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CHAPTERONE
Samantha
I stand outside the restaurant, wondering if the people walking by realize how embarrassed I am. My cheeks feel like they’re burning. Realistically, are random passersby going to stop, look at me, and think,Oh, that woman seems embarrassed?I’m not even sure I should be embarrassed, honestly. I was ten minutes early. A light rain has started to fall, but I dread going inside again to find an empty table.
When I walked into the restaurant and told them my date’s name, the woman frowned in this kind of pitying way. Or maybe it’s just my pessimism twisting her features into a pitying shape. Either way, I panicked, mumbled that I’d forgotten something, and ran out here.
It’s my first date. I didn’t want to do it, but my friend Lexi encouraged me to give it a try. I’m twenty, and I’ve never been on a date before. I’ve never felt the urge, and it’s not like I’ve had men knocking down my door. I’ve always been okay with that. I live a life of isolation with my canvas and my imagination, listening to music or sometimes playing chess.
I look at my phone. It’s almost been fifteen minutes now. I’m not sure how long to wait. We don’t have each other’s numbers. Lexi wanted it to be a blind date. She said, probably correctly, that I’d spend too much time researching him online if I knew his name beforehand. I’d scour the internet to diffuse the anxiety, trying to prepare myself mentally.
God, I sound pathetic. I shouldn’t have to prepare myself mentally for a date. It’s something women do every single day all over the world. It’s natural. The rain starts to pick up. I wedge myself closer to the wall, getting some shelter, but occasionally, the wind blows a haze of rain into my face.
“Samantha?” a man says.
I look up. I hope my reaction doesn’t show on my face. It’s not that he’s ugly or anything like that. He’s over six feet, built lean, wearing a well-fitting suit with dark hair stylishly slicked to one side. He doesn’t have acne or any other reason for this feeling inside of me orlackof feeling. If anything, he’s probably out of my league, but there’s no attraction on my part. I’m starting to wonder if I’m asexual.
“Yes,” I say after a way-too-long pause. “James?”
He smiles in a cocky way, stepping forward with a short bow. “At your service.”
I almost snap that hewasn’tat my service for the fifteen minutes he left me standing in the rain. I wait for him to apologize or at least address it somehow. Lateness is so annoying, but I get it. Life happens, but it’ssuperannoying when somebody’s late, and they don’t even feel the need to comment on it.
“Shall we go inside?” he says, looking at me as if to say,Why are you waiting out here anyway?
If Lexi were in my position, she’d comment on his lateness. She wouldn’t let him smooth over it as though nothing happened.
“Sure,” I reply, feeling weak,beingweak.
He tries to place his hand on my back as we head for the door. I subtly, but very purposefully, take a small step sideways. There’s no reason to be touching when we’ve just met, especially after the lateness. Maybe that makes me a prude. I don’t give a damn.
He swaggers over to the hostess’s desk. He doesn’t look at her when he speaks, talking like an entitled trust fund kid. I only know a little about him. He and Lexi went to the same martial arts gym as teenagers. Their families were friends. His mom died a few years ago, but that’s all I know.
“Yes, that’s right,” he says condescendingly. “A table for two.”
He’s speaking as though the hostess is slow.
“Right this way,” she says, a woman a few years older than me with a blond ponytail tied tightly. She gives me a look; no words are needed. She’s calling James a douche. I think I agree, but what option do I have? Run from the restaurant right now and sprint for freedom?
James pulls out my seat. He brushes his hand against my arm and shuffles it into the place. He’s being so touchy-feely. Maybe this is normal on dates.
Sitting opposite me, he grins. “Shall we get something to drink? Some wine, maybe?”
“I’m twenty,” I tell him.
He laughs like I’ve just said the funniest thing in the world. When he sees I’m serious, he narrows his eyes. “Don’t be a dork, Samantha.”
I cringe. There’s no freaking way I’m letting him pressure me into drinking. “I’m not in the mood for alcohol, anyway.”
“On a date?” he says, still with a subtly pressuring tone. “When’s the better time for a drink? Or don’t you drink?”
“I drink occasionally,” I tell him, “but honestly, I’m not into party culture.”
“Are you religious or something?”
“Not really,” I say. “I just… I don’t like not being in control. I don’t like all the stuff that comes with party culture.”
“Stuff like what?” he says, pressing the issue.
