler’s abruptness.
It felt like I’d been running in hundred-degree heat while wearing a snowsuit and toboggan. A bead of sweat dripped between my shoulder blades and into my bra strap, the feeling mortifying in the air-conditioned space. I rolled out my shoulders and raised my eyebrows, ready to be done with this conversation.
“So, you do play basketball? Perhaps tennis? I’m not sure what’s happening right now, but I’m getting really uncomfortable.” I fanned my face, then lifted my curls from my shoulders, not caring that he could see my anxiety.
My eyeballs were itchy. Was that a thing? Anxiety so fierce it manifested as itchy eyeballs? If it weren’t for the real concern of spending the rest of this date with raccoon eyes from smeared mascara, I’d dig a knuckle into both sockets to dispel the feeling.
Maybe a little honesty would snap him out of whatever one-eighty had put him into this funk. He scrubbed his hands over his face and squinted.
“Do you know those pet peeves you have, Emma?”
Like interrupting?
I tilted my head and raised my brows, waiting for him to direct this conversation and just put me out of my misery.
“Well. I only have one, but it’s a big one. One that, as soon as I hear, my mood just evaporates.” He snapped his fingers and waved his hand, but I stayed silent.
“Can you guess what mine is?”
Not a freaking clue, weirdo.
“Nope.”
“Really? That’s a shame.” He bowed his head like he just lost out on a million-dollar lottery ticket, but I refused to play whatever game this was. He could tell me what gigantic faux-pas I made when he was ready—I wouldn’t beg for an explanation.
“Basketball, Emma.”
