Page 22 of David's Proposal

It’s my fault. Truly my fault. I could’ve bought something from Maggie’s. But, honestly, I didn’t want to even think about doing that.

I didn’t want to jinx it, and shopping for clothes felt like acting out of a place of weakness.

What if I had bought something new and then sat around and waited for his call?

I yank a hanger off the rack and check the dress.

Now I know why Chloe was mad at me last Sunday when we wore those cute dresses. They’re just cute.

They don’t have the effect of a fireworks display and are not mind blowing by any means.

In any of them, I look humble and scared, as if I’m looking to make friends or secure a different job.

Which I’m not.

I drop the dress back into the closet, my eyes going to the phone clutched in my other hand as I push out a sigh.

“I’m fucked…” I murmur, sweating, panic creeping up my spine.

If I don’t like what I wear. I won’t feel confident and won’t be able to relax.

Knowing myself, I’ll probably act like a fool.

Ughh.

My phone pings with a message, and I’m convinced it's him for a second.

David.

Five minutes ago, I wasn’t sure this thing would happen despite my sweating over what to wear, and now I’m back at weighing my options, plus… What??

Terryis texting me?

Please don’t tell me she’s on her way over.

This is not the time, Mom. Frantically, I swipe the screen with my thumb to read the entire message.

Oh, but she is.

What the fuck?

Why?

I type faster than I could draw breath.

Me: I’m not home.

Come on. Come on. Answer me, please.

A part of me would like to sprint around the house, pick up things, put them in order, do something about my hair––hide it, frankly––and remove the red lipstick from my lips.

My phone pings again.

Terry: Where are you?

Even without an emoji, I can tell she’s suspicious. Even if she isn’t, it’s almost nine o’clock. Where can I be at nine o’clock on a Wednesday evening?

Me: I’m at the gym.

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