Chapter 10
“I definitely don’t have to worry about it being a date date,” I tell Sandy.
I peek at the cat-shaped clock hanging on the wall, its tail swinging with every second that passes.
Have I really been here for half an hour already?
That feels impossible. I can’t recall if Sandy’s said much of anything yet.
“It’s obviously not a date if he’s bringing his roommate.
And he knows my friends will be there,” I reassure myself.
“I don’t think y—”
“But do people even say ‘It’s a date’ anymore unless it’s actually a date?” I ask. I try to remember the last time I heard someone use the expression before Finn today, but I come up short, and my eyes go wide. “It might be a date date, Sandy.”
Barabara the cat purrs in my lap as I stroke her fur, and I feel a little guilty that I’m really just using her to wipe away the sweat from my palms.
“I don’t think you have anything to worry about here, Phoebe,” Sandy says.
“It sounds like tonight will be a casual get-together and a perfect opportunity for you to hang out with Finn outside of work in a low-stakes environment.” I nod, eager to believe her.
“In fact,” she starts, “I can’t imagine a more perfect situation.
You can really make tonight whatever you want it to be. ”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I mean”—Sandy scoots to the front of her chair, inching closer to me as if she’s about to let me in on a delicious piece of gossip—“you can spend the night talking to Finn, getting to know him better, or you can pass him off to one of your friends. You could even stick him in another booth with his roommate and ignore him.”
I take a second to go through each of those scenarios in my head, mentally weighing the pros and cons of every option.
“The choice is yours, Phoebe. You have all the control.”
I have all the control.
A thousand-pound weight lifts off my shoulders when she says that. “But I want you to think about what it is that you want, and how there are choices you can make and things you can do that will help you get there, and things that won’t.”
I immediately think of the list that’s resting at my feet in my bag.
“That reminds me,” I tell her, reaching down to grab it from my bag.
“Oh, great!” Sandy exclaims as she claps her hands together, her gold and silver mismatched bangles jingling. She’s expecting me to pull out the list of my accomplishments, but hopefully she’ll like this even better.
I hold the laminated paper out in front of Sandy and watch her expression shift from excitement to confusion while she processes the list in front of her.
“I reworked your assignment,” I tell her. “It’s a checklist of tasks. The more of them I do, the higher my chances are of having sex.”
She takes her time with each bullet point. The silence in the room while she reads is deafening.
When I finally can’t take it anymore, I ask, “Well?”
“I worry, Phoebe,” she starts, and I feel the disappointment seeping into my every pore, “that you’re putting too much pressure on yourself.”
I blink. I will not cry again.
“I’m so tired of feeling stuck, Sandy.”
She of all people should know that.
“I have to push myself out of my comfort zone. That’s what this list is about. I’m doing it scared.”
I’m suddenly overcome by an acute awareness that I may be the only woman my age who requires a laminated checklist to talk to a man, and for the first time since I had the idea to make it, I feel a sense of deep shame.
But a list has never failed me before, and it won’t now.
I swallow any lingering feelings of embarrassment, and channel them into the frustration I’m feeling toward Sandy. “I thought you’d be excited that I’m finally putting myself out there. These are all choices that can get me closer to what I want. Like you just said.”
“I am definitely excited by the idea of you putting yourself out there,” she responds.
“I think the list is great, Phoebe. I love the idea of you using it as a way to try things that are out of your comfort zone. But what if you left it at that? Some big moments, like losing your virginity, or falling in love for the first time, are meant to happen without a deadline. Everyone moves at their own pace, on their own timeline. I’m worried that using this list as a means to an end might put more pressure on a situation that’s already stressful for you. ”
I reach over and take the list from Sandy. The list is a sacred text, and if she doesn’t appreciate it, I don’t want her looking at it anymore. I don’t even want to talk about it with her anymore.
“Unless you’re about to be thirty, in which case, it’s time for a laminated list and a hard deadline.”
Sandy follows my gaze to the cat clock, and before she can ask if she’ll see me before the wedding, I beat her to it.
“I’ll see you next week, after the wedding.” I can’t believe it’s already coming up this weekend.
“Fabulous!” She claps. “I can’t wait to hear all about it.
” Barbara follows at my feet while Sandy walks me to the door.
“Good luck tonight,” she says as I make my way out of her office and into the hallway.
