by Max Monroe
Holy shit, what is he doing?
Is he trying to kiss me? Before we’ve even eaten?!
My instincts make me jump away from him, and his eyes go wide as he glances between my face and his hand that is now resting on the top of my chair, which he has kindly pulled out for me.
Oh Lawd, Ava. You’re a lunatic.
“Uh…thank you, kind sir.” Kind sir? What the hell was that? I awkwardly clear my throat and try to distract him from my weirdness by abruptly taking his free hand into mine and shaking it like I’m doing those rope things at the gym.
Hell’s bells, the goal isn’t to break his freaking fingers!
I drop his hand like it’s a literal hot potato and try to smooth it over by saying, “It’s very nice to meet you.”
He’s nice enough to smile like my bumbling is cute rather than embarrassing as all hell, but man, I’m not exactly batting a thousand here.
My heart flutters in my chest like a hummingbird as I try to get myself together. I feel light-headed and maybe even a little bit dizzy and beyond desperate to reverse all of it by redeeming myself.
Unfortunately, the redemption and overcompensation wires get crossed in my head, and the next thing I know, I’m curling my body downward and offering him a regal curtsy. Yes, a curtsy. Like, I’ve just been introduced to Prince William and the Queen of England.
FML.
Brian blinks a few times, his ability to ignore my mental breakdown weakening by the moment.
With nothing else to do, I fall into my chair gracelessly. As much as it would make things easier, I guess it’s still a good thing there’s no bed of spikes on the surface of it.
Brian gathers himself and sits back down in the seat across from mine, and I take a deep breath to try to reset myself.
A cute male waiter in a black bow tie and pressed white shirt chooses the absolute perfect time to serve as a distraction and steps up to our table. He sets a black leather menu down in front of each of us. “Good evening. My name is Anthony, and I’ll be taking care of you tonight. Can I interest you in a bottle of wine?”
“Wine would be great,” Brian answers and peruses the list. After a minute of browsing, he scrunches up his nose in what I can only assume is disappointment. “Do you happen to have a red that’s older than a 2015?” he asks—well, scoffs. But I try my best not to judge him for it. He just sat through a full slapstick comedy routine without walking out on me.
“Actually, we do not,” Anthony responds with a neutral smile. “But we do have a white that’s from 2007.”
Brian sighs and looks at me with a tilt of his head. “Would you mind the 2007 Sauvignon Blanc, Ava? If we want to actually enjoy our wine, it’s probably our best bet tonight.”
I almost open my mouth to tell him that I don’t like wine and to remind him that Britney Spears’s shaved head and her MTV Music Awards performance made it pretty damn clear that 2007 was a bad year, but I quickly remind myself that this is a first date and I need to be on my best behavior.
“Actually, I think I’ll just start with a glass of lemonade,” I hedge. “I don’t really drink much anyway, and it’s fine if the lemonade is from this year. Actually, I’d prefer it.”
I giggle a little at my joke and expect a similar chuckle from Brian, but signs of a sense of humor never come.
Damn, tough crowd.
Our server Anthony, on the other hand, smirks down at me in amusement.
“So, you don’t want any wine?” Brian asks for clarification, and I shake my head.
“No thank you.”
“Well, if I would’ve known you didn’t drink at all, I would’ve focused on the bourbons. That’s my preferred drink anyway.” Brian sighs again and glances down at the menu. Eventually, though, after my date finds a grandpa bourbon that’s old enough to make him happy, he gives Anthony his drink order, and then, our food orders.
No joke. Our food orders. Apparently, I want linguine tonight.
I didn’t know that, but I guess Brian has made some sort of telepathic arrangement with my stomach. It takes everything inside me to bite my tongue and let it go. Honestly, he’s lucky I actually do like linguine.
Man, this guy isn’t quite meeting my expectations thus far. It’s almost like Luke was right about him.
No. I shake my head. Just give him a chance, Ava. Maybe he’s super nervous or something?
