Emma
“Black slacks. Green polo,” I said, turning my car’s engine off before checking my lipstick in the mirror.
After a long week of assisting Mr. Horace with his social studies class, this date with Tyler was my beacon in the night—giving me something to look forward to as the days dragged on. Not that I didn’t love history, but the professor was out for a week and had only left the poor substitute instructions to have the kids read a chapter a day and answer the question at the end.
Since I kept the lesson plans for each instructor on the primary server, it was easy to see how he ran the classroom and modify it slightly—just enough to keep the kids from acting out. The poor substitute had been grossly misinformed about the middle school class’s day-to-day activities.
I was tired and perhaps should have rescheduled with Tyler, and something about going out with him at seven o’clock on a Saturday night was a little too intimate for my liking. I needed to slowly dip my pinky toe into the world of online dating—and that involved meeting at a well-known restaurant for the early-bird special.
Call me extra cautious, nervous, or just plain paranoid; I’d never agree to some dive bar out in the middle of nowhere for our first meet-up. Tyler didn’t seem to mind that I shot down his first suggestion like a duck during hunting season and even said it was nice meeting someone who knew what she wanted.
Ha.That was a laugh. What did I want? If I knew, I wouldn’t be standing in the too-humid, late afternoon heat, plucking up the courage to walk inside.
Miller:Remember, he’s not as handsome as me, so feel free to fall in love and thank me later.
Me:Your ego knows no bounds.
Miller:Oh, sweetheart. You know exactly how big my ego is.
Miller:*GIF of suggestive eyebrows*
Me:*GIF of eye roll*
Miller:But seriously, Em. Text me when you get home or leave the place.
My heart did this weird little pitter-patter dance inside my chest as I stared at the words on my phone. What was I supposed to say?
Thank you for being a friend? Too Dorothy.
Thank you for being there for me? Too friendly.
So long, and thanks for all the orgasms? Too universally stupid.
“Terribly funny. Really witty,” I said to the space, gripping my phone. Why did it matter how I answered? I’d never been tongue-tied around him, always ready to go toe-to-toe on any topic. But now? Right this second? My mouth was dry, and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth like saltwater taffy. My ears buzzed, and pure adrenaline coursed through my veins—all because he did what every regular, caring friend would.
Right? Yes. Of course. Marietta and Rose had already texted saying the same thing, and Angelina mentioned it yesterday.
It was normal. So why, if it was expected, did I feel such a rush of pure, unfiltered joy?
That question was best left for another time, and I responded to Miller with a thumbs up before checking my reflection in the rearview one more time and heading inside.
The blast of air conditioning hit my overheated skin, and I sighed, taking two deep breaths before smiling at the host. My eyes tracked the people sitting at the bar, landing on Tyler, who was perched at the end. As if he could feel me staring, he turned around and waved. He grabbed his beer and approached me, smiling to show a dimple on either cheek.
He was good-looking and tall. Really tall. Like a basketball player, pine tree kind of tall. Not that my five-foot-four frame was anything to complain about, but this guy had to be six foot, six inches. At least.
“Emma?”
I nodded, holding out my hand to shake his. His palm engulfed mine, and he leaned forward, pressing a kiss to the back before stretching back to his full height and winking. His eyes were dark but kind, making him look mysterious and charming as my cheeks flushed, and I glanced at my sandals, noticing the huge sneakers he wore.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you officially, Emma,” he purred, smiling in a way that would highlight his dimples. “Would you like to have a drink at the bar before dinner?”
“Sure. Nice to meet you too, Tyler.”
He placed his hand in the middle of my back as we walked over, not attempting to move lower. Good. This date was already off to a pleasing start. Could it be this easy?
I tilted my head as we walked to the bar, clenching and releasing my hands. His fingers brushed mine, but I tugged mine away. The part of his hand I touched was damp, but I couldn’t let that discourage me. I was nervous, so perhaps he was as well, and his hand felt perfectly fine when we touched a minute ago.
Sure, there wasn’t some life-altering spark that made the universe align to let me see clearly for the first time in forever—but that was just a marketing tool used by companies to sell Valentine’s Day cards.
I was determined to keep an open mind. As we sat down and I ordered a glass of wine while he got another beer, the nervousness disappeared, and we faced one another.
