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I pace the kitchen at a speed walker’s stride, almost slipping on the hardwood floor. It would make too much sense to have little grippers on the bottom of these damn slippers.

I hurry over to the couch and sit down, randomly noticing the furniture doesn’t move beneath my weight. How odd. As I swing my legs onto the thrifted piece, I lean to my right and reach for my iPhone in the hidden side pocket of these obscenely comfy leggings.

Lyr: “What are the odds you don’t show up?”

Attie: “Zero.”

Lyr: “Don’t lie.”

Attie: “I’m a lot of things, Lyr, but what I’m not is a liar.”

Lyr: “How do I know that?”

I watch as he types and deletes a few dozen times. He’s just as bad as I am. I wonder if he also needs to proofread his thoughts before he hits send.

Attie: “Give me the chance to prove to you that I mean what I say and say what I mean. I will be picking you up for our date.”

I’m gonna die… again. This man makes my pussy pulse at his words. Trustworthy men are so attractive and incredibly hard to find. I can’t help but be wary… and horny. I stare down at my phone, probably longer than I should, when I realize I don’t have time to think about what’s wrong with me. Needing to answer quickly, I start typing before he thinks I’ve ghosted him.

Lyr: “This is the first and only time I’ll ever be okay with someone proving me wrong.”

Attie: “And it won’t be the last. See you at two.”

I’m going on a date. I’m still trying to wrap my head around that. Jake and I were together for five years and, not once, did he ask me to go out; let alone take me anywhere.

Because I can't possibly get dressed without knowing where I'm going or what I'm doing, I have no idea what to wear. I toss clothes around my already messy room as I look for the perfect outfit. I decide on a romper disguised as a babydoll dress. Bingo.

It’s black. Most of my wardrobe is. The romper is covered in floral lace and satin strings. The ‘dress’ comes just below my butt and falls around me like a weeping willow in spring.

Under other circumstances, I could never own something like this, but I’m a thrifting queen. Thrifting has been the cheapest and most productive way of saving clothing from going into landfills, and me, adjacent.

After slipping into my romper, I sit on the cold black folding chair in the corner of the room because I have no desk. I use the mirror from my eyeshadow palette out of my makeup bag on the floor to assist me. I pump my primer into my hand and rub it between my palms before smearing it on my face and patting it in. I look different today. Happy? Hopeful? I’m not sure, but the feeling is disagreeable.

And that makes sense. Being pessimistic has helped me cope. If I automatically think of the worst possible outcome, then I’ve prepared myself and the blow doesn’t hit as hard. If the worst-case scenario doesn’t happen, then I feel like I’ve lucked out.

I apply my makeup in brisk and gentle strokes. Layers of color embellish my face, and my eyes pop with the creamy light pink eyeliner that enhances my bottom waterline. I set my face with powders and sprays that consume the airy space in front of me.

When I’m done applying my war paint, because that’s what it feels like—every day I live in fight-or-flight mode as I charge into a battle with myself that I will never win—I end up on hands and knees, crawling around my floor for the shoes I need for this outfit. No other pair is acceptable or an adequate substitute.

I can feel myself getting worked up as I struggle to find them. Before the tears hit my cheeks, Dee rushes through the door with my worn-down, low top Chuck’s. These shoes are scuffed and faded. Thank God for Goodwill, my favorite thrift store, and the person who got rid of these shoes.

Dee is the only one who knows how to navigate these situations with my neuro-spicy brain. They appear small and insignificant to pretty much everyone but her and me. I’m lucky enough to be surrounded by someone who takes the time to understand me.

“Thank you.”

“You know I’ve got you.” She winks.

I watch as she holds a battered sneaker out for me, and I slip my sweaty foot in. She does it again, and I can’t help but think about how everyone should have a “Dee” in their lives. She doesn’t comment on my hobbit feet.

Once she leaves the room, I resume getting ready. I give myself waterfall curls and admire my work in the eyeshadow palette mirror. I apply my spiced lip liner and nude lipstick before I leave the apartment. I’m excited and nervous, and all I can think about is how I can bring up my thrifted outfit that I only paid fifteen bucks for.

I’m not expecting to collide with Atticus as soon as I walk outside, but my made-up face smooshes into his thick chest and then bounces off, leaving me stunned.

“Hey!” he yells, surprised.

He grabs my wrists and gently lifts them up to the center of his chest, my fingers wiggling feverishly near his collarbone. When I finally look up, I’m captured by a sea of blue, and I immediately feel the urge to succumb to being his prisoner. I notice the way his eyes shift with his mood. Today they remind me of the water. I’ve always found the most peace and quiet there, and his eyes—they can have me if he’ll let me drown in them.

“Sorry!” I squeak. Of course our date would start this way. He’s still holding on to me, and this gives me time to skim over his body, but first I draw in a sharp breath of his cologne–whiskey. He smells like home.