Sixteen
Harper
I am standing in front of my wardrobe like a woman waiting for the firing squad.
There are at least twenty dresses crammed in there, all of them in violation of the laws of physics and, frankly, good taste.
Most of them still have the tags attached.
A few are in colours that don’t occur naturally outside of chemical spills.
All of them are courtesy of Liv, who after my separation decided that nothing says “thriving” like a capsule collection of party dresses named after states of emotional breakdown.
I thumb through them, my hand landing on something shimmery and pink. It’s not just a dress. It’s an admission of defeat.
I mutter, “How the hell do people do this?” and the only response is the small, faint sigh of a hanger giving up.
The last first date I went on was sixteen years ago.
It was a movie, we split a popcorn, and I spent the whole time hoping he’d get brave enough to hold my hand.
I wore jeans and a shirt that said “NASA.” Since then, my entire concept of romance has been defined by fictional men, fictional dialogue, and enough plot-driven contrivance to make anyone’s actual dating life feel like a high school fire drill.
Now I’m supposed to figure out what to wear to dinner with a man who already knows I’m a hot mess, has witnessed me cry, and whose only knowledge of my personality comes from one reckless night and a handful of conversations.
I skip the pink dress. Too optimistic. I pull a black one, Liv called it “day-to-night,” but on me it reads “mourning with a side of brunch.” I throw it on the bed, next to a half-rolled wrap dress and something navy that I swear multiplies when I’m not looking at it. The pile grows. My confidence does not.
I look at myself in the mirror, which is supposed to be flattering but instead captures every inch of panic in full HD. My hair is doing something I can only describe as “staging a coup.” My face has that shade of pale reserved for people who have recently Googled “can stress cause sudden death.”
I stand there for another full minute, frozen, until I decide to call for help. I pull up the group chat. The one that was supposed to be about supporting each other but now mostly exists for Luca to test the limits of emoji packs and for Liv to commit acts of meme warfare.
Harper: I can’t do this.
Liv: Yes you can.
Harper: No. I genuinely can’t.
Luca: Is the building on fire?
Harper: Worse.
Harper: I have a date.
There are three dots. Then, absolute chaos.
Liv: ??????????
Elsie: It will be amazing, I will come get Leo soon! ??????????
Luca: HOLY SHIT.
Luca: OUR GIRL IS GETTING LAID.
Harper: LUCA!!!
Luca: Sorry.
Luca: OUR GIRL IS GOING ON A LOVELY RESPECTFUL DATE.
I drop the phone onto the heap of dresses, stare up at the ceiling, and try to remember why they are my friends.
I haven’t even left the house yet and my armpits are sweating through a shirt I’m not even wearing tonight.
This is, without question, the worst idea I’ve had since my ill-fated attempt to do a juice cleanse during National Novel Writing Month.
The phone buzzes again, and I know if I don’t answer, they will escalate. Possibly by showing up. Possibly by live-tweeting my demise.
I pick up the phone and type, thumb moving before the rest of me catches up.
Harper: What if he regrets asking?
Harper: What if he only asked because of the baby?
Harper: What if I cry? Or throw up?
Harper: What if I accidentally talk about divorce lawyers over dinner?
Harper: What if I laugh too much? Or not enough?
Harper: What if he realizes I’m a complete disaster?
Six texts in under two minutes. A new record.
Liv: Babe. He already knows you’re a disaster. He still asked.
That brings me up short. I sit on the edge of the bed, phone in both hands, and just let that line reverberate. That makes sense I guess. But also, it’s slightly horrifying.
Elsie jumps in, soft as always.
Elsie: He has already seen you on your worst day. You’ve cried in front of him. Told him you’re pregnant. He still asked you on a date. Let him decide what he wants.
I look at the phone, the three of them lined up on my screen like my own private jury. Elsie, comforting, Liv, blunt, Luca, chaos.
Luca: Wear the red sparkly dress.
Harper: Absolutely not.
Luca: I wasn’t asking.
A photo arrives. It’s the dress. Laid out on my duvet, a vision in sequins. What The hell? How did he get this. When did he get this. I look sideways at my bed. As though the dress will be where it is in the photo. Nope, not there. Psycho’s, all of them!
Harper: Stop bullying me.
Luca: Never.
Liv: Worst case? It’s awkward. You get free food. You come home. You never speak of it again.