“How was your day? You said you have a dog, right? What’s his name? Since we’d asked all the usual get-to-know-you questions, I figured I wouldn’t start the conversation with the ‘tell me about yourself’ cliche.”
I chuckled as I recapped my day, leaving out the salty parts, like having to write up a kid for having a vape pen in the bathroom.
He interrupted when I mentioned not stopping at home before meeting him, droning on about how annoying his assistant was because she insisted on dressing down for casual Friday. Not that I was talking about anything exciting, but that was annoying. Like he thought whatever he had to say was more important than what I did.
Don’t be petty. He had no way of knowing that was one of my pet peeves. Our conversations over the app were superficial questions like, “What is your dream date?” and, “Do you have any hobbies?” We stayed away from the deep stuff like, “What are your thoughts on children?” and, “Tell me about your political views.” Those were best left for after we had the initial meeting and found out if we could be in each other’s presence for more than an hour, right?
Should I have immediately gone for the throat and shared my deepest desires and biggest regrets? Would it have been better to get all that out in the open before meeting someone and having an instant attraction only to find out they chewed with their mouth open and insisted on their mother chaperoning all dates past seven o’clock?
I bit my bottom lip, no doubt ruining the carefully applied lipstick as he bitched, all but zoned out of the one-sided conversation. If this date didn’t improve soon, Miller was in for a stern dressing-down, especially when I caught the phrase not understanding her place from Tyler.
For as much as Miller and I pushed each other’s buttons, he wasn’t the type of person who interrupted someone. Bev raised those boys right.
Cut it out. You’re here with Tyler.Lawyer Tyler, who was buttoned up with a decent work ethic, not carefree and exasperating Miller.
Who, perhaps, came from a big family and always had to fight for attention. He wasn’t being rude on purpose, and I nodded, trying to stay attentive and make the appropriate gestures and noises when he raised his eyebrows, hoping he wouldn’t realize that I wasn’t paying attention.
“So, a dog?”
Ah. Remembering I was here after all.
Stop it.
“A cat, actually. My mother shows exotic shorthair, shaded and smoke, Persian purebreds. My cat, Minerva, is a Double-Grand Champion.”
“That is a mouthful. Her name is Minerva? Like the Goddess of Wisdom?”
“Exactly,” I answered. “Not many people know that.”
“I love Roman mythology.” He shrugged, smiling so both of his dimples showed, and his eyes sparkled in the brightly lit space. They reminded me of smoldering chunks of coal before turning into diamonds. Friendly—but with an undercurrent of danger. Could eyes be ferrety and smoldering? Was I overthinking?
The more appropriate question was, when was I not overthinking?
“Her full name is Minerva Cassiopeia of the Princess Diana Chunk. But obviously, that’s too much of a mouthful, and I doubt she’d respond to her full title, anyway. It’s funny, actually. One of my friends refuses to call her Minerva. He’s always making up these funny names instead.” I took a sip of wine, and Tyler adjusted on the bar stool before lifting his beer to his lips.
“Mom retired Minerva about five years ago, and she’s been mine ever since. I mean, she was always my cat. We got her when she was twelve weeks old. Her parents were two Supreme Grand Champion Persians and—”
“I’ve never been much of a cat person, honestly. They’re fine, but there’s just something about coming home to a dog wagging its tail, happy to see you. I want that. Don’t you? Someone to get excited when you come walking through the door. We had this cute little Jack Russell terrier growing up…”
I caught the words loyal, shedding, and rescue but zoned out again after that. What had Miller called her the other night? Goddess of fluffiness? I smiled into my wineglass as Tyler turned the conversation back again to his assistant. A pathetically petty part of me almost wished I’d chosen to wear jeans tonight.
Perhaps Tyler had some weird aversion to denim. I took in his slacks with perfectly pressed creases. Or maybe he was one of those formal guys who didn’t own sweatpants and slept in matching silk pajamas with a monogram on the breast pocket.
He spent his Sundays ironing his socks and matching his underwear with his suit choices for the week. That was a thing, right? Miller jokingly complained about how his business partner, Simon, refused to wear anything but black and had matching cufflinks for every suit.
Maybe Tyler was also like this in bed. All jerky, stuffy, stunted movements with his teeth leaving an indentation on his lips and interrupting your quest for orgasm so he could finish first. So what that his hair looked to be a perfect shade of dark roasted coffee, and I could see him on my arm to the required events for the Academy?
