Chapter Five
Violet
"I've made a terrible mistake," I announce, staring at my laptop screen in growing horror.
"What kind of mistake?" Sage asks from her bed, where she's been highlighting her psychology textbook like a caffeinated fiend.
"Jason said he would pick the restaurant," I say weakly.
"That's... normal behavior for a first date. Polite, even."
"But I don't know where we're going, Sage. I have no data. No way to prepare appropriately."
Sage slowly sets down her highlighter. "Violet, it's dinner. You eat food. You talk. It's not a military operation."
"I have been sitting here for two hours trying to reverse-engineer what restaurant Jason might choose based on his personality profile and his probable budget as a college student." I continue, gesturing helplessly at my screen.
“Violet… you need to relax.”
"I have seventeen browser tabs open," I continue, clicking through them frantically. "I've researched every restaurant within a five-mile radius of campus."
"You did?"
"I may have spent forty-five minutes scrolling through his social media trying to identify food preferences."
Sage's eyes widen. "Please tell me you didn't like any old photos."
"I didn't like anything!" I protest. "I'm not a complete amateur. But I did discover that he posted a picture of pizza in 2022, tagged three different coffee shops last semester, and apparently went to some place called Bella Vista for his teammate's birthday last month."
"So you think he's taking you to Bella Vista?"
"No, that's the problem!" I wail, clicking to yet another tab. "Bella Vista is way too expensive for a college student. But he might think he needs to impress me, so he might stretch his budget, or maybe he has more money than I assumed, or maybe his parents are helping, or maybe—"
"Violet," Sage interrupts, "breathe."
"I can't breathe! I don't know if I should dress for casual pizza or fancy Italian or something in between!"
"Oh honey," Sage says, closing her textbook and moving to sit on my desk chair. "You've gone full Violet on this date."
"Full Violet" is our roommate code for when my need to systematically analyze everything spirals completely out of control. It usually happens before major exams or when I have to do something without sufficient preparation time.
"I can't help it," I say miserably. "I like him, Sage. Like, really like him. And I want everything to go well. Jason could be taking me literally anywhere, and I won't know how to behave appropriately."
"Okay," Sage says, turning my laptop around so she can see the full extent of my research catastrophe. "Let's think about this logically."
"I tried thinking about it logically. That's how I ended up scrolling on Yelp.”
"No, I mean actually logically. What do you know about Jason as a person?"
"Based on my social media analysis—"
"No," she interrupts firmly. "What do you know about Jason from actually talking to him?"
I consider this question, trying to focus on real interactions instead of digital detective work. "He's thoughtful. He asks good questions about engineering instead of just pretending to be interested. And he's funny, but not in a mean way."
"Right. So does that sound like someone who's going to take you somewhere inappropriate or expect you to be someone you're not?"
"Well... no," I admit reluctantly.
"Does that sound like someone who's going to judge you for not knowing which fork to use or not having perfect dinner conversation?"
"Probably not."
"And does that sound like someone who asked you out because he wants to spend time with the real Violet, or because he wants to spend time with whoever you think you need to be?"
The real Violet. The one Jason met during the Great Puck Disaster, not the one who's spent two hours trying to psychologically profile him through Instagram posts.
"The real Violet," I say quietly.
"Exactly. So maybe—and I'm just throwing this out there—you could try being that person instead of trying to prepare for every possible contingency."
She has a point, but my laptop is still open to seventeen tabs of restaurant research taunting me with their incomplete analysis.
"But what if he takes me somewhere I've never been?" I ask. "What if I order the wrong thing or don't know how to pronounce something on the menu?"
"Then you'll ask him what's good, or you'll point to something instead of pronouncing it, or you'll order something simple," Sage says matter-of-factly. "None of these things are relationship-ending catastrophes, Vi."
"You're right," I say, reaching for my laptop. "I'm going to close all of this."
"How does that feel?"
"Terrifying," I admit. "But also kind of exciting? Like, maybe not knowing exactly what to expect could be... fun?"
"Revolutionary thinking from someone who usually plans her grocery shopping routes."
"Hey, that saves twelve minutes per trip!"
"I know, and I respect the dedication. But maybe tonight you can try to put it on pause."
As I look at the clock and realize Jason will be here in less than an hour, I feel a flutter of actual anticipation instead of just research-driven anxiety.
"Okay," I say, standing up and surveying my closet. "No more analysis. Time to get ready for a date."
"Now that," Sage says, grinning, "sounds like the Violet that Jason actually asked out."
I open my closet and immediately freeze.
"Oh no," I whisper, staring at the array of clothing like it's personally betrayed me.
"What's wrong now?" Sage asks, looking up from her textbook with the weary expression of someone who's witnessed multiple Violet crises.
"I don't know what any of these clothes mean," I say, grabbing a sweater and holding it up. "Like, what message does burgundy send? Is burgundy casual-but-trying or trying-too-hard-to-look-casual?"
"It's... burgundy?" Sage suggests helpfully.
"No, no, no," I mutter, tossing the sweater onto my bed and grabbing a black dress. "Everything has subtext, Sage. This dress says 'I think this is a fancy date,' but what if he's taking me to a sports bar? Then I look overdressed."
I throw the dress on top of the sweater and dive back into my closet.
"Okay, jeans," I say, pulling out three different pairs. "Jeans are safe, right? Except these are too casual—" I hold up my everyday jeans "—and these are too dark and might look like I'm trying to make my legs look good, which sends the wrong message—"
"What wrong message?" Sage interrupts. "That you have legs?"
