Chapter 13 Margot
Margot
Ethan and I both have dates on Wednesday night.
The guy that Ethan chose for me on Sip asked me out to dinner after a few messages back and forth.
When I told Ethan about it, he asked the woman I chose for him out on the same night.
He called it an act of solidarity, but I’m pretty sure he just didn’t want to waste a weekend date on a woman he isn’t interested in sleeping with.
On Wednesday night, I meet my date at a fancy steakhouse downtown.
When I first see Nick in person, my jaw drops.
Literally drops. The photo on Sip doesn’t do him justice.
He’s absolutely gorgeous. And apparently, I’m not the first woman to react this way.
He laughs it off and greets me with a quick side hug.
I use the short walk from the hostess stand to our table to reflect upon my mistakes.
This outfit, for one. It’s the same one I wore the night that Jeremy and I broke up.
It’s the nicest date outfit that I own, but it’s no match for the navy slacks and crisp white button-down shirt that Nick is wearing.
His clothing looks tailored and expensive, while mine looks…
well, like a dress and a pair of shoes that have spent the last three years crammed into the nether regions of my closet, slowly going out of style.
When we take a seat at our table, I fidget with my dress like my palms can magically smooth away the cheap fabric or outdated style.
“Nervous?” Nick asks, flashing a charming smile over the top of his menu.
“A little.”
He sets his menu down, focusing all of his attention on me. “You mentioned a recent breakup in one of your messages. Is this the first date you’ve been on since then?”
“Sort of…” I say. “I went out with someone last weekend, but it only lasted about five minutes.”
Then I fell asleep next to my boss.
Nick takes a sip of his water and cringes. “That bad, huh?”
“The date started with him yelling at me for wearing closed toe shoes.”
“Ah, foot fetish guy,” he says with a nod and a smirk.
“Do you… know him?”
Nick laughs. “No, but I’ve heard stories. Once you’ve been on Sip long enough, you realize it’s a pretty small world. A few women that I’ve been out with have mentioned a guy who insists that all his dates wear sandals. I’m assuming it’s the same guy.”
Well, that’s depressing. Like a big game of round robin where there are no winners, and the consolation prize is a venereal disease.
If my last date is known as the foot fetish guy, what is Nick known for? And what about Ethan? What would his claim to fame be on this app? If I stay on Sip long enough, what will mine be? The quiet girl who always wears the same boring black dress? There are worse things, I suppose.
Things like spending years on a dating app with nothing to show for it except an unflattering nickname.
The sudden urge to spring out of my chair and impulsively adopt every cat at the local shelter, thus sealing my fate as a single spinster, wells up inside of me.
Nick’s done nothing wrong, but my inner skeptic is attacking every hopeful, romantic part of my brain.
Ultimately, my incessant politeness wins the battle but loses the war.
I sit across from my ridiculously attractive date, trying my hardest to smile through the skepticism.
For every charming smile or well-rehearsed anecdote that Nick offers, I wonder how many women have been in this exact seat before me.
How many of them laughed at this same story?
Sipped this same wine? Went home with him at the end of the night?
Why am I here now instead of any of them?
He’s obviously been on a lot of dates, so why hasn’t he found anyone?
It’s obvious, at least to me, that we’re poorly matched in almost every way.
Nick is more attractive than me, more successful than me, and from what I can tell, way wealthier than I am.
He’s basically Ethan, but instead of being the CEO of a chain of outdoor recreation stores, he’s the VP at a mortgage company.
Much like Ethan, he’s objectively a great catch.
So, why is he still single?
A previous conversation with Ethan echoes in my brain. Does that mean we matched? I asked him after he found my profile. No, it just means you’re a new user in the Denver area under the age of forty-five.
Something tells me I fall into the same category for Nick.
He’s still single because he wants to be.
I’m here because I’m someone new. Someone he hasn’t already slept with. A new user in the Denver area under the age of forty-five—or whatever arbitrary age range Nick decided on when he signed up for the dating app.
There’s nothing inherently wrong with any of this. I’m open to the idea of a one-night stand, maybe even with Nick. He probably knows what he’s doing, and I’d probably have a decent time.
