Page 59 of King of the Crease

Itell myself I’m fine.

This is a lie I’ve been telling myself since approximately 6:12 a.m., when I woke up thinking about Nick’s mouth and immediately knocked my elbow into my nightstand.

Holy shit. Did last night actually happen? What if I accidentally Inceptioned myself, and I’m in a dream within a dream?

No. That couldn’t happen. Right?

Griffin texts me to make sure I’m still coming to the Elf’d Up bar crawl. I give him an enthusiastic thumbs-up emoji in response. I don’t tell him that I’m more excited for what will happen after the bar crawl. Nick, in my house, in my bed.

Unless he second guesses what he said last night. I’m used to having my hopes dashed. How many times have I chatted with someone on a dating app only for them to see me in person and suddenly need to bail on our date before dessert.

Last night could’ve been a fluke.

I text Nick to make sure he’s coming to the bar crawl. He texts back Yes. Can’t wait.

There was no exclamation point in his text. Should that be concerning?

Luckily, I have a busy morning of work before the event. I’m ripping out and replacing a water heater in a home renovation. It takes my mind off of Nick.

When I get done with work, I text him.

Hank: Did you want a ride to the bar crawl?

Nick: Yes. That would be great.

Again, no exclamation points. A warning sign?

When I get home, I do a quick clean around my house, wiping down bathroom counters, scrubbing the shower, vacuuming the living room, putting all of my dirty laundry in the hamper and spraying the whole thing with Febreze just to be safe. I zero in on places that Nick will see. I’m a jittery, nervous, excited mess. It’s kind of like my whole body is that one awkward boner in class. There’s a unique kind of nervous energy that comes from the anticipation of going on a date and possibly having sex.

Possibly.

I get myself showered and spritzed with cologne. I open my towel and look at my crotch. Is it jinxing myself to trim down there? I’ve heard that it makes things look bigger.

I trim. Better safe than sorry.

I set out a candle on the dresser. It’s vanilla scented. Is vanilla a sexy scent? Or will it just make us hungry?

And again, am I jinxing myself?

Typically, making the bed entails throwing the blanket on so that it covers most of the mattress. This time, I do freaking hospital corners. I tuck the sheets in so tight that you could bounce a quarter off them. I smooth out the comforter to erase any sign of wrinkles. My bed has never looked better. It belongs in a museum—or a hotel.

I dress in a red button-down shirt and jeans and comb my hair into submission. Typically, I’d wear an ugly Christmas sweater to something like this, but I want to look sexy. Nick seems too serious of a guy to wear an ugly sweater anyway. I check myself in the mirror before I leave, impressed at how nicely I clean up.

“You got this,” I whisper to myself.

Man, I really hope this works out. It will suck if Nick bails. He could get bored of me tonight and find another guy to go home with, a guy with main character energy. We haven’t known each other for long, but things feel different with him. We get each other. I have this buzz whenever I’m around him. I want Nick with my whole heart and body, but he could just as easily slip through my fingers like sand.

The funny best friend doesn’t ride off into the sunset with the guy.

I am a main character, I say to myself. Main characters do not get bailed on. They get what they want. Things go according to plan for them. Wacky misadventures are for side characters.

Fifteen minutes later, I pull up to Nick’s cousin’s house and realize that no, Nick is not too serious to don an ugly sweater. He wears a sweater vest embroidered with a cat wearing a Santa hat sipping hot cocoa. Jesus, Nick is the only guy who looks cuter in something so garish.

And now I’m regretting my sexy red shirt.

He carries a gym bag in one hand and waves to me with the other. My heart does a somersault. I haven’t felt this excited about a date since my first one with Cathy. I took her to Applebee’s. She wasn’t thrilled and let it be known. One of the many warning signs I missed.

“Where’s your sweater?” Nick asks.