First dates are really hard, and everyone deserves the benefit of the doubt.
Good God, what time is it?
“Ava, you’ll never believe the kind of times my boat has been able to clock on the water since I upgraded her sails.” Brian smiles proudly.
Evidently, it’s half-past hell.
Hindsight is truly 20/20.
If I could take a time machine back to the moments before I left my apartment to meet Brian on this date, I would do it, and I would barricade myself inside the damn thing.
All of my linguine is gone, I’ve had more than enough free bread from the center of the table, and I am desperate for some respite. Brian, it seems, has some of the same chromosomal qualities as my mom when it comes to maintaining a conversation without any help at all.
For the past forty minutes, my date has rambled on and on about his boat, named The Brianna.
Brian-na, a weird, female variation of his name.
And that’s just the tip of the iceberg.
The Brianna, according to the way he speaks about it, is not an inanimate object, but a legitimate person.
I actually thought he was talking about his sister or his mom for the first ten minutes, but when he started saying things like “her dinghy” and “her sails,” I realized I had severely misjudged the conversation.
I search the room for excuses and come up with a break to the bathroom as my best option.
“That’s so great.” I force a fake smile to my lips. “But if you don’t mind,” I add and set my napkin on the table. “I’m going to excuse myself to the ladies’ room.”
Brian nods and swirls his bourbon around his glass for the one-millionth time. “When you get back, I’ll tell you about the time I took my boat out to Catalina. It was wild.”
“Fantastic.” I grit my teeth in the form of a fake smile and don’t waste any more time. Instantly, I hop out of my chair and haul ass into the privacy of the restaurant’s bathroom.
Good Lord, if I have to sit through coffee and dessert and listen to him ramble on about that fucking sailboat any longer, I’ll die. Face first, right into some tiramisu, I’ll kick the boredom bucket.
In the name of survival, I must end this date and do it soon.
With a quick, fortifying look in the mirror, I finish up in the bathroom and wash my hands. I hitch one hip against the counter, pull my cell phone out of my purse, and open up my ongoing text conversation with Luke.
My fingers hover over the screen, seconds away from typing out a Save me! message, but then I remember he’s probably the last person I want to text about this horrible date. This situation, right here, would only prove he was right about online dating.
In the name of not hearing “I told you so,” I open up my group chat with Desi and Claire instead.
Me: Mayday! Mayday! I’m on the date from hell, and I need one of you to call me with an emergency so I can leave before I die during dessert.
When no one responds, I send another one.
Me: Hello????? This is an emergency, you guys! I need timely responses!
And over the next five or so minutes, I keep demon texting them in the same fashion.
Me: Desi! Claire! Answer your damn phones!
Me: You guys are shitty friends. The worst. Literally.
Me: I mean, what good are friends if they can’t bail you out of a horrible first date with a pretend emergency?????
Me: P.S. I wouldn’t even be on this stupid date if it weren’t for you betches and your dumb ideas!!!
Time is not on my side, and unless I want my date to think the linguine has given me a su
dden bout of diarrhea, I need to get back out there, into the sailboat-conversation trenches.
Son of a dinghy.
On a sigh, I slide my cell phone back into my purse, inhale a deep, cavernous breath, and slap a fake smile on my face as I step back out of my bathroom and head toward The Brianna’s biggest fan.
“Everything okay?” Brian asks as I slip into my chair. It’s not a strange question. I’ve been gone for at least fifteen minutes. He probably thinks I was in the throes of some very serious gastrointestinal distress in there.
“Mm-hm,” I answer with a nod, spreading my napkin out across my lap like I’m throwing a rose on my coffin.
This is it. This is my funeral.
“I guess it’s time to decide on dessert, huh?” He smiles at me as he grabs the dessert menu off the edge of the table and peruses it. “I know exactly what we’ll have,” he adds after a quiet minute and places the menu back down on the table.
We’ll.