This is the part where I get inside my own head, imagining scenarios that haven’t happened and likely never will.
Scenarios where I am terrible at sex, and the only partner I’ve ever had failed to mention it.
Scenarios where Nick is an axe murderer and this meal will be my last. I don’t even like steak that much; I just didn’t want the salmon.
“Everything okay?” Nick asks, pulling me away from my thoughts.
“Yeah.” I mean for it to sound cheery, but it comes out sounding forced and sort of insane.
“You’re being very quiet. Did I say something wrong?”
“No, not at all,” I assure him. Truth be told, I have no idea if he said anything wrong because I’ve been too distracted by my own thoughts to keep up with the conversation. “I’m just… shy.”
I regret the word as soon as it leaves my mouth. It sounds idiotic and childish, even if it’s true. Note to self: find another way to explain my awkwardness to potential dates in the future. It’s not the first time someone has pointed out how quiet I am, and it certainly won’t be the last.
Nick flashes a patient, understanding smile at me and says, “I get that.”
Doubtful.
As if the eloquent, charming man in front of me has ever struggled to find the right thing to say.
For the last half of our date, I try to be more engaged and present.
It’s not always easy for me to get out of my own head when I’m around new people, but Nick makes an effort to ask me questions about myself and lead the conversation.
I appreciate it—I really do—but all the kind words in the world couldn’t bring me out of my shell in the span of a single date.
Then comes the part I’m dreading the most: the end of the night.
Nick holds the door for me as we leave the restaurant.
His fingers lightly brush the small of my back as I pass through the doorway.
When we reach my car, I turn to face him and thank him for dinner.
That’s when I know, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that Nick has done this all before.
His eyes dip to the ground, his hand coming up to cup the back of his neck.
When he lifts his eyes to mine again, there’s a little spark in them.
It’s meant to make me feel special, like he’s never done this before, like he’s trying to come up with the right words to say.
But they’re already on the tip of his tongue.
“Do you want to come back to my place?”
Again, there’s nothing wrong with anything he’s doing.
When I agreed to this date, I knew that Nick was more experienced than me.
It was obvious. And there’s even something sweet about the way he tries to make me feel like I’m special, like I might be the first woman he’s ever invited over after the first date.
More than anything though, it feels ridiculous and contrived.
Sure, I might have decent rebound sex with Nick, but I’m not sure if that’s what I need right now.
“I, um… I’m not sure if I’m ready for that yet,” I say, trying to let him down as gently as possible.
He surprises me with a genuine, reassuring smile. He probably knew my answer before I did.
“That’s okay,” he says gently. “If you ever change your mind, you have my number.”
Translation: there won’t be a second date, but we can still have sex at some point if you want. I might not be an expert at dating yet, but I know this just by the tone of his voice and the look on his face.
Nick leans down and gives me a sweet but chaste peck on the cheek.
One sad, lonely butterfly hobbles to life in my stomach with all the grace of a grizzly bear stumbling out of a cave after a long hibernation.
It isn’t enough to change my mind though.
After wishing me a good night, Nick watches me get into my car and gives me a quick wave as I pull out of the parking lot.
When I arrive back at my apartment, I text Ethan to let him know that I’m home safe then throw my phone down on my bed. After a long shower, I check for a response, but there are no new messages.
Maybe Ethan is faring better than I did on his date.
I wonder if he’ll kiss her goodnight.
I wonder if it will be anything like our almost-kiss last weekend.
Most of all, I wonder why I’m wondering these things.
After our talk on Monday, I told myself to forget about what happened. I’m sure Ethan has. After all, he probably averages more first kisses in one month than I’ve had in my entire life. I’d be fooling myself to think that it was special in any way other than possibly doubling as an HR violation.
I shouldn’t care if he kisses someone else. I shouldn’t even care if he’s fucking her right now.
But that lone little butterfly in my stomach burrows a deeper, shying away from the thought. I can feel it fluttering helplessly there as I crawl into bed. I check my phone one last time, but there’s still no reply, so I shut off the lights and try to force myself to fall asleep.
A sharp knock on my door pulls me back to consciousness just as I’m drifting off. My heart thumps against my sternum and my brain jumps to one conclusion: Jeremy.