Marcie
For real, I text Ben, I need to know where we’re going so I can get dressed.
With the message sent, I return to pacing back and forth in my room. I’m going to wear a track in the carpet, but it’s 5:15, half an hour before Ben’s supposed to pick me up for our second date, and he still won’t tell me where we’re going. I told him to pick me up because hiding where I live from him was crazy, and I’m not crazy.
Tell that to the billion and a half outfits I’ve considered and discarded, now covering my bed.
My phone vibrates, and I nearly break a nail opening it, desperate for it to be the email from Theresa that still hasn’t arrived.
Just a response from Ben. Close-toed shoes. And (as much as I hate to say it) probably not a skirt or dress. Embrace not knowing!!
Apparently, the surp