Was this what I had to look forward to if there was a second date? Long-winded conversations about how people annoyed him and then home for subpar sex? Would I be settling if I waited until we’d had three or four dates before deciding if we should go farther?
Ugh.I was not cut out for these questions. Why couldn’t I meet someone organically? Oh, yes. My father with a side of Headmaster Hopkirk and his social obligations.
A giant hourglass filled with purple gemstones that looked like tiny galaxies pushed itself into my thoughts. It would make a pretty picture if it wasn’t for the big sticks of dynamite rigged to the bottom of the glass. A blinking thirty showed in bright red numbers, and the gemstones moved from the top to the bottom in sync with the timer.
Oh, that was just perfect. A countdown until I turned the big three-zero—like there was some giant doomsday clock that would explode if I wasn’t married or something close by that big birthday. Was that the norm? What society dictated? What Headmaster Hopkirk wanted? My parents didn’t get married until well into their thirties and had me at forty. Then again, my younger sister got married when she was twenty-two, and they were so in love it made your teeth ache.
Why couldn’t I think about swinging in a hammock tied between two palm trees on a deserted beach somewhere? Or even how badly I needed to rearrange my sock drawer. Anything was better than thinking about my life imploding at thirty—or at the rate I was going, well before that number.
After half of my wine was gone and I was contemplating another glass, there was a lull in the one-sided conversation. I perked up when he mentioned leaving the office early to head to the club with his friends and use the gym.
Definitely not because I was a gym rat or anything—it was just a nice change of pace to talk about something I could contribute to. Extracurricular activities were a safe topic.
“Oh, agreed. I would rather go to the gym than be out in this heat. I took a Zumba class a few years ago and have been meaning to find something like that again. Do you do anything particular at the club? Maybe basketball? You certainly have the build for it,” I said, noticing his knees were no more than an inch or two away from brushing underneath the bar.
He sighed and rolled his eyes. Then sighed again—this petulant noise that bubbled up from his throat and sounded like a child on the verge of having a tantrum.
“Why would you say that, Emma?”
I tilted my head, replaying my response as he pursed his lips.
“Well?”
“I’m sorry. I’m confused. Did I say the wrong thing? I mean, I enjoyed the Zumba class, but don’t really like lifting weights. I guess it could help define my arms, but I’d rather move my entire body than do curls and such.”
His frown deepened, making my pulse increase and my palms sweat. “Isn’t getting to know each other what we’re supposed to be doing? Talking about our interests and the like?”
I shrugged, and he sighed again, sounding like a disappointed parent. My anxiousness amped to a thousand percent as he looked at me like I was something on the bottom of his shoe. “I mean, our talks have been nice over the app, but there is definitely something to be said for meeting in person and seeing if there is a spark. Wouldn’t you say?”
I chuckled, hoping it would lighten the moment—but it didn’t. Tyler was making things horribly uncomfortable, and I rubbed my hands on my legs, dispelling some of my nervous energy.
“Why would you assume that I played basketball, Emma?”
“Um. Because it’s something that’s offered at most clubs, right? I mean, my dad has taken up pickleball lately, but I honestly don’t understand what all the hype is about. You look like you’d excel at basketball. Maybe? Am I off base? Are you more of a racquetball kinda guy? Perhaps a runner?”
“No. I’m not a racquetball player, Emma.” He scrubbed his hand over his face and finished the rest of his beer. The bartender stepped in front of us, and before I could open my mouth to order another glass of wine, Tyler waved him off without a word. I drew my bottom lip between my teeth and watched as he walked to the register, managing to meet his eyes and shrug, trying to silently send an apology for Tyler’s abruptness.
It felt like I’d been running in hundred-degree heat while wearing a snowsuit and toboggan. A bead of sweat dripped between my shoulder blades and into my bra strap, the feeling mortifying in the air-conditioned space. I rolled out my shoulders and raised my eyebrows, ready to be done with this conversation.
“So, you do play basketball? Perhaps tennis? I’m not sure what’s happening right now, but I’m getting really uncomfortable.” I fanned my face, then lifted my curls from my shoulders, not caring that he could see my anxiety.
