When Jake texted Monday night to say he couldn’t make it to our date-planning session, I spiraled even further.
What does all of it mean? Does any of it mean anything? Am I being ridiculous?
I don’t want to be the patient who gets inappropriately emotionally attached to her therapist.
I mean, maybe none of it even means anything and I need to just chill.
That’s the last thought I have before Jake sets his phone down on the table between us and says hello.
I swallow the thick knot of saliva in my throat and try to act normal.
“Hey, Jake,” I say nonchalantly, forcing a smile to my lips that feels embarrassingly similar to Pennywise the Clown.
He studies me closely—almost as if he’s gathering evidence for a dissertation—before saying anything back. I fidget and blink rapidly under his scrutiny, unnecessarily retucking the hair that’s already behind my ear and licking my lips while trying—under much emotional opposition—to maintain eye contact.
He smiles then, looking around at the rink as the disco lights come down and a group of teenagers giggle their way out into the middle, and then back at me.
“I’m sorry you had to plan this date alone, but be honest with me…you chose it as revenge, didn’t you?”
“Skating is America’s favorite pastime, Jake,” I say smartly.
He smirks. “That’s baseball.”
“You’ll skate, and you’ll like it,” I threaten.
“You’re really cute when you’re vindictive.”
“Wha…what?” I stutter, my breathing suddenly erratic at the unexpected remark.
“You’re cute,” he says again, slowly and clearly and enunciating in a way I can’t deny. Not only that, but he doesn’t even add a qualifier this time. I’m just cute. Like, all the time?
What in the blackberry bush’s root system is going on here?
He raises an eyebrow in challenge, daring me to ask him what he means by that when a stunning woman with wavy auburn hair and a low-cut blouse I know to be Lydia, Jake’s date number three, sidles up to the table next to us and opens her stupid mouth.
“Hey there,” she greets with a scrunchy smile. “Am I in the right place? I’m Lydia.”
Part of me wants to tell her to get lost, that she took a wrong turn somewhere and she needs to head back up her own ass and to the left, but that part of me is clearly crazy.
I put a muzzle on insane me and a smile on normal me’s face. Insane me suggests I reenact Dwight’s real-life fire drill scene from The Office, just to ensure this date never gets off the ground, but real me, thankfully, realizes how costly that kind of sabotage would be.
“Hey, Lydia. You’re definitely in the right place.” I gesture with a hand toward Jake, whose eyes are weirdly still glued to me, and introduce them. “This is the Bachelor…” I laugh, shaking my head side to side. “Jake. This is Jake.”
She holds out a hand for him to take, and he finally peels his eyes away from me to look at her. She looks good. I’m not a guy, but I can see her appeal—frankly, a blind wombat could probably see Lydia’s appeal—but that doesn’t make it any easier to watch as Jake takes in her looks for the first time.
His eyes widen slightly, and I have to look away as he makes small talk. “Hi, Lydia. It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too,” she purrs, obvious predator meets prey in her voice. If I allowed myself the opportunity to look, I’m sure I’d find her nipples poking through the thin fabric of her top like spears.
“So,” Jake starts in, hammering away at the ice that always accompanies blind dates. “What do you do for work?”
Lydia’s confident as she responds. “I work for the Charger Girls, the dancers for the Chargers. I used to dance with the team, but I’m a head choreographer now.”
Ha. Ha-ha-ha.
Am I crying? It feels like I’m crying.
On that note, I decide it’s best if I dismiss myself and let them have their time together. You know, for health reasons. I wave a hand to get their attention, but Jake is the only one of the two of them to look up at me.
“All righty, then. I’ll, uh, talk to you cool kids later,” I say dumbly, wanting so badly to stick my foot in my mouth. Hell, right now, if it ensured that nothing else stupid would come out of my mouth, I’d do it after putting on one of those germ-infested communal skates.