“Gretchen?”
There he was, standing outside the pub at which we’d agreed to meet. He actually looked like his picture. He lookedbetterthan his picture. The image on his profile had been blurry, but on-purpose/artistic blurry. In person, he had a lovely, symmetrical face and appealingly unkempt ash-blond hair, and he was wearing a huge smile that made his blue eyes twinkle.
“Yes, hi. Scott?”
We shook hands, and my stomach did a little flip. He had a good handshake. A big, warm hand that would probably be good at foot rubs.
I reminded myself that that was not the point here. The point was to swipe on someone I’d never see again, have a fun last date.
“I like your hair,” he said, tangling his fingers in a hank of it. I was used to people complimenting my hair—it was mysignature thing—but I wasn’t used to people I didn’t know touching it two seconds after meeting me. That was the first red flag.
The second red flag started flapping when we engaged the hostess. I’d suggested this place because it had a cool rooftop space with lawn bowling and a view of the skyscrapers of downtown. But when we were informed that there was no room on the roof, Scott said, “Oh, come on. I’m sure you can find something.”
“I’m sorry, sir. You’re welcome to wait. Or you can—”
Scott leaned in and aimed his twinkly-eyed grin at the woman, who looked all of twenty. “I hate to be this jerk, but do you know who I am?”
Wait, what? DidIknow who he was?
The hostess smiled apologetically. “I do, and honestly I’m a big fan, but there simply isn’t a table available on the roof at the moment.”
A bigfan?
Scott extinguished his grin. “Look. I’m sure you can—”
“You know what?” I interrupted. “Why don’t we go somewhere else? There are lots of places with patios on Nicollet. I’m sure we can find a good spot.”
Scott let himself be talked down, but not before asking if the hostess wanted him to sign anything. I was pretty sure she didn’t give a shit, but she feigned enthusiasm and handed him a napkin.
See? This is what I mean about bending ourselves to please men. Why do we do this?
Because it’s easier. We pretend to be who we aren’t or like things we don’t because it’s easier than offending a man. Or because even though we tell ourselves that a muttered-under-his-breath“What a bitch” or a texted “Whore” doesn’t affect us, maybe enough of those little barbs do eventually accrete into a weapon that’s big enough, and sharp enough, to start unraveling us.
“You want to come up to my hotel room for a drink instead?” Scott suggested when we were back outside. I’d changed my Tinder profile before my final round of swiping, making it vague and flirty. He had every reason to think I would be interested in going up to his room with him for “a drink.”
And hell, maybe I still was. I didn’t have to like him to sleep with him.
“Sure.” As we started the three-block walk to the Hyatt, I said, “I gather you’re some sort of famous person and I didn’t realize.”
He chuckled. “Yeah. I’m in a band.”
“Oh yeah? Would I have heard of you?”
“Probably. We’re in town playing the Target Center tomorrow.”
Wow. Sleeping with a rock star as my last hurrah: I could get behind that. I reallywouldbe going out with a bang. “What’s the band called?”
“Concrete Temple.”
I had heard the name, but that was it. Which was surprising, as I loved music and prided myself on following lots of genres. It helped in my line of work, where I was known for my inventive recital choreography. “What kind of stuff do you play?”
“Rock. Hard rock.”
That explained it. Hard rock didn’t really lend itself to kids’ dance recitals at studios in suburban strip malls. “Hmm,” I said vaguely, not wanting to offend him. Argh!—here I was, doing it again. I started over. “Don’t know you guys.”
“Really?”
Here we went. “Really.”
