I suddenly sit up straighter.
“No. No no no no no. This is not a date,” I tell the universe, my lamp, my plant, my entire building.
“He is beingprofessional.I’m returning his card. We are returning things to each other. This is mutually returning.”
I glance back at the message.
Nice atmosphere.
My face heats so fast I nearly combust.
Who suggests The Darling for a non-date because of the nice atmosphere?
Who casually selects a romantic speakeasy with dim lighting and corner tables and cocktails that arrive with smoke pouring off them?
Not a trainer or coworker.
A friend? I don’t think so.
A man trying—however subtly—to not look desperate.
“Oh my God,” I whisper again, covering my face with both hands.
Is this happening?
Am I spiraling?
Yes.
Absolutely yes.
But also…
Is he for real asking me out?
I scroll back up through his earlier messages.
What are you up to tomorrow night? Friday’s probably a big date night for you I’m assuming?
My lungs tighten, because this is a date.
This feels like a date.
This looks like a date.
And the worst part—the truly unhinged part—I want it to be.
I force myself to breathe.
Okay.Okay.I need to text back. Something breezy. Something cool. Something that doesnotmake this sound like the date I am absolutely terrified it is.
My fingers hover over the screen.
I type:
Elena: It’s a…hang. Drinks are on me this time.
I hit send before I can overthink it.
