I don't wait for a response, just stand and walk away from the table, my face burning with embarrassment and anger. This isn't a date. This is a fucking sales pitch.
Is this real life?
The restroom is mercifully empty. I lean against the marble counter, staring at my reflection in the ornate mirror. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes too bright.
After a few seconds, I burst into hysterical laughter. It was either that or belly-aching sobs. I'll take it as a win.
That settles it. I must have been a volunteer meter maid in a past life who evicted two-legged puppies in her free time. That's the only explanation for why the universe has it out for my dating life. Four failed relationships weren't enough of a lesson, apparently. I needed this humiliation to really drive the point home.
I pull out my phone and text Jessica.
LEXIE: I am never doing this again. Never, ever, ever.
Three dots appear immediately. Then a message.
JESSICA: What happened??
Before I can respond, Jessica's name flashes on my screen. I answer, keeping my voice low.
"He tried to sell me insurance."
"What? Who did?" Jessica sounds genuinely confused.
"Brandon. The insurance 'executive.' Who is actually just a salesman looking for new clients." I pace the small bathroom, grateful again that I'm alone. I'm at least eighty percent sure he's not desperate enough to close a sale that he'll follow me in here. "The whole date was a setup to sell me a policy."
"No way. Are you sure? Maybe he just?—"
"Jessica, he brought brochures." My voice cracks. "Glossy fucking brochures about small business coverage that he just happened to have with him. On a first date."
"Oh my God." For once, my sister is speechless. "Are you serious?"
"Do I sound like I'm joking?" I hiss.
"Maybe you misunderstood? Maybe it wasn't planned and he just?—"
"He had the paperwork with him, Jess." I stare at the small window above the toilet stall. It's not large, but it might be just big enough. And I could reach it if I climb on the radiator. "I'm getting out of here."
I can't believe I'm actually thinking about climbing out a window to get away from a bad date. And that's not even the craziest part of the evening.
"Lexie, don't you dare?—"
"Watch me." I hang up and tuck my phone into my purse.
The window is higher than I'd like, but there's a trash can that seems sturdy enough to serve as a step stool. I test it with one foot, then hoist myself up, thanking whatever workout gods have blessed me with enough upper body strength to manage this.
The window slides open with minimal resistance. Cool night air rushes in, carrying the sounds of traffic and faint conversation from the restaurant's outdoor patio. I squeeze through the opening, thanking my lucky stars that the blue dress is stretchy enough to accommodate my undignified escape.
I land with a less-than-graceful thud in the alley behind the restaurant. My knees protest the impact, but nothing seems injured except my pride. I smooth down my dress, adjust my purse strap, and walk quickly toward the street, already searching for a cab.
My phone buzzes insistently. Jessica again.
JESSICA: Are you okay? What's happening?
LEXIE: Escaped through the bathroom window. Looking for a cab.
The response is immediate.
JESSICA: WHAT?? I'm calling you right now.