Again. What is with this guy and ordering for me?
What if I have fucking food allergies and his dessert choice sends me into anaphylactic shock?
I mean, I don’t. I’m actually miraculously devoid of allergies of any kind, but Brian could be moments away from involuntary manslaughter if I were a different woman, for shit’s sake.
What am I still doing here?
Jesus, Ava. Just end the date if you don’t want to be here anymore. You can do it. It’s not that hard.
When Brian successfully tracks down our nice server Anthony with a whistle and a wave across the restaurant, I realize I need to woman up and tell him I don’t want dessert.
I open my mouth once, twice, three freaking times, but nothing comes out.
Just tell him already! It’s not that damn difficult!
When the words still don’t come out of my throat, I dive straight into panic mode. In a rush, I act like my phone is ringing and abruptly snatch it out of my purse and hold it up to my ear.
“Hello?” I fake answer far too loudly, and both Anthony and Brian look over at me. “Oh no! Are you okay?” I continue on with the charade. “Oh my gosh! Just stay calm, and I’ll come help you right now!”
I pretend to hit end on the call and shove it back into my purse.
“Is everything okay?” Brian asks.
“No,” I respond and force my face into a concerned frown. “I’m so sorry to cut our date short, but I need to leave.”
“What happened?”
Yeah, Ava, what happened?
Shit. I probably should’ve come up with that before I took the fake call.
“Uh…my best friend…he lives across the hall from me, and…he fell…off a step stool…and he can’t walk… It’s bad! Super bad! He needs me to take him to the hospital!”
That is probably the worst lie you’ve ever come up with in your life.
“Oh God,” Brian responds and hurriedly pulls his wallet out of his back pocket, shoving his credit card into Anthony’s hand. “Mind closing out our bill really quick? We need to leave right now.”
Wait…what? We need to leave?
But before I can ask any questions, Anthony has our bill closed out and Brian is shrugging on his suit jacket and following my lead out of the restaurant doors.
“Uh…you don’t have to go with me,” I say over my shoulder as I speedwalk onto the sidewalk. “I’ll call—”
“It’s not a problem, Ava. I’ll walk you home.”
“No, that’s okay!” I exclaim as I pick up my pace. I’m not sure why I’m walking so fast, but I think it’s a combination of trying to lose my date and continue the whole emergency façade.
But, goddamn, Brian has no problem keeping up with me.
Holy mackerel, did he train with Olympic-medal-winning speedwalkers?
“I insist, Ava. And anyway, you said your apartment was only a block from the restaurant. It’s the least I could do. I just hope your friend is okay,” he says, not even out of breath.
Me, on the other hand? I’m panting and sweating like a whore in church.
Brian follows me the whole damn way, keeping up with my quick strides like I’m merely taking a leisurely stroll through Central Park.
When I reach the door to my building, he doesn’t hesitate to follow me inside.
And when I step inside the elevator, he’s there too.
Oh, fan-fucking-tastic…
Discreetly, I pull my cell phone from my purse and type out a quick text to Luke.
Me: Unlock your apartment door and act like you’ve fallen and you can’t get up!
Luke: Huh?
Oh my God! Seriously? How hard is it not to ask any questions and act like one of the old people on those medic alert commercials?
Me: Just freaking do it! I’ll be at your door in like thirty seconds! Injure your ass right now!
Luke
I reread the text messages Ava just sent for the third time to make sure what I’m seeing is real. Unlock your apartment door and act like you’ve fallen and you can’t get up?
Is she serious right now?
When I hear the faint sound of the building elevator dinging its arrival, I jump up from my couch and head for the door.
The instructions are pretty clear—clearly ridiculous—but if Ava is anything like she normally is in an emergent situation, I’ll have enough time to take a peek out the door, assess the seriousness, and respond accordingly.
I crack open the door just as a mess of blond hair and flailing limbs throws itself into the wood bodily, bowling me down and, ironically, knocking me down in a way that it will be tough to get up.
