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He tried ordering for me again, scowling when I insisted on picking my own meal. When the poor server asked him to repeat something, he snapped at her, “I shouldn’thaveto repeat myself.”
So I knew right away this date was going to be a flop. But I’m determined to get through it, primarily so I can tell Thea I did it. That I tried.
Sean has been in the bathroom for a while—which gave me the opportunity to rush to the bar and beg the bartender to make something to replace this nasty martini. “I don’t want to insult my date’s choice,” I explained to the bartender. “Maybe you could make something that looks like it, but doesn’t taste so…”
The bartender leaned towards me, his brown eyes twinkling. “I get it.” And he mixed up something with sugar water and lime and citrus vodka that looks just like the Spanish martini without the awful taste.
Now I’m waiting for Sean to come back from the bathroom, swirling my swizzle stick in my drink, and staring at my watch wondering how long this date will reasonably last for. We ordered the food ten minutes ago, so another ten to get it, then fifteen to eat, ten minutes to get the bill and pay—
“The facilities here are really subpar.” Sean flops into his chair, frowning. “Not even an attendant. And they claim this place isnice.“ He takes a swig of his drink and eyes my half-full glass. “Don’t you like it?”
“Oh, yes.” Even though I don’t like this man, my mother would smack me if I wasn’t polite. “It’s really good.”
Sean’s expression brightens, and he reaches his glass out to me. “Cheers, then.” He winks. “Let loose a little. It looks like you could use it.”
Ugh. How long until this date is over?
Ifeelterrible.
My head is throbbing, heavy drum beats making me dizzy.
Nausea is rushing over me in waves. My stomach churns, bile rising in my throat.
It’s like my worst hangover in college. Except I know I wasn’t playing beer pong until four AM. Or taking shots of Jagermeister because my roommate dared me to.
How much alcohol was in that drink?
I focus on my stomach, commanding it to stop rebelling. I focus the echoing of my pulse in my head, on slowing down the spinning. I assess my body, testing my arms and legs. Everything feels heavy, it’s hard to move, but nothing feels broken.
The fog around me is gradually clearing.
Am I home? How did I get here? Did I take an Uber? Did Sean drive me? I didn’t drive myself home like this,did I?
AmI home? This doesn’t feel right.
It’s pitch black. I’m on something scratchy and hard. What I thought was dizziness isn’t. Something ismoving.
I roll over and hit something. Something hard. Then I try to sit up and smash my head.
Oh God.
All the scattered details coalesce into a horrifying realization.
I’m in a trunk. In a car. And I’m moving.
Terror rises up so quickly I’m breathless with it.I’m in the trunk of a car.With who? Sean? Someone else? Where am I going?
I open my eyes and it’s still black and air is whistling through my tightening chest. Panic is suffocating me.
Shit. I need to do something. Not lay here helplessly, gasping for air, until whoever took me gets to their destination.
I bite my lip hard enough to draw blood, the coppery taste filling my mouth. But it helps me to focus. Think. Observe.What do I know right now?
Carefully moving this time, I feel around the inside of the trunk. Nothing. No purse, no phone. But I can move. I’m not tied up.
Patting the interior of the trunk again, I remind myself to breathe. “Think,” I whisper to myself, the sound oddly comforting. “There has to be a way—”
The trunk release. When I bought my last car, I noticed it in the trunk, and the salesman said all cars are required to have them. “Ever since 2002,” he said. “All cars are required by law. So if you ever get stuck in one…”
