“I can't
tonight. I have a date,” I blurt out, remembering David. The dating app. The
asshole who isn't an asshole.
Yet. I
haven't met him, so that judgment remains withheld.
“A date?”
Will asks, intrigued.
“Yes. A
date. You know, that thing where you go out with someone who has no intention
of really getting to know you and you spend the entire time eating bread that
doesn’t taste as good as your date claims and trying to decide whether to
initiate rescue-text sequences with your mom.”
“That’s
your idea of a date?”
“That is my
actual experience of every date I’ve had since college.”
“You’re
dating the wrong guys.” He holds my gaze for just a little too long. I look
away.
“I have to
keep fishing in the pond if I ever want to catch a different one.”
“If that’s
the way you talk to your dates, I am beginning to understand why they all turn
out so badly.”
“Hey!”
“What?”
“Don’t
accuse me of being a bad date. I’m a great date! I Google the guy in advance
and read his LinkedIn profile. I make sure I don’t wear super-tall heels in
case he lied about his height on his dating profile. I pretend to care about
all his hobbies and don’t reveal that I’m secretly tallying all the
micro-aggressions he’s sending my way during appetizers and wine. And if he
makes it to dessert, well–” I falter.
“You never make
it to dessert, do you?” Will asks, eyebrows up. He drops them quickly, wincing.
“I–well–it’s
not that I don’t. He doesn’t!”
“He ditches
you?”
“No! No!
It’s just that he always has a thing.”
“A thing?”
“A work
emergency. Or a dog with a twisted bowel. Or a grandma in the ER.”
“How many
guys used the twisted-canine-intestine thing?”
“Three.” I
sit down and sag against his teenage desk, elbows sliding forward, fingers deep
in my hair. “I looked it up. There’s an entire subreddit devoted to inventive
ways to get out of a bad date.”
“And yet
here you are.” He leans against the edge of his desk. “Trying again.”
“I’m a
masochist.”
His eyes
gleam. “Maybe you should start your dates with that line. ‘Hi. I’m Mallory
Monahan. I’m a masochist.’ You’d definitely make it to dessert.”
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