"—and these have a rip in the knee, which is either stylish or like I don't own proper clothing." I stare at the ripped jeans with growing panic. "Why do I own jeans with holes in them? What was I thinking?"
"You were thinking they looked cute and were on sale," Sage says patiently.
I abandon the jeans and grab a blue sweater, then immediately put it back. "Too matchy with my eyes. He already mentioned my eyes. I don't want to look like I'm emphasizing them on purpose."
"Heaven forbid you emphasize your attractive features," Sage mutters.
"This one's too tight," I say, rejecting a brown sweater without even trying it on.
"This one's too loose. This one makes me look like I raided my grandmother's closet, which is not the vibe I'm going for unless Jason has a thing for vintage, which, based on my social media analysis, seems unlikely but not impossible—"
"Violet."
"—and this one has that stain from when I spilled coffee on it last semester, and even though I got most of it out, there's still a faint mark that might be visible under restaurant lighting depending on the establishment's illumination choices—"
"VIOLET."
I stop mid-ramble and turn to look at Sage, who's staring at me with a mixture of horror and fascination.
"You've been talking to your closet for five minutes," she informs me.
I look around and realize I've created what appears to be a textile tornado. There are clothes scattered across my bed, hanging off my desk chair, and somehow draped over my lamp. I'm currently holding four different sweaters, and I have no memory of how they got in my hands.
"This is fine," I say unconvincingly. "This is totally normal pre-date behavior."
"This is the opposite of normal," Sage says, setting down her textbook entirely. "This is like watching someone have a philosophical crisis about cotton blends."
"Cotton blends are important!" I protest, shaking one of the sweaters at her.
"This is sixty percent cotton, forty percent polyester, which means it's breathable but also wrinkle-resistant, which could be perfect for a dinner date, but it might also look cheap compared to this one, which is one hundred percent wool but might be too warm if the restaurant runs hot, and I don't know their HVAC specifications—"
"Oh my God," Sage breathes, "you're applying engineering principles to sweater selection."
I pause, sweaters still clutched in my hands, and realize she's absolutely right. "I'm analyzing textile composition for optimal body temperature," I admit weakly.
“This is like watching someone have a breakdown in real time." Sage says.
I look around at the chaos I've created and feel a laugh bubbling up that's part hysteria, part genuine amusement at my own ridiculousness.
"I'm talking to clothes like they can answer me," I say, finally laughing. "I just asked a sweater about its breathability quotient."
"You also told that dress it was being presumptuous," Sage adds helpfully.
"And I accused my jeans of having unclear intentions!"
We both start laughing, and I sink down onto my bed among the scattered clothing, still clutching the sweaters.
"This is insane," I say, wiping tears from my eyes. "I'm a mechanical engineering major. I can calculate load-bearing capacities and design efficient systems, but I cannot choose an outfit without having an existential crisis."
"To be fair," Sage says, "you're not usually emotionally invested in the outcome of your engineering calculations."
"True. I've never worried that a bridge might judge my mathematical approach."
"Exactly. But you like Jason, so your brain is treating this like a high-stakes problem that requires maximum optimization."
I look down at the sweaters in my hands. "What if I just wear all of them? Layer for versatility?"
"Then you'll look like you're preparing for an arctic expedition, not a dinner date."
"But I'll be ready for any temperature scenario!"
Sage gets up and walks over to my closet, stepping carefully around the clothing carnage. She surveys my remaining options with the methodical approach of someone defusing a bomb.
"Here," she says, pulling out a soft gray sweater I'd completely overlooked. "This one."
"But what does gray mean?" I ask automatically.
"It means it looks good on you, it's comfortable, and it goes with everything. Sometimes the optimal solution is the simple one."
I take the gray sweater from her and realize she's right. It's soft, flattering, and completely uncomplicated. No subtext, no hidden messages, no engineering analysis required.
"And these jeans," she continues, grabbing my dark wash pair. "Not because they make your legs look good—though they do—but because they're your favorite and you feel confident in them."
I look at the combination she's chosen and feel something relax in my chest. It's an outfit that looks like me, just a slightly more put-together version.
"What about the fact that I don't know where we're going?" I ask.
"What about it? This works for coffee shops, casual restaurants, fancy restaurants, sports bars, or that weird place downtown that serves food in mason jars. It's universally appropriate."
"Universally appropriate," I repeat, testing the phrase. "I like that. It's like... engineering for social situations."
"Exactly. Now get dressed before you start analyzing the thread count of your underwear."
As I change into the outfit Sage selected, I catch sight of myself in the mirror and realize that sometimes the best solution really is the simplest one. I look like myself—just ready for whatever the evening might bring.
"Better?" I ask, showing Sage the final result.
"Much better. You look like Violet, not like someone cosplaying as a person going on a date."
I look around at the disaster zone my room has become and start laughing again. "I should probably clean this up before Jason gets here."
"Definitely. You don't want him to think you keep your living space in a state of permanent chaos."
"As opposed to the carefully organized chaos I usually maintain?"
"Exactly. There's a difference between systematic mess and apocalyptic mess."
As we work together to restore order to my room, I realize I'm actually excited about tonight. Not anxious-excited or overthinking-excited, but genuinely, happily excited to spend time with Jason. Even if I still have no idea where we're going.