“And remember, you are in control. You know exactly what you want, and I have faith that you’ll do what it takes to get it. ”
She looks me in the eye with an intensity I haven’t seen from her before.
“Now go get it, Phoebe.”
She closes the door.
—
“Finn will be here in twenty minutes,” I say casually while standing at the head of our booth, too wired to sit down in the empty space next to Jonathan. I didn’t text the group earlier because I knew they’d get overexcited, and I didn’t want to make it a big deal.
Because it’s not a big deal.
Because it’s not a date.
Everyone starts talking at the same time, and I can make out a few whats and hows and maybe one holy shit from Alex.
“He’s coming here?” Jonathan looks concerned.
“It’s not a big deal,” I tell them, because the more I say it out loud, the more I start to believe it. “He lives close by and has always wanted to come here. And he’s bringing his roommate. It’s casual.”
“And you’re fine with all of this?” Nora asks, her eyes tracking my movements as I pace back and forth in front of the table.
I reach over and grab Jonathan’s wrist to check his watch. Seventeen minutes.
“I’m completely fine.”
I walk to the other side of the table and pick up Alex’s beer, knowingly breaking my “no drinks on a school night” rule. “You don’t mind, do you?”
I knock back the remainder of his drink, hand the empty bottle back to him, and resume pacing.
“You seem completely fine, which is great.” Meg passes me her drink without me asking.
“Thank you,” I tell her after I finish her tequila soda in two gulps. “I’ll get you another one.” I shove my hand into the empty cup and grab the remaining ice cubes, letting them melt in my hands.
Alex tugs at my arm. “How about you sit down for a se—”
“I don’t need to sit down,” I announce, and it comes out sharper than I intended. “This is nothing but a casual get-together and a perfect opportunity for me to hang out with Finn outside of work in a low-stakes environment.”
Sandy’s words bring me a small sense of comfort, despite my being frustrated with her right now.
With a deep crease between his brows, Jonathan asks, “Phoebe, why didn’t you tell us this was happening?” He grabs my hips and plants me down firmly next to him in the booth.
“Because it’s so not a big deal that it wasn’t even worth saying anything,” I say while grabbing his wrist again. Nine minutes. “We need to spread out.” I gesture to the empty booth right behind ours. “There’s not enough room at our table for two more. Jonathan, I need you over here with me.”
Nora shoots up from her seat in the corner of her booth, her shiny curls bouncing in unison with her boobs.
“I can come over there, too!” she says.
“Nora”—I look her dead in the eye and hold her gaze—“I need you to stay exactly where you are.” She huffs as she plops back down, and I guide Jonathan to his new spot in the empty booth. Alex wraps an arm around Nora’s shoulders in consolation.
“Phoebe, I’m not sure I’m the best wingman,” Jonathan says while picking at his cuticles. “Alex should take my spot. He’s good at this kind of stuff.”
“Jonathan…” I grab his hands and look up into his worried eyes. “I need you.”
He responds with a quick nod and takes his seat in our new booth. And we wait.
—
It’s seven o’clock, I’ve melted more than ten ice cubes in my palms, and Finn’s still not here. “Maybe he thought you meant next week, Pheebs,” Jonathan suggests with a sympathetic shrug.
“No,” I sigh. “It was clear we were talking about tonight. He’s not coming.”
I kick myself under the table for being disappointed over Finn not showing up, when less than an hour ago, it’s what I was secretly hoping for.
Jonathan drapes a reassuring arm across my shoulders, and the musky smell of his cologne gives me a brief respite from my anxious thoughts. I lean into him.
“I don’t like this,” he says while brushing his thumb up and down my shoulder, his eyes fixed on the door. “I don’t like him for you.”
I squint, angling my eyes up toward his. “You’re acting weird.”
It usually takes a few drinks and endless encouragement for Jonathan, the sweetest guy in the world, to say something negative about someone.
“I’m fine,” he answers too quickly. “I don’t like seeing you upset, that’s all.”
My dad once told me that if you want to keep someone talking, all you need to do is stare at them intensely while saying absolutely nothing. The idea is that it makes them uncomfortable enough to want to fill the silence. So I sit up, scooch back, and stare.
I stare straight into his green eyes and don’t blink until finally, right when my eyes start to water, he breaks. “It just makes me nervous how much you like him; it seems like you’re setting yourself up to be disappointed.”
“Why are you so sure I’ll be disappointed?” I ask.
“It’s not that I’m sure…” he starts.