I reached for a tissue on my end table. “Achoo!” My other hand covered my rapidly beating heart. “Thank God. Honestly, I have no idea what he’s expecting. What I’m expecting. What the hell I’m even doing.”
“You’re taking your life back. It’s your turn, Val. That’s what you’re doing. And it’s about damn time.” Eve got up from the bed and walked into the closet. “And if you want to show this young hottie your underwear tonight on the first date, you do that. You do whatever makes you happy. It’s time you put your own needs first.”
“But what does he expect to happen?”
“If he expects anything to happen, he’s an asshole and not worth your time.”
“Maybe it’s too soon.”
Eve popped her head out from my walk-in closet and spoke to me sternly, not unlike how I might’ve warned my son at times. “You’re going.”
My shoulders slumped. “Yes, Mom.”
“And don’t sneeze on the poor guy!”
Oh God. What if I do sneeze on him? I hadn’t thought of that. Ever since I was a little girl, I sneezed when I got nervous. It had been in check for years—probably because my mundane life didn’t have anything going on in it to get excited or nervous about—but lately I’d noticed it happening again.
Eve had disappeared into the closet, but she came back out. “And stop worrying about sneezing on him now!”
She knew me so well.
It took another forty-five minutes for us to agree on what I should wear, and in the end, almost the entire contents of my closet were in a heap on my bed. I had on a red skirt, cute, strappy, high-heeled sandals that I’d bought but never had occasion to wear, and a form-fitting black top that showed off a hint of my cleavage.
“You don’t think this top is too tight?”
“You look sexy, yet classy.”
I reached for a sweater, even though it was a warm evening. Eve swiped it from my hand. “You don’t need a sweater. You just want to cover up.”
She was absolutely right. I sighed, pushing out a nervous breath. “Fine.” We left the bedroom a disaster and walked to the kitchen.
“What time is he picking you up?”
“He’s not. I’m meeting him.”
“He didn’t offer to pick you up? Wait, let me guess. He did. But you told him you would rather meet him somewhere instead.”
“It’s safer that way.”
“And you can’t chicken out if you give him your address.”
That, too.
“I’m not chickening out.”
Eve opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of water. Uncapping it, she pondered something before speaking. “Why don’t I drive you and pick you up? I can wait outside and make sure he isn’t a serial killer or anything.”
“You just want to make sure I go and check him out in person.”
She guzzled half her water. “Where did you say you were meeting him? Tom and I were talking about going out to eat. Maybe I will come spy on you, tell you if he’s worthy of seeing your panties on the first date.”
***
I arrived at the restaurant ten minutes early, and yet I was still sitting in my car fifteen minutes after the time I was supposed to meet Donovan. I’d never had a panic attack, but I was pretty certain that’s what was happening. My palms were sweaty, my heart was racing, and I had the uncontrollable urge to flee to the safety of my home—although there was no way I could possibly drive in this condition.
When my phone buzzed with an incoming text, I hesitated to look at it, knowing there was a good chance whoever it was would make me deal with my current situation. By ignoring it, I could buy more time. So that’s what I did for another five minutes.
The next time my phone buzzed, it was a phone call instead of a text. I peeked at the caller ID. It was Donovan, and I was twenty minutes late. He had been such a nice guy so far. He didn’t deserve me standing him up. Taking a deep breath, I swiped and answered.
“Hello.”
“Valentina? Is everything okay?” His voice was deep and raspy. Really manly and really sexy. Something else I didn’t expect.
“Yes. No. Yes. I mean, no. I’m sorry, Donovan. I’m not going to be able to make it tonight.”
“What’s going on? Are you okay?”
“I am. It’s…it’s…I didn’t realize I wasn’t ready until now.” Just then, a horn blared off in the distance. I had my car window cracked open to get fresh air.
“Where are you?”
“I’m…I’m…sort of in the parking lot.”
“Of the restaurant?”
“Yes.” I felt like an idiot admitting it.
“Nervous?”
“You might say that.”
“Want me to come outside?”
“Not really.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing. I’m sorry. I know this is ridiculous. I’m acting like a teenager, and I’m so embarrassed.”
“What kind of car do you drive?”
“Please don’t come out and get me. It’ll make my humiliation even worse.”
“I won’t come out unless you want me to. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”
“I drive a silver Routan. But I’m fine. I just need to sit here for a while.”
“Okay. Stay on the phone with me. Maybe it will help you relax. You shouldn’t drive if you’re nervous anyway.”
Here I am jerking this poor guy around, and he’s offering to keep me company on the phone while I stand him up. “Thank you.”
“So I probably shouldn’t tell you this if you’re already nervous about meeting me, but it’s too odd of a coincidence to keep to myself.”
“What?”
“You need to come inside because an old lady I know had a dream that I met my future wife today.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Mrs. Peabody. It’s a long story, but I sort of have a friend who’s older, and she sometimes has these premonitions and weird dreams. This morning she randomly called me and said she woke up at two in the morning knowing I was going to meet my future wife today.”
“Oh really?” I chuckled. “Did she say anything else?”
“No. Well, except that she smelled cinnamon buns in the oven and then vomited right after.”
“She what?”
“She threw up. But that’s normal. She always throws up after her premonitions.”
I shook my head. “I think you’re right.”
“So you’ll come inside?”
“No…” I laughed. “I meant you shouldn’t have told me, because now I’m afraid you might be a little crazy.”
“We’re all a little crazy, Val. What fun would it be if we only filled our life with normal things?”
That was a question I could answer, since my life had been boring as hell the last few years: no fun at all. Maybe I needed a Mrs. Peabody in my life.
“You’re right.”
“What’s your favorite drink, Val?”
“I usually drink wine, but my favorite mixed drink is a dirty martini.”