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I take a drink of coffee before grabbing the bag. In his now-familiar handwriting, I see his message written across the front of the bag. To the best first date ever.
Smiling like a loon, I reach into the bag and pull out the still-warm, fresh cinnamon swirl bagel and container of strawberry cream cheese. Oh, this man is dangerous. He’s quickly worming his way into the deep, dark recesses of my heart. A place no man has ever gone before.
And I think I like it.
* * *
“Hello?”
“What do I wear on a first date when I don’t want to appear easy?” I ask in one big rushed breath of air.
“As opposed to all of your other first dates where you wanted to appear easy?” my sister Meghan quips through the phone line.
“Yes.”
“Well, where are you going?” she asks logically.
“I don’t know.”
“What do you know?”
“I know he’ll be here in like two hours,” I groan, taking in the mess. My bedroom looks like my closet exploded, raining every article of clothing I own all over the room.
“Okay, well, this one’s a little tricky since you have two wardrobes. School teacher AJ and party AJ.”
“Exactly.” I feel so defeated. “I have my clothes that I wear to work, which doesn’t scream sophisticated with a touch of fun and flirty. Or I have my weekend attire, which is all belly shirts and shorty shorts. I’m so screwed.”
“Well, not yet, but if you play your cards right I’m willing to bet that stallion baseball player is more than willing to do the job for you.”
“Not tonight,” I tell her. “He said no sex on the first date.”
Silence follows my statement. “Did you say no sex?” she whispers as if saying the words out loud is a huge sin.
“Yeah, he said he wanted to do this right. Maybe a goodnight kiss at the end of the night, but no nookie.”
“Ohhhh, you are so in trouble with this one, AJ.”
“Tell me about it. Now what the hell am I supposed to wear? Three quarters of my clothes are too school-teacher-y so those are out. I want to wear something worthy of a date with a former pro ball player, who, according to Google, was married to a freaking Victoria’s Secret model.”
“You didn’t know that?”
“I didn’t read the articles, Meg. I was too busy staring at the pictures.”
She snorts a laugh. “You sound like Grandma. Does it bother you that he was married?”
“Married? No, because it’s over. And I’m not talking over like it was with that Joe guy. This guy is at least divorced, which makes him already several steps ahead of Joe the Schmoe.”
Just thinking about my brief time with Joe Crabtree raises my blood pressure. Joe lived a few towns over and was often in Jupiter Bay for “work.” And apparently, work meant “affair.” We met pumping gas and before I knew it, I found myself back at his hotel room, tangled up in his sheets. We stayed up all night talking, him telling me all about leaving his wife and filing for divorce.
After a few weeks of him driving over and meeting up at my place, I got the call. From his wife. Who was five months pregnant with their third child.
There was no work in Jupiter Bay, no leaving his wife, no divorce.
He was a cheater, a user, and a liar.
And I had fallen for it, hook, line, and sinker.
That was the last time I had ever invited a man to my house. There have been a few following the Joe mess, but we’d never meet at my place. It was always his, which might be why the thought of Sawyer picking me up tonight for a real date makes me so anxious. Normally, I’d meet the guy at the restaurant or bar.
