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“Hi,” I say, and he looks up to meet my eyes.
“Hello.”
Shit…now what?
Do we shake hands? Or do we hug? Or do I curtsy?
Jesus…don’t curtsy.
Impulsively, I go with the hug, stepping forward and wrapping my arms around his shoulders. “It’s so great to finally meet you in person,” I say, and I note that he just barely hugs me back.
“Uh…”
Shit. Did I just infringe on his personal boundaries?
Is hugging during the first-date introduction a big hell no?
God, why am I so awkward at these things?
Desperate to smooth it over, I search for something else to say.
“You’re even more handsome than on your dating profile.”
“Your what?” a female voice behind him shouts, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.
“Uh…” The guy looks back and forth between us. “Wait…no…”
“You have a fucking dating profile?” the woman asks, her voice practically shaking with the need to kick his ass.
“Wait…no… I don’t know…” His blue eyes go wide.
Ah, shit.
His blue eyes.
Not, as my study guide failed to help me remember, brown. Sure, I remember now, but that doesn’t do this guy’s balls a whole lot of good. Seriously. If the vein in this woman’s forehead is any indication, she’s about to go Jackie Chan on them any second.
“What in the hell is going on?” his wife, I’m now figuring out by the giant rock on her finger, asks.
“Honey, just calm down for a second,” the man—a man who is most definitely not Jess—says. “I don’t know this woman. I have never seen her before in my life!”
“She sure seems to know you!”
“Oh God,” I mutter, a quivering hand coming up to cover my mouth. “I am so, so, so sorry. I thought you were my date. But you’re not.”
“No,” he says in a firm, extremely pissed-off voice. “I am not your date.”
“He’s not my date,” I repeat myself, but this time, I meet his wife’s eyes. “He’s not my date.”
She glares.
“I’m so sorry. He looks like my date, but he’s not my date.” I look at Not-Jess again. “You’re not my date.”
The man shakes his head. “I’m definitely not your date.”
“My date’s name is Jess, and your name isn’t Jess.”
“My name is Tom,” he says with conviction to female Jackie Chan—like his wife doesn’t know what his fucking name is.
“How about we go on down to the courthouse?” she yells. “Get Peeping added in front of it.”
Oh. God. This shit’s gone severely sideways.
“Again, I’m so sorry,” I apologize and jet. I really don’t have any interest in waiting around to tell them how to spell my name for the irreconcilable reason on their divorce papers.
I hightail it away from the hostess stand and push through the doors of the women’s restroom. Once I’ve safely locked myself inside one of the stalls, I pull my phone out of my purse and call Lena.
She answers on the second ring.
“Hey, girl.”
Already worked up from nearly breaking up a marriage, I skip the pleasantries altogether.
“Holy shit, I’m on a date and I just went up to the wrong guy and hugged him and he is here with his wife and fucking hell why am I so awkward, Lena? Seriously, I think I might have just inadvertently caused trust issues in someone’s marriage. I can’t believe I just—”
“Take a breath, girl.” She cuts me off on a laugh. “You’re literally talking a million miles a minute.”
I inhale a deep breath. “Sorry. It’s just that shit went down out there by the hostess stand.”
“Okay, so what happened, exactly?”
I explain it to her again, but this time much slower, and by the end of my story, she is laughing her ass off.
“Lena! It’s not that funny!”
“Oh, but it is,” she retorts. “It’s hilarious, Maybe.”
“God help me.” A groan jumps from my lungs. “I should never be allowed out of my apartment.”
“It’s going to be fine,” she reassures. “And anyway, you need to remember that it doesn’t matter how this date actually goes. What matters is if Milo knows you’re on a date. You can be a total hot mess on this date, and it doesn’t matter.”
The realization is liberating. “Okay, you’re right.”
“I know,” she says with her signature confidence. “So, does Milo know you’re on a date?”
“He knows. I asked him for help picking out my outfit.”
Lena doesn’t respond right away, and it makes me freak out a little.
“Wait…oh God…is that bad? Did I screw up Phase 3 of the plan?”
“Honey.” She laughs. “You’re a damn genius. Making him pick out your outfit for a date with another man? Jesus Christ, I hope you sent him pictures in lingerie.”
A laugh of relief leaves my lips. “Not quite, but I did sample a couple of cleavage-boosting dresses.”
“Brilliant.”
I smile. “So now what do I do?”
“Go back into the restaurant and try to find your date. This time, don’t start hugging and schmoozing and shit until you’re sure it’s him.”