My eyeballs were itchy. Was that a thing? Anxiety so fierce it manifested as itchy eyeballs? If it weren’t for the real concern of spending the rest of this date with raccoon eyes from smeared mascara, I’d dig a knuckle into both sockets to dispel the feeling.
Maybe a little honesty would snap him out of whatever one-eighty had put him into this funk. He scrubbed his hands over his face and squinted.
“Do you know those pet peeves you have, Emma?”
Like interrupting?
I tilted my head and raised my brows, waiting for him to direct this conversation and just put me out of my misery.
“Well. I only have one, but it’s a big one. One that, as soon as I hear, my mood just evaporates.” He snapped his fingers and waved his hand, but I stayed silent.
“Can you guess what mine is?”
Not a freaking clue, weirdo.
“Nope.”
“Really? That’s a shame.” He bowed his head like he just lost out on a million-dollar lottery ticket, but I refused to play whatever game this was. He could tell me what gigantic faux-pas I made when he was ready—I wouldn’t beg for an explanation.
“Basketball, Emma.”
“Okay?” It wasn’t a question, but I phrased the word like I was asking one.
“My biggest pet peeve is people asking me if I play basketball because I’m tall.”
Ah. I did assume he played that sport.
“Yes. Well, one of mine is people interrupting me, but I didn’t point that out when you were so keen to tell me about your assistant and her aversion to business casual dress.”
I raised my brows, and his mouth tilted upward before he drew his bottom lip between his teeth and bit down. His lip turned white where his teeth were embedded in the sensitive flesh, and I stared, transfixed like I was watching myself have this conversation from a high vantage point above the bar.
Was he scolding me?
“Don’t make light of this. Please, Emma.” He patted the hand on my lap, almost like soothing a petulant child. “I’m being serious. Asking me if I play basketball is all but a dealbreaker.” He shook his head like the words caused him physical pain, and I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
A dealbreaker?
“A dealbreaker?” I parroted the words back to him and grasped my empty wineglass, willing it to refill. “What does that mean, exactly?”
After dragging one hand down his face, he reached into his pocket and withdrew his wallet, placing a ten on the bar. “This will cover my beers. Maybe your wine. It was nice meeting you, Emma, but you’ll do well to stop making assumptions. Enjoy your evening.”
I sat, speechless, with my mouth agape like a fish, processing what happened. The time it took me to get the bartender’s attention and pay the rest of the bill—the ten barely covered one of his double IPAs—was laughable. I moved at a glacial pace, my limbs tense and heavy, feeling like I worked out for hours without a break.
By the time I made it to the car, I was exhausted. Physically. Emotionally, and probably many other multi-syllable words ending in -ly. My brain didn’t have the energy for anything other than putting one foot in front of the other.
Was I in the wrong?
Was I careless in asking about basketball?
Is this entire endeavor pointless?
Those words. The cutting, biting insults I conjured about myself dug into my psyche, leaving me dull and aching in the warm summer night. My eyes stayed at my feet, focusing on the crunching gravel of the parking lot as I took measured footsteps toward my car. My mother would be appalled that my head wasn’t on a swivel, taking in my surroundings, and I could almost hear Miller’s voice reminding me to always keep my keys in my hand so I wouldn’t fumble for them in the dark.
I opened my car door—locking it immediately, Mom—and dug my phone from my clutch. I gripped it so tightly my knuckles turned white, but I needed their calming presence to drown out the pressure in my chest from the things he’d said.
Me:The date’s over.
Marietta:Will there be a second one?
Rose:Do we need to form a posse and kick his ass?
I huffed as this barely audible laugh slipped past my lips, and I turned the air conditioning higher, smiling at how willing the girls were to come to my defense.
Me:There will not be a second date.
Me:Apparently, I make assumptions, and it’s a dealbreaker.
Angelina:I don’t understand.
Me:Me either.
Rose:Yoga in the morning, then lunch at B’s Bar?
Marietta:Endorphins and carbs for the win. I’m in.
Angelina:Same.
Me:You had me at carbs. I’m going to need them before I try the app again.
Rose:We got you. See you tomorrow.
I tossed the phone on the seat beside me and laid my head back. It was too much to expect the first date to work out, but some part of me hoped it would. My stomach tensed as I put my car in reverse and headed home.
I got this.
Right?