“Correct,” she says, sliding her phone into her bag. “Now go take a shower, put on something that says ‘I’m normal,’ and try not to overthink this.”
“Tonight?” My eyes widened. “Isn’t that a little fast?”
She shrugs. “You overthink. I’m just compensating.”
I flip her off. She laughs and reaches across the table to squeeze my hand.
“You’ll be okay,” she says softly. “And if it sucks, you come home, put on sweatpants, and I’ll bring over ice cream and we can mock everyone on that reality dating show you hate-watch.”
I exhale slowly. “Deal.”
I spend way too long getting ready for a date I don’t even want.
My bedroom looks like a closet exploded. Three tops on the bed, two dresses hanging from the door, a graveyard of rejected shoes on the floor. I settle on jeans and a black blouse that dips just enough at the neckline to feel like I tried, but not enough to send the wrong message.
It’s ridiculous, worrying about sending the wrong message on a date with someone I’m supposedly giving a chance. But there it is.
I stand in front of the mirror, mascara wand hovering near my lashes, and stare at my face. I look…tired. Not in a dramatic, sobbing-into-a-pillow way. Just worn. Like I’ve been bracing for impact for months.
“You’re allowed to figure it out,” I whisper to my reflection, the words slipping out even though I’m not sure I believe them yet. “And you’re allowed to go on one date.”
My reflection doesn’t look convinced.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
Emma: Send me a pic of the outfit or I’m showing up and dressing you myself.
I huff out a laugh and snap a quick mirror selfie, hitting send before I can overthink it.
Emma: Hot. Ethically hot. You look amazing.
Emma: You’ve got this. And if you panic, text me and I’ll fake an emergency.
Me: Like what, your cat caught fire?
Emma: I don’t have a cat.
Me: Exactly.
Emma: Go. Before you talk yourself out of it.
I grab my bag, shove my phone inside, and force my feet toward the door.
In my car, I spend the whole drive fighting with my own thoughts.
You’re just going on a date.
You’re not cheating.
He’s married.Maybegetting divorced. That’s a whole mess you don’t want to be in.
You’re allowed to talk to a nice man who likes dogs and hates the printer on the third floor.
By the time I pull up to the bar, my pulse is too fast and my hands are damp.
I wipe my palms on my jeans and step out.
I meet Brian at The Bar. We’ve exchanged a few elevator chats at work. He’s taller than I remember too. He seems easygoing. Safe, in the way I’m supposed to want.
