After my dress is ready and waiting on its hanger, I get into the shower, taking extra time to deep condition my hair and shave my legs. Normally, I approach a first date with a heap of cynicism topped off with a sprinkle of existential dread. Tonight is completely different, and it's throwing me off kilter. I know exactly why I'm nervous, and it isn't because I fear that my date will confirm everything that is wrong with modern relationships. I'm nervous because I already really like him. A lot. In fact, I've never experienced this trifecta of happiness with anyone: sexual chemistry, playful banter and meaningful conversation. I have the sinking feeling I'll find a way to fuck it up.
Once I'm out and toweled dry, it's time to moisturize my entire body then blow-dry and loosely curl my hair. For my make-up application, I want a fresh-faced, pink-cheeked look with this sweet dress. Even if I can't be an innocent little 1950s virgin—and who really wants to—I'm going to look like one, dammit. I slip the dress over my head, making sure not to get makeup on the collar, and when I look in the mirror, I'm delighted to see that I've achieved Sandra Dee status on the outside. Inside, I'm still all Rizzo. As I'm putting a sheer rose tint on my lips, my phone buzzes with a message from Dan.
Nicky and I saw a counselor today. She suggested that you come to our next session. When you are coming back to New York?
I throw the phone on the bed like it's on fire. He's gone batshit mad if he thinks I'm accompanying him and his wife to therapy. They seriously want me to sit on a couch and listen to their marital issues? Worse, they might want me to talk about my relationship with Dan and how it led to our hook-up. No way. I'm not putting myself through that kind of torture. Maybe the therapist can play the part of Andie in this drama, but the real Andie will not be in the building.
I'm furious at Dan for even asking me to do this, especially when I'm going on my special date night with Seth. Clearly, Dan didn't hear me during our previous conversation. I need to talk to him in person and set him straight on where I stand. No more texts and phone calls, and certainly no group therapy sessions. We need to cut the cord and move on with our lives.
There isn't time to think about Dan anymore. It's almost six-thirty, and I'm positive Seth will be on time. I fill my clutch purse with everything I might need tonight: money, ID, lip gloss, tissues. I come across some condoms I keep in my travel kit and shove a few in my purse. It's never a bad thing to be prepared.
What will I do if Dan texts or calls me tonight while I'm out with Seth? The last thing I want to do is lie to Seth right at the beginning of our relationship. Everything that's happening with him feels pure and new. He already knows that I came here with the intention of getting Dad to leave, and he forgave me for that, but I'm not sure how he would feel about me kissing a married man. Seth is such a stand-up guy, I know he won't brush off what I've done. On the other hand, I wasn't the married person, and I was the one to stop things when they went too far. That must count for something.
I glance out my window and see that I was right about Seth being on time. He's walking across the yard toward the house at this very moment. I grab my purse and head downstairs to meet him, passing my father in the hallway.
He lets out a low whistle. "Wow, you're pretty dressed up for your evening out with Seth."
He's teasing me, but I also hear the hint of concern in his tone. We didn't discuss the fact that I spent last night at Seth's house, but it seems impossible that he didn't notice.
"It's a good excuse to wear my new dress. What do you think?"
He appraises me and smiles. "Beautiful."
My eyes choose that moment to get misty, and I lean forward and give him a peck on the cheek so he can't tell. "See you later, Dad."
"Have fun!" he calls to me as I move past him and head down the stairs.
The kitchen clock says it's six thirty on the dot, and Seth is leaning against the counter, waiting for me. A smile spreads across his face as I enter the room.
"You look amazing," he says, extending a bouquet of flowers towards me.
He's more dressed up than I've ever seen him, in khakis and a collared short-sleeved shirt. He hands me a bouquet of wildflowers of various colors and types—red zinnias, black eyed susans, white daisies and purple irises—like the arrangement I admired at the farmer's market
"You brought me flowers."
"The normal response is thank you," he says.
That's when I realize he's still holding the flowers in front of me, and I haven't taken them yet. He's right, I'm not a normal girl. My heart is racing. It's the fight-or-flight response kicking in, telling me to run, run, run as fast as I can. Bouquets of flowers, a collared shirt, dinner reservations. I'm breaking out in a sweat simply because he's made an effort to take me out tonight.
He sets the flowers on the counter and gently grips my arms, which are folded across my body, then leans his forehead down so it's touching mine.
"Hey, what's going on in there?" he says quietly.
I scoot toward him and wrap my arms around his waist, laying my head on his strong chest. I can feel his steady breath, in and out, in and out. We stand like that for at least a full minute, until I've synced my breathing with his and no longer feel like I'm going to pass out.
"I'm fine now.” I pull myself away from the heat and comfort of his body, which is no easy task. "And thank you for the flowers."
"You're very weird, but you can hug on me any time you want," he says. "If the flowers are freaking you out, wait until you find out I washed my truck and vacuumed out Mutt's hair."
I love that he understands my mind well enough to know that it's the flowers that sent me in a tailspin. I’m glad that I don’t have to explain why seeing a guy holding flowers felt like a sign of the apocalypse.
He sighs and opens up a cabinet door. "I'll look for something you can put them in so you can go breath into a paper bag."
While I focus on calming down, he pulls out a Mason jar and fills it with water before taking the flowers from me.
"I'm a New Yorker, Seth.” He wasn't wrong about needing the paper bag. I fill my lungs with air and try to keep my tone lighthearted. "I'm not used to being wooed this way. You're going to have to take it easy on me."
"No one has ever given you flowers?" He carefully slides the stems into the jar.
