And then immediately overthink it.
“A hang?” I mutter. “What am I, seventeen?”
I rub my forehead until my skin threatens to peel off.
Maybe paying makes itlessof a date, though.
Right?
That’s a thing?
My phone buzzes again—Harper, of course, because the universe has excellent comedic timing.
I answer on the first ring. “Well.”
“Well???”
“I think I have a date.”
She gasps so loudly I have to hold the phone away from my ear.
“With HIM? Hot Trainer Colt? Olympic Thighs Colt? Abs You Could Cry Into Colt?”
“Shh! Yes! Maybe! I don’t know!” I whisper-yell, pacing my living room. “He picked The Darling.”
Harper screams. Full throttle.
“OH MY GOD YOU HAVE A DATE.”
“It’s not a date,” I insist, clutching the phone like it’s a flotation device. “I told him it’s a hang. And I said I’m paying. So technically—technically!—that nullifies the date vibes.”
Harper snorts so loud it echoes.
“Elena. Sweetheart. My love. My favorite naive friend.”
“Excuse me?”
“You could show up in cargo shorts and a mustard-stained hoodie and that man would still think it’s a date. He choseThe Darling.”
I throw my free hand into the air. “Maybe he doesn’t know what it is!”
“He knows what it is. He’s twenty-seven, not twelve.”
I groan and flop face-first onto my couch. “Harper…what am I doing?”
“You,” she says, “are living. And flirting. And going on a date with a younger man who obviously likes you. And honestly? I’m so proud.”
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling like it has answers hidden in the paint.
“I’m scared.”
“You should be,” Harper says. “He’s hot enough to ruin your life. Now go pick an outfit.”
“I have nothing to wear.”
“You always say that, and you have a closet that could clothe an entire Broadway chorus. Don’t lie.”
“I need something…non-date-y,” I say, already sliding off the couch.
