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At least you’re still managing to do the one and only thing Evan asked you to do…
Yeah. Fuck. At least I’m still doing that.
Maybe: I appreciate that, but it’s not the help I need. This has nothing to do with business, Billionaireman.
Me: I’m not sexting with you again.
Good God, you idiot. I groan two seconds after I hit send and see my far-too-inappropriate words populate in our conversation.
Apparently, it seems I just can’t help my-fucking-self when it comes to her.
Maybe: HAHA very funny. Not that kind of help. I need advice for a date.
Me: A date?
She’s going on a date?
I nearly trip over my own fucking feet, and instantly, I tap the console on the treadmill several times until the speed slows down to a leisurely jog.
Maybe: I have a date tonight with someone I met on TapNext.
Me: Seriously?
Maybe: Why would I lie about something like that?
Me: When did you meet him?
Maybe: Yesterday.
Me: You’re going on a date with a guy you met online yesterday?
Maybe: Yes, Billionaireman. Keep up. Aren’t superheroes supposed to have unparalleled cunning, strength, and wit?
I scowl.
What in the ever-loving hell? Has she lost her mind?
Maybe going on a date with some random stranger sounds like the worst idea I’ve ever heard.
Me: Do you even know anything about this guy?
Maybe: I know his name is Jess. And, not gonna lie, I love the name Jess because of the Gilmore Girls. I’ve been 100% Team Jess since the instant he stepped foot in Stars Hollow.
I furrow my brow. Should I know these women?
Me: Who are the Gilmore Girls?
Maybe: YOU DON’T KNOW WHO THE GILMORE GIRLS ARE??
Me: Do they live in New York?
Maybe: Oh my God! I don’t have time to get into all things Gilmore Girls with you, but one day, I will enlighten you. Right now, this date is my priority, and I have no idea what I should wear. Help. Me.
Me: You mean your date with a potential serial killer is your priority.
Maybe: He’s not a serial killer!
Me: How do you know? You’ve only known him for 24 hours via a dating app. He could be a serial killer…or at the very least, a catfish.
Maybe: Pretty sure the length of time you know someone doesn’t help deduce whether or not they’re a serial killer. I mean, Jeffrey Dahmer’s family knew him his whole life, and they had no clue. Ted Bundy’s wife didn’t know either.
I sigh. Always the sassy smartass…
Me: And that reasoning is supposed to be reassuring how?
Maybe: Don’t rain on my date parade, Milo. Just help me. Tell me what is appropriate first-date attire.
Me: Pretty sure you’re supposed to consult girlfriends for this kind of advice.
Maybe: But I don’t want a woman’s advice. I need a man’s advice. I’m sending you three options. Be honest. And flipping stop thinking about serial killers and tell me which outfit is the best choice.
Thirty seconds later, three photos upload inside our conversation.
Hesitantly, I open the first one.
It’s Maybe standing in front of her bedroom mirror with a pile of clothes sitting on her bed and several shoes strewn across the floor behind her. Her long brown locks are tossed up into a messy bun, and an uncertain smile shapes her full pink lips. Her body is clad in a little black dress, and nude stilettos cover her petite feet.
She looks good. Too good.
Option one is not the right choice.
Option two is more of the same. A short, floral summer dress that rests a little too high on her thighs, and the pale pink heels on her feet only add to the elongation of her toned legs.
Nope. Not that one either.
The last and final photo is more laid-back and the clear best option of the three. Jeans, a little white blouse that shows just a slight hint of her lower stomach, and a pair of flats.
I waste no time at all in giving her my choice.
Me: The jeans but with a different shirt.
Maybe: What? Why? I thought the white blouse was cute. It’s fun and flirty.
Me: It shows too much.
Maybe: You’re nuts! It doesn’t show anything. Maybe I should just wear one of the dresses.
No. Way.
With the things I’m thinking about doing to her in those dresses, I can only imagine what some low-life catfish will be thinking about doing.
Me: No. Definitely the jeans.
Maybe: Fine. Jeans it is. But I’m sticking with the blouse. Thanks for the advice!
I should end the conversation, but I literally can’t. The phone is attached to my hand permanently now and will forever be a part of my body. At least until she’s home from the date, that is.
Me: When is he picking you up?
Maybe: I’m meeting him at a restaurant in Greenwich Village.
I almost chastise the bastard for not picking her up for the date, but then I realize it’s a good fucking thing he isn’t going to see where she lives.
