‘Jamie,’ she says, patient and terrifying.‘You’ve been in a committed relationship with your vibrator and sad salads for months.It’s time.’
‘I’m not dating right now.’
‘It’s not dating.It’s exposure therapy.’
I blink.‘What?’
‘One blind date.At Brookie’s.Low stakes.Local.You love their ceviche.’
‘I also love not dying in a stranger’s trunk.’
‘You’re not going to die.He’s vetted.’
‘Oh good,’ I say.‘As long as the man who might chop me into finger food has passed the Abbey Braddock Background Check.’
She groans.‘You’re being dramatic.’
‘I’m being realistic.Blind dates are how rom-coms start.Or horror films.There’s a fine line.’
Abbey lowers her voice.‘You need to get back on the horse.’
‘Metaphorically or literally?’
‘Both.’
‘I swear to God, if this is because I told you I missed riding—’ ‘Jamie.’
I sigh so hard I give myself a minor tension headache.‘Fine.But I’m not promising anything.’
‘Of course not,’ she says, breezy.‘You’re only promising to show up.’
‘What’s his name?’I ask, already regretting everything.
‘No name.’
‘Any details?’
‘No details.’
‘So, I’m going in cold?’
‘Exactly.That way you can’t twist yourself into someone else’s dream girl halfway through appetisers.’
I groan.‘If I end up murdered, it’s your fault.’
‘I’ll make sure your tombstone’s flattering.’
‘You already have something in mind, don’t you?’
‘Here lies Jamie Hayes and her nine dildos.’
‘You’re the worst.’
‘And yet,’ she says sweetly, ‘you love me.’
I grumble something noncommittal, but my lips are already tugging into a smile.She’s right.Of course she’s right.Abbey is always ten paces ahead, dragging me forward by the collar even when I’d rather lie facedown in a pile of existential dread.
‘Friday,’ she reminds me.‘Brookie’s.Seven sharp.’
