The Boy Who Died

Date Night

Marcie

The following Tuesday, I breathe out slowly and stare at my open closet door. My clothes stare back at me, no more helpful than the last twelve times I’ve looked at them. My phone vibrates, and I dive for it instead.

Is it too lame to say I’m really looking forward to this?

I clutch the phone to my chest and try not to squeal. I feel like a kid, but my mystery man—it feels too weird to call him Gwendivere in my head, even though I already know I’ll probably never change his name in my contacts—has been texting me all week, and my stomach fills with butterflies every time. It’s a proper lying on my stomach and kicking up my heels crush. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this.

Okay, I can, but I’m not thinking about him tonight. I open mystery man and I’s message thread and text him back.

Don’t worry. I’ll slay the dragon of lameness for both of us. I’m looking forward to it too

The message doesn’t even send me into a spiral, wondering if I’ve actually made everything so much lamer, or if he’s going to think I’m making fun of him in a bad way, or if I just sound too ridiculous to go on a date with and he’s going to cancel. Texting him has just been easy, like talking to him that night. Or what I remember of it, through the hangover. I don’t think I actually blacked out, but my psychiatrist wasn’t exaggerating about the effects of the meds. I really do have to be careful.

My phone vibrates again, and I check it to see a string of emojis. The blushing face, a sword, a dragon, and then a skull. I giggle and toss it back on the bed.

Heather leans into my open doorway. “Hey! Today’s the day, right?”

I nod. “Just getting dressed now.”

“f**k, you look happy.” She wanders in and sits on my bed. “I remember when Everett and I were like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m still beyond happy, but the first-date stuff is always so fun. You need help picking out an outfit?”

I bite my lip as I look at my closet again. Nothing jumps out at me, but I remember Heather and Everett’s first date. He took her to a club someone in his family owned, or knew the owner of, and Heather wore a dress so short she made me watch her bend over before she left to make sure she wasn’t showing her whole ass. Apparently, a little bit of ass was fine. Since my mystery man and I have already done the drunken, half-dressed thing, we agreed on a much more normal evening coffee date at Bean and Gone. As supportive as Heather has been this past week, I don’t know that her tastes are going to be super helpful to me tonight.

“Uh….”

She laughs. “Loud and clear. I’m going to go do homework. Let me know if you need help with makeup or hair or anything.”

I nod, and she leaves me alone with my closet. Lots of grays and browns jump out at me. The occasional blue or black. Blending into the background clothes. Tonight, I want to be myself, but I want to be Lancival too. I want to be the fearless woman I was when I met him. And coffee isn’t exactly going to get me there, no matter how sensitive my meds are.

A memory floats through my mind. This past summer, Heather dragged me shopping with her in Arlington. I basically just carried her bags and told her she looked cute, which prompted her to compare me to Everett but was more fun than I would have expected–until the very end. We went into this last tiny boutique, and a rack in the corner labeled “Tall Girls” caught my eye. I’m no basketball player, but I’m tall enough that most shorts and skirts are uncomfortably short or just awkward. While Heather browsed, I drifted over and pulled a baby-blue romper in my size. Of course, as soon as I touched something, we weren’t leaving the store until I bought it. I haven’t even touched it since I put it away, but it’s not too hard to find in the back of my closet. With a little bit of wriggling, I slid it on.

Just like in the store, it fits perfectly. The feminine flounce at the neckline makes it kind of look like I have boobs worth noticing, and the shorts don’t pinch or hit at the dreaded mom-short length. I might actually look cute. I twist in the mirror a couple of times. Okay, yeah. I can wear this.

Still, I check the weather. It’s in the seventies currently, but it’ll be mid-sixties by 8:00. I should layer, just to be safe. I pull a comfortable brown cardigan from my sweater shelf, grab my ancient pair of canvas sneakers, and feel a little more like myself. Just an updated version of myself. Exactly what I’m looking for. With a little lip gloss and mascara, I’m ready to go.

I walk out to find Heather in the living room, tapping away on her laptop. She glances up.

“Gorgeous,” she declares. “Can I just do one thing to your hair?”

I check my phone. We agreed to meet at 7:00, which is in half an hour. It’ll take me five minutes to walk to Bean and Gone if I rush, ten if I don’t, plus a line to get a drink—

“Sure,” I say.

She leaps up with a grin and rushes to her room. When she returns, she holds a bulky, tortoiseshell clip in her hand. I eye it warily.

“Trust me.” She spins me around by my shoulders and scrapes the front of my hair back, then pins it with the clip. With a small hum, she pulls a couple strands of hair out from the clip to hang in front of my face, then holds up her phone in selfie mode so I can see.

Me–but upgraded. Way better than my usual ponytail.

“Thank you,” I say earnestly.

“Any time.” She flops back onto the couch. “Just text if you need the living room clear when you’re coming home, and hang a sock on the door.”

My face flames. “It’s a coffee date!”

Her laughter chases me out of the apartment. I lock the door, put my keys in my purse, and stop myself from checking the lock. Heather’s home. I’m upgraded. I can do this.

It takes me three minutes to walk to Bean and Gone. I didn’t just walk quickly, I rushed. I duck behind a tree and flap my cardigan a few times to release any smells of perspiration. Chill, Marcie.

Easier said than done. I walk inside to find no line at all, order my usual americano misto—an americano made with half cream, half water—and find a table near the back of the café, away from the counter, all before the clock hits 6:45. I hope he doesn’t think I’m lame for arriving so early, but part of me already knows he won’t. If I was going to scare him off with how excited I am, I would have by now. I sip my coffee then pull out my phone and text him where I am. It’s not like I can hide. In my memories, he doesn’t seem as drunk as I was, so he might actually know what I look like. I bounce my foot and watch the door. Pair of freshmen. Pack of sorority sisters. No, no, no.

The door opens, and my lungs shrivel as Ben walks in.