Harper: That... Actually helps.
Harper: What if this isn’t really about me? What if it’s just... obligation now because of the baby?
This time, there’s a longer silence. The kind that makes you want to turn off your phone or maybe leave the country.
Elsie: Harper.
Elsie: Alexander didn’t have to ask you out. He doesn’t seem like that kind of man. What could it hurt? Just give him a chance and if you are really worried, maybe ask him?
That’s… not an approach I’d considered. Just ask him. Damn near revolutionary concept that almost makes me snort. I stare at the phone. Then at the dresses on my bed.
Harper: Fine.
Harper: But if this goes wrong, I’m sending you all the therapy bills.
Luca: Send them to me. I’ll forward to the group.
I laugh and the tension in my shoulders drops a little.
I get up. I put the dress on. The sparkly one.
Right, defeat it is. I wipe off the first attempt at mascara, which looks like a small animal tried to tunnel through my face, and start again.
I put my hair up, then take it down, then remember that Liv once said a messy bun was “the universal signal for approachable but not desperate.” I opt for that.
In the mirror, I look like someone who is at least pretending to have a grip on her life.
I mutter, “You used to write first dates. Now you can’t even dress for one.”
But the voice doesn’t sound mean this time. Just tired. Maybe a little amused.
The phone buzzes. It’s a calendar notification. The dinner is in thirty minutes.
I look at the red dress, the sparkles dulled by bedroom light, and think of how utterly unlike me this whole thing is. Then I do something impulsive. I take a selfie, dress and all, and send it to the chat.
Harper: This is your fault.
Liv: ??
Elsie: STUNNING
Luca: If he doesn’t fall in love with you tonight, he’s got brain damage.
I laugh again. Which is, according to every self-help article I’ve ever hate-read, a sign that things might be turning around.
I’m fixing the last stray hairpin when the doorbell rings.
Leo beats me to the door, backpack already on, clutching a plush velociraptor in one hand.
He says, “Do you have snacks for my sleepover?” and I say, “Yes,” which is a lie, but I know Elsie will fix it.
He bounces in place, oblivious to my emotional breakdown, and bolts out as soon as I open the door.
Elsie stands outside as my mini tornado legs it to her car without so much as a “hello”. She looks at me, takes in the dress, and raises an eyebrow.
“Still thinking about cancelling?” she asks.
I nod in response. She smiles. “Good.”
I blink. “…Good?”
She shrugs, “The people worth falling for are usually terrifying.”
There’s nothing to say to that. She squeezes my hand, warm and sure, then turns towards her car.
“Now go have fun,” she says, with a wave.
I watch them drive away, Leo’s voice already lost to the noise. The street is quiet.
I close the door. Take a breath. Look at myself, one last time. I don’t look like someone who has it together. But I do look like someone who is going to show up, no matter what. And that has to count for something.
I grab my bag. I check my phone again. There are no new messages, but the last one from Luca still floats at the top of the screen:
If he doesn’t fall in love with you tonight, he’s got brain damage.
I shake my head, laughing.
And then, with no more excuses left, I go.
Vino’s is only two streets from my house, which I know because I checked the walking route six times in case I needed to abort mid-date and fake a house fire.
It’s the kind of Italian restaurant with hand-written menus on a chalkboard and candles stuck in old Chianti bottles, and the only thing more intoxicating than the smell of garlic is the very real sense that every person here is someone’s regular.
I hover outside for a full thirty seconds before going in. Not because I’m scared, but because I am pathologically incapable of being early to anything, and there is nothing worse than sitting alone at a table, the world’s most obvious abandoned date.
When I peer through the window, I spot Alexander.
He’s standing by the hostess podium, hands in his pockets, and he looks like someone who is comfortable in every room he’s ever entered.
Black shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows.
His hair is rumpled in a way that makes me want to run my hands through it, which is an appalling thought to have before I’ve even said hello.
I open the door. It’s a physical effort to step inside, as if the last ten feet are through glue. He turns, sees me, and every single muscle in my body goes rigid.
He smiles, a quiet, genuine smile, like seeing me is not just expected, but good.
He steps forward, says, “Hi,” and for a second the world is made up of nothing but his voice.
I reply, “Hi,” which is a shamefully poor response, but it’s all I’ve got.