I grunt, and she groans as she gathers herself from her spot on the floor a couple feet in front of me. She’s rubbing an elbow I assume she smacked on the ground, but other than that, she seems committed to the ridiculous farce she’s perpetrating.
“Ava,” I say as she gets up on her knees and crawls over to me just as a man I don’t know, wearing a suit and loafers, steps into the open doorway. Suddenly, it all makes sense. My adorably ridiculous friend who cannot, it seems, under any circumstances, just say how she fucking feels.
“Oh my God, Luke!” she exclaims, her words a dramatic rush. “Are you okay? I got here as quickly as I could!”
She runs her hands along my limbs as if checking to see that they’re not broken. “Ava,” I challenge, shaking my head.
I cannot believe the lengths she will go to in order to avoid a simple awkward moment. She just met this guy, for fuck’s sake. Who gives a shit what he thinks?
“Thank you so much for walking me to my building, Brian!” she shouts over her shoulder. “I’ll call you later!”
“Wait, is he okay?” the man asks. I have a sneaking suspicion that if Ava were even a little less hot than she is, he would have been gone a long-ass time ago. “Are you sure you don’t need some help getting—”
“I’m fine,” I interrupt bluntly, moving Ava gently to the side and standing to my feet. Her eyes bug out of her head as she silently calls me every name she can think of, but I have to stop this before I end up in an ambulance on the way to the ER to keep the viability of her story alive.
Loafer Guy’s eyes narrow, but I’m a dude, and I know how dudes think. If this shit is as bad as it obviously is for Ava to go to these lengths, he’d rather just know now.
“Brian, right?” I ask, and he nods slowly, glancing between Ava and me in confusion.
“Yeah. How do you—”
I shake my head and hold up a hand. Ava is still mentally cursing my very being, but I ignore her.
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re best to just cut your losses, okay? Ava is not into you—”
“Luke!” she yells, embarrassed.
“Well, you’re not, are you?”
Her eyes are actual daggers as she shakes her head.
“But she’s too nice to tell people like it is. So, I’m telling you. Move on. Find someone who won’t get seasick on your boat.”
Brian doesn’t look back as he turns and leaves.
Ava, of course, is mortified.
“What is wrong with you, Luke?”
“What’s wrong with me?” I question. “You should be thanking me.”
“He must think I’m such a bitch now!”
“Yeah,” I say with a wave of my arm. “And who cares? Why the fuck do you care what Boat-Lover Brian thinks of you? He’s a stranger, Ava. Who gives a fuck?”
“I do!” she snaps, and I shake my head, head back to the couch, and take a seat.
“You don’t. Or you shouldn’t anyway. Just relax and be thankful the date with loafer boy is over.”
“It was my date,” she says, as if she was in control of it at all.
“If you don’t want me involved next time, don’t involve me,” I say simply before turning the volume on the TV back up to an audible level.
She stays by the door, stewing for a while—I can see her out of the corner of my eye—but eventually, she gives in, kicks off her shiny black heels, and walks toward my kitchen.
“You got any ice cream?” she asks and pads her bare feet into my kitchen. “I didn’t have dessert.”
“Ava.” A laugh jumps from my chest. “You are…”
“Enchanting?” she asks with a teasing lilt as she opens my freezer.
“You’re something, all right,” I mutter to myself.
“What was that?” she asks, walking from the kitchen to the living room and joining me on the sofa.
“I said, I guess I was right about Brian.”
She rolls her pretty sapphire eyes. “The date was horrible. He is a wine snob who kept ordering all my food and wouldn’t shut up about his goddamn boat, and I had to get out of there before I had to sit through a forty-minute dessert with him. A woman can only hear about a man’s dinghy so many times before she snaps.”
“Is dinghy a metaphor or…”
She smacks my arm, and I laugh. When she doesn’t say anything else, I venture into the dark place of our friendship where I have to slap reality across her face.