Page 3 of Someday Not Soon

I nod, taking him in, trying not to be immature about the hilarity of the word ‘cocks,’ even though I’m certain the spelling isn’t the same.

Luke-now-Marv is actually cute in a way, with his shoulder length wavy dark hair and deep brown eyes. His ripped jeans and red shirt hang loose on his narrow frame. He gives off total stoner skater vibes, which at one time used to be my thing.

His bloodshot gaze is taking me in, too, looking me up and down like a hungry, inebriated wolf. Through his eyes I try to imagine what he’s seeing—dark hair in beach waves, hazel eyes with winged liner, and a casual but sexyblack dress that is my go-to for first dates. My olive skin has recently been subjected to an hour-long session of showering, exfoliating, shaving, and moisturizing. I had thoroughly prepared in case the date went well and I wanted him to feel up every square inch of me. So far, I don’t foresee this one going that way.

“Well thenMarv,how are you?” I finally blurt out, after realizing my silence has stretched on too long. Thankfully he doesn’t seem to notice or care, seeing as he’s moved on from eye-fucking me to trying to wave down the bartender.

“I’d be a lot better if the service in this place wasn’t such bullshit,” he says a touch too loudly, in his hope to get the bartender to overhear.

The peacekeeper in me instantly wants to alleviate this for both mine and the bartender’s sake. “Here, have my drink.” I shove my frosty glass down the bar to him with such force that I nearly spill the entire glass in his lap.

Grabbing the sloshing rum and cola, he raises it in a one-sided toast before downing it in three quick gulps. Then, with a loud burp, he winks at me as if he’s done something incredibly sexy.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. That’s it. I tried, I really fucking tried to give it a chance. But I can’t go on any longer without my head combusting.

Flashing him my very best polite smile, I hop off the tall barstool and grab my purse. “I’ll be right back. Have to use the restroom.”

The Depot is a former granary and furniturewarehouse that has been transformed into an eclectic bar. Exposed brick walls and quirky old-school decor highlight its modern nostalgia vibe. From the bar, it only takes me a handful of steps to get across the sticky hardwood floors and to the hallway, low-lit with industrial sconces. I push open the door to the restroom like there’s a million dollars waiting for me inside. Not actually needing to use the bathroom, I lean against the counter and whip out my phone to text my friends.

Ella

Date is going very, very bad with MARVIN. I need to get out of here without rocking the boat.

My phone chimes seconds later with their response. Knowing them they were probably waiting by their phones to make sure I wasn’t getting abducted on my first date.

Delaney

Marvin? What is he, some eighties porn star? What happened to Luke?

Ella

He admitted that he lied about everything to “appeal to the masses.”

Delaney

For someone