I went inside and up to Adam’s room, he wasn’t there. I pulled out my phone, hands nearly useless with adrenaline and embarrassment, and messaged him.
Billie
Are you okay?
Billie
Where’d you go?
I pressed send twice, then regretted double texting. My thumbs hovered over the keyboard, wondering what I could possibly say next to lighten the mood. I tried to come up with something funny, something casual, but every draft sounded either desperate or deranged. So I sent nothing else.
He didn’t answer. Not that night, not the next morning. Three days later I found out from his dad he’d enlisted in the Navy and was gone.
I tried to convince myself it didn’t matter. I told myself that it was better this way, that at least now I wouldn’t have to be embarrassed. But I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t angry. Not just at him, but at myself.
I thought the most I was risking was a little humiliation, if I’d known I was going to lose my best friend that night, I would never have kissed him.
But was he even my best friend if a kiss could scare him away?
1
BILLIE
If dating were an Olympic sport,this one would be solidly in the running for a gold medal in the Underwhelming Perfectionist category. My date’s name was Evan, and Evan had his act together so thoroughly I suspected he ironed his pillowcases.
He’d chosen a restaurant with a gorgeous view of the Golden Gate Bridge and a wine list thicker than a law textbook, then ordered in flawless French. He was handsome in the way you’d expect a stock photo of a “handsome man” to be—strong jaw, classic features, and a haircut so precise it looked mathematically modeled. He even wore the kind of dress shirt that needed its own line of credit.
Evan was also, I’m sorry to report, the most predictably boring man I’d ever spent two hours and twenty-three minutes with. The conversation was an endless loop of mergers, acquisitions, and something about blockchain that made my eyes glaze over like a Krispy Kreme donut. If he had an internal monologue, it would be narrated by Ben Stein.
Every time I tried to veer onto a topic with even a whiff of emotion—favorite childhood pet, most embarrassing moment,literallyanythingwith a pulse of personality—he nodded with clinical interest, then steered us directly back to quarterly projections.
I spent most of the main course eavesdropping on the married couple at the next table, who could have beenandshould havebeen filming a reality TV show. The wife discovered her husband’s infidelity while he was in the restroom when they first arrived, and by the main entrée was gesturing with her fork like a tiny javelin, threatening circumcision. The husband responded by whispering furiously through clenched teeth, promising retaliation in the form of certain text messages being shared in a family group chat where his wife vented about her mother and sisters. I rooted for the woman, mostly because I liked her shoes and didn’t feel she should be blackmailed because she’d talked shit about her own family to her cheating husband. Unfortunately, they left at the ninety-minute mark and took with them my sole source of entertainment.
By the time dessert menus arrived, I’d mentally reorganized my sock drawer twice and composed a detailed critique of the restaurant’s table layout. Evan, unbothered by my increasingly distracted responses, ordered a shared chocolate soufflé and told me about his CrossFit gym’s management structure. I smiled and asked the waiter for a box, feigning a tragic allergy to gluten when in reality it was to men who made me want to check my phone under the table.
The date limped to a close, and we finally, blessedly, made it down to the street. Evan kissed my cheek at the curb. “I hope to see you again.”
“That’s not going to happen.” I smiled politely. “But thank you.”
His expression blanked. “What?”
Whoa. That marked the very first question Evan had asked me all night.
“I’m not interested in a second date,” I explained.
I didn’t see any reason to lead people on. Had I been accused of being blunt, abrasive, and having no filter? Sure. Did that bother me? No. I saw no point in lying. These men were big boys, and if they couldn’t handle the truth, they shouldn’t talk about themselves so much. Or whatever.
Some men handled rejection well, others, like Evan, felt the need to call names, slam doors, or make veiled threats about me dying alone.
“You’re a cold bitch,” Evan observed, perhaps rightly so.
Luckily, I had thick skin and had been called worse.
“Goodnight, Evan.” I turned and walked to my car with the kind of relief typically reserved for taking off seven-inch heels at the end of the day.
On the drive home, I took the scenic route along the marina, watched the lights shimmer on the water, and tried to convince myself that dates didn’t have to be a referendum on the future. There was nothing wrong with Evan, apart from him calling me a bitch. There was also absolutely nothing right with him. He just wasn’t the right person for me.
I turned the radio up, searching for comfort in the familiar whine of pop songs, until suddenly the soft intro of an oldie burrowed its way into my subconscious.
