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Unless she decides to take him home…
Me: Are you planning on bringing him back to your place for a nightcap?
A nightcap? For fuck’s sake, I sound like my dad.
Maybe: A nightcap? LOL. If you’re asking me if I’m planning on some kind of first-date hookup, I don’t know. I guess I’ll just see how the night goes.
Oh God. I do not like that response.
Me: Just be safe, okay?
Maybe: You got it, dude.
Two seconds later, a Michelle Tanner GIF with a thumbs-up populates under her message.
Maybe: And you be safe too.
I furrow my brow. What is she talking about?
Me: Safe doing what?
Maybe: I don’t know. I figured you probably have a big night out planned with one of your “friendly” lady friends.
I’m equal parts amused and terrified at where this conversation could lead.
Me: Here we go again.
Maybe: HA. I could have said fuck buddies, but I was trying to be cognizant of your delicate sensibilities.
Me: Smartass.
Maybe: So, you DO have a “this is not a date” date tonight?
Four minutes ago, I had nothing going on. Paperwork, Netflix, and a bottle of scotch to smother the inappropriate fantasies about my best friend’s sister. But now that she’s going out, I can’t stay home. I’ll lose my fucking mind.
Me: I have dinner with a friend, yes.
Maybe: A friendly lady friend.
Me: I can confirm it is a woman.
Maybe: A fuck buddy.
A laugh bubbles up from my lungs. I knew she could only hold that in for so long.
Me: Jesus.
Maybe: LOL. All right, I’m going to go get ready for my date. I hope you have fun on your non-date date tonight.
Me: Thanks. I really hope your TapNext date isn’t a serial killer, but I’ll make sure Bruce creates a nice arrangement for the funeral if he is.
Maybe: LOL. Very funny. Goodbye, Milo!
When our conversation comes to an end, I feel…uncomfortable.
She’s twenty-four years old. She should be going on dates. She should be putting herself out there.
This is a good thing for her.
It just doesn’t feel good for me.
Truthfully, it doesn’t feel so good at all.
Now I have to figure out something to do.
After scrolling quickly through my contacts, I text Senna Flick, a friend who’s been a casual monthly fling for the last two years. Where I’m busy running Fuse, she’s busy traveling around the world doing marketing for a wealthy media conglomerate that owns two major television networks and produces movies on the side for a popular online streaming website. Getting together has always been uncomplicated and mutually beneficial.
No-strings-attached sex and sufficiently intelligent company.
Tonight, as a whole, feels different, but the text exchange is simple, just as it always is.
Me: Dinner tonight?
Senna: I’ll be ready at 8.
I sigh when I read the text but do the nice, gentlemanly thing and type out a response.
Me: See you then.
Senna: Can’t wait. ;)
I sigh again.
The woman is the same, the game is the same—it’s all the same.
So why does it feel so different?
Maybe
Is that him?
Oh, never mind, that guy is wearing a uniform. Pretty sure no one would schedule a date during their flipping shift.
Or wait…is that him?
Unless he didn’t offer up the information that he has a wife and a baby who he’s bringing to dinner with him, that’s probably not the right guy.
While sitting at the bar of the restaurant, I’ve been playing the “which guy is my date?” game for the past fifteen minutes, and I honestly can’t remember what he’s supposed to look like anymore.
This is exactly what you get for arriving twenty minutes before the date is supposed to start.
Definitely one of those times where fashionably late is the way to go, Maybe.
I pull my phone out of my purse and discreetly bring up the TapNext app and proceed to study Jess’s profile picture.
Okay. Just remember…Blond hair. Brown eyes. Fairly broad shoulders.
I memorize the basics of his attributes like I’ll be tested on them later.
You can do this. You can and will remember what your date looks like.
I slip my phone back into my purse just as the bartender steps up and asks me if I would like another glass of wine.
I glance down at my now-empty glass and immediately shake my head.
Considering I guzzled that thing down in a matter of five minutes and I hardly ever drink alcohol, another serving will pretty much guarantee I’m a slurring, rambling hot mess during my date.
“No thank you,” I say, conscious of self-preservation and safety. The bartender nods his head in understanding and moves to the other end of the bar to wait on a new customer.
Another few minutes go by like one of those time continuum movies, where a second feels like a year, so when I glance at the door and see a blond-haired man striding in, I immediately stand to my feet.
That’s him. I’m sure of it.
He stands at the hostess counter, most likely letting her know he’s looking for someone—me—so I decide to make it easy on everyone and walk straight up to him.
