“Are you leaving?” I ask. We haven’t even gotten our food yet.
“I gotta go potty,” he announces, hooking a thumb toward the men’s room. “I was waiting a while before you got here.”
“Uh ... okay?” I was three minutes late. Three.
He has to ...go potty?I am dumbfounded.
Then it gets weirder. Derek bends down, and I get a look at his feet. I flinch backward. Are those ...?
They are.
My date is wearing Crocs with socks. On their own, I’d think they aren’t a big deal, and he’s just a man who likes shock-absorbing footwear. Maybe I wouldn’t marry the guy, but we could have fun.
But his shoes are covered in charms. Every hole in his Crocs is plugged with all manner of offensive flotsam: the Hooters logo, a Confederate flag, a purple My Little Pony. Is that the woman’s silhouette from the mudflaps? Oy.
As if that weren’t enough, Derek removes his shoes, pivoting the straps until they wrap around his ankles. “Gotta put these bad boys into sports mode,” he murmurs with a chuckle.
Okay, he’s joking. This is a prank. I take a gamble, releasing the laugh I’ve been holding back. “That’s good.” I catch my breath. “Who put you up to this? Was it Marlow?”
His face whips to mine. “What?”
“The shoes. Well, the charms on the shoes,” I clarify. “And the sports mode.”
He looks confused. “My daughter picked the charms. We have matching Crocs.”
He has a daughter? That explains the whole “I gotta go potty” thing, I guess. But then my stomach drops. His daughter choosing his Crocs charms would be cute—maybe—except I’ve seen the doodads on his feet.
“She picked the Confederate flag?” I ask with a wince. “How old is she?”
“Six.” He shrugs. “Did you notice the headlights?” He crouches down again, there are some snapping sounds, and a small beam of light shines under the table from each foot. He straightens. “Anyway, I gotta go. BRB.”
And that, my friends, is the final straw. It wasn’t the controversial Crocs charms, the surprise daughter, or the headlights on his shoes. It was the text abbreviation, spoken aloud. That meaningless “BRB” is all I need to know. I can’t havea conversation with this guy, to say nothing of living a whole life with him.
“Derek,” I call in a rush.
He spins back around. “What?”
“I don’t think this is going to work out.”
He stomps back to our booth, the dim headlights on his shoes bouncing as they illuminate his path. He drops onto the bench across from me, red faced. “We haven’t even eaten yet.”
“I know.” I fiddle with my silverware. “I just don’t think—”
“I have a daughter. I'm a dad. She comes first. That’s nonnegotiable.” He looks me over, his eyes hard.
“It's not that you have a daughter—”
“Right.” His reddened face is pure contempt.
You know what? He deserves to know. “Honestly, it's the crap all over your shoes. The Hooters thing and the flag and theheadlights. You have headlights on your shoes, Derek.” Man, that felt good.
“I wear them on first dates so women understand that my kid always comes first.”
“Good,” I say. And I mean it.
His eyes tighten. “Your friend wasn’t kidding.”
“What?”
