Its official kid

It’s the waiting I hate the most. Nerves grow until they’re so thick in my stomach that I feel nauseous, my palms turning slick around my glass. Why had I ordered a Cosmo? I’ve never had one before in my life. Brian’s late. How late is acceptable before I’m entitled to leave? Leaving would be the easier option. A quick text. Let’s rain check. But that would be fleeing, and I’d promised myself I would face my fears. Idiot, I think. I should have started with something smaller. Confined spaces, spiders, the concept of infinity. Just not blind dating. I can’t handle the awkwardness.

To see how he looks down at his phone, or worse, to look down at my own in search of an excuse. What if he’s visibly disappointed by me? Or worse, what if he wants to grab a nightcap and I don’t? I take a fortifying sip of my pink drink. One drink. That’s all we have to share, and then I can say I have to get back home because I have work tomorrow. I’ll order some food on the way home to celebrate surviving. The bar looks good, at least. He’d been the one to suggest it after a week of awkward text exchanges. Dim lighting and patrons in fancy clothes. Music at just the right volume. Not too loud, not too quiet. The prices are just shy of fortune-ruining, which is good for Manhattan. My phone vibrates against the table with a text. Brian’s late, which I already know, and he apologizes profusely. He actually uses the word profusely. I put the phone down and take five steadying breaths. Maybe I should have eaten something after my job interview before coming here. Maybescheduling a blind date and an interview for my dream job on the same day was too much. But I’d been caught up in a rush of adrenaline and bravery, and I’d done it. And now I’m paying the price. ”It’s just a date,” I murmur to myself. The ball of nerves in my stomach doesn’t listen, continuing to spin in nausea-inducing patterns. “Just a date. I can leave if I don’t like it. Just leave.” I don’t feel better, so I try another argument. One that Nina had said over and over again last night as she talked me back from the ledge of cancelling. The only way to get more comfortable with it is exposure. But exposure doesn’t seem so harmless tonight, and not when Brian just gave me another fifteen minutes to sit alone and look like a dork while my nerves rise from innocent butterflies to Hitchcock-like birds in my stomach. I need a glass of cold water. I leave my Cosmo on the table and head for the bar. It’s mostly empty, a few businessmen leaning against it in smarmy suits. Standing up feels good. Moving about feels good. I lean against the bar and tap my fingers against the glass counter. The bartender spots me. “Yes?” “A cold glass of water, please,” I say. “Lots of ice.” “Still or sparkling?” “Still.” “Sure thing.” He turns, but stops. “Would you like some lemon in that?” “Just water. Please.” Why is dating horribly, awfully nerve-wracking for me? Everyone else seems to have a breeze doing it. They dance from one date to the next like it’s a game. The bartender sets a tall glass of water in front of me. I drain it, every last drop, until there’s nothing but clinking ice left. A voice speaks to my left. “You doing okay?” I catch the sleeve of a suit jacket beside me, a large hand curled around a glass of scotch, but I keep my eye on my own. My chest is heaving. “Yes. Just fine, thank you.” “Need another glass of water?” The voice is male, smooth and deep. I shake my head and close my eyes. The last thing I need is someone to waste all my pent-up small-talk energy on. “Nope. All good.” A small bowl of complimentary peanuts is pushed into my field of vision. “Just in case.”