“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 aftera 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.
Ever since we broke up, I’ve worried about Jeremy showing up here. There was a lot I didn’t know about him, but there’s one thing I do know: he doesn’t let things go easily. Sooner or later, perhaps on some drunken night, he’ll knock on my door. It’s just who he is. Jeremy fixates on the things he can’t have. And that now includes me.
Whether he’s looking for forgiveness or a second chance, I’m prepared to give him nothing but a stern warning that I’m calling the police. He already stole all of our furniture (which, by the way, I would have been happy to split equitably) and damaged my belongings. I don’t need more proof that Jeremy is no longer the great guy I met in college.
Clutching my phone in my hand, I make my way into the living room. My thumb is already hovering over the screen, ready to dial 9-1-1 as I squint out the peep hole in my door.