I can’t handle this fake, nice Ben. I want to be left alone to wallow, not listen to him talk to me like I’m some injured bird. I wish he would just insult me already so our equilibrium could be restored.
“I haveplans.”
I lay it at his feet like a tribal offering; it’s a golden opportunity to roast me about Donkey Date. He doesn’t bite, though. He shifts his feet—it must be killing him not to make a meal of this—but he says nothing.Exasperating.Guess I’ll have to try harder.
“Myfriendsare taking me out.” I sayfriendswith extra emphasis, my tone letting him know:You are not my friend, and I don’t need anything from you.
That works. His eyes shadow for a moment before he dips his head in a brisk nod.
“Have a good time with yourfriends, then.” He turns to leave, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I thought I’d be relieved when he left, but as I stare at the closed door, I feel even more bereft than before he showed up.
Here’s the funny thing: I actually do have a Donkey Date tonight. I wish I were kidding.
Tessa kept her promise from the bar and set up my LeftField profile, and apparently at warp speed, because by the next day she giddily shared that I’d matched with Ian, an admittedly great-looking lawyer who lives in Adams Morgan. I agreed to meet him for dinner on Friday night, figuring his career outside my immediate political bubble was a point in his favor. Of course, this was before I got news of the bill, and when I told Tessa and Stephen I needed to back out, they flat-out refused to let me. Literally—they changed the app password and locked me out of the account.
As an apology for their “tough love” (their expression, not mine—I used some other choice words), they offered to take me out for a drink before my date to “pump me up.” I make sure to order the priciest glass of wine on the menu in retribution.
I’ve got to hand it to my friends—they’re doing their best to be my hype squad and laugh me out of this, but I’m a lost cause tonight. They keep trying to one-up each other with increasingly pathetic toasts:
“To failure!”Cheers!
“To losers and haters!”Clink!
“To wasting our lives trying to make the world a better place!”Fizz.
“To supersize men who come by to rub your nose in your own pain and disappointment!” I add gamely, raising my glass.
They both stare at me.What, too far?
“Seriously? Ben kicked you while you’re down?” Tessa says, incredulous. “I swear to God, I don’t care how big he is, I will take that guy out.”
Stephen’s eyeing me skeptically. “You know, I spoke to him, and it didn’t seem like he was gloating.”
Under the table, I kick his shin as hard as I can with my pointy-toed heel.
“Ow!”
“That’sfor telling him about the bill. Stop talking to him about me. In fact, stop talking to him, period,” I snap.
“Reeeeer,”he hisses, curling his fingers into cat claws. “He seemed concerned about you, is all I’m saying.”
I make a face as Tessa breaks in, holding up her phone.
“You guys will have to finish this later. It’s seven fifteen and Ian’ll be here any minute.”
They leave me with a flurry of hugs and kisses andgood lucks, and I move from the bar to a table, settling in to wait for my date to arrive.
And wait.
And wait.
Three more glasses of wine, one untouched plate of food, and more than an hour later, I’m still waiting. When it becomes obvious the guy isn’t going to show, I spend most of that time mentally drafting the hateful review I plan to leave on his profile—but I can’t even get the satisfaction of posting it since I’mstilllocked out of the damn account. I delete the app off my phone in a fit of pique.
So much for Donkey Date.
While I’m sure I’ll end up laughing about this someday, if I start now I’m pretty sure it’ll spiral into hysterical sobbing. I consider texting Tessa and Stephen to commiserate, but frankly I’m pissed at them for getting me into this mess to begin with. Besides, I can’t stomach any more of theirrah-rah,chin-uppep talks tonight—or worse, their pity.
