One hour turned into two.

Two hours turned into five.

Why hasn’t he messaged me back yet?

Has he changed his mind?

I preoccupy myself by binging a series about daters who can’t see each other’s faces—they’re hidden behind walls and it reminds me of Noah hiding behind his phone. And his friend. Which only makes me think of him again and has me getting off my ass to grab my cell.

You are an independent, grown-ass woman, Miranda Pressinger. Call him.

Why am I so nervous?

Because you’re afraid of being rejected.

But he’s the one who asked me on a date!

Right, but he could have decided that was a terrible idea and now his plan is to ghost you.

“Why are you talking to yourself? Get a grip!”

I inhale, heart racing a mile a minute as I suck it up and search for his number. It’s one of the last ones I dialed and we all know how that conversation ended.

The call connects. The phone rings.

Then…

“Hello?” I shiver at his greeting, his voice so deep it has me like woah.

“Hey Noah.”

He pauses before saying, “Hey Miranda. I was…going to…I was just about to text you back.”

This has me chuckling softly, the liar. “No fibbing.”

“Okay. I wasn’t just about to text you, but I was going to text you back, I swear.”

“Alright.” I let the silence sit, not wanting to fill it with idle chatter or babble. I want him to say what he has to say, even if I have to wait all night.

Admit you changed your mind.

It would suck, but at least I’ll know.

“I wanted to figure out a few nights for me that would work to go out before throwing anything out there. My schedule is pretty hectic right now, so I had to look at my calendar first.”

At least he didn’t say he was busy.

Of all the excuses in the world, “I’ve been busy” is the laziest alibi, one that never fails to rub me the wrong way on both ends.

“And did you find a few days that work?”

“Are you okay going out during the week? I work most weekends.”

Inquisitiveness demands that I ask what he does for a living, but then we wouldn’t have that to discuss on this date we’re going on.

“I could do a weekday, sure.”

“How about…Thursday? Or Tuesday of next week?”

I am literally free every day of the week, but pretend to consider it. “How about Tuesday? I have some things to get done in the office space I just rented.” Plus, I need time to plan my outfit. “What time are you picking me up?”

There’s a long pause. “You want me to pick you up?”

Uh. Yes? “You said you weren’t a criminal and I assume that means you’re not a murderer. Call me old-fashioned, but…I’d love for you to pick me up.” So it’s official.

“Then it sounds like I’m picking you up.”

“Six thirty? Any later and I will die of hunger.”

“How about six? It will take us time to get downtown.”

“Ohhh downtown. Oo la la!”

“Or not? We can stay local.”

Hell no! If I get to wear a dress and go somewhere in the city, I am not passing up the opportunity. “Surprise me, okay? I’ll be ready at six. I’ll text you the address next week.”

“Sounds good.”

“Hey Noah?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s a date.”

11

Noah

I feel sick.

Literally ill as I slowly crawl my way down the street, the navigation system in my car directing me to the address I punched in before leaving my house.

Miranda’s place is twenty minutes from mine, not in the suburbs, but not in the city. A little offshoot near the mall tourists flock to, a cute apartment complex situated in an older part of town that probably used to be hip and trendy.

It’s not anymore, but still has some charm.

“Destination is on your left,” the guide instructs and I slow further, neck craning, eyes scanning the narrow street for a parking spot. Pull my car to the curb behind a hybrid.

I cut the engine of my truck and glance in the rearview mirror at my reflection. Fresh haircut, no ball cap. No bruises on my face, for once. Glance around the interior of my vehicle, making sure the leather is clean, the garbage is gone, and it doesn’t smell like a locker room from the bags I normally keep in the back seat.

Those are gone.

Tonight is date night.

Fuck that sounds weird to say and I keep thinking it all the way to Miranda’s front door.

We won our game this past weekend, our first scrimmage of what hopes to be a successful season, so I plan to celebrate tonight with alcohol. Liquid courage, celebration—same thing. I’m going to need it if I want to make it through the night without making a horse’s ass out of myself.

The door opens and I’m taken aback at how pretty she looks.

I remember what she looked like that night at Rent, but barely. The image of her from then versus the image standing in front of me now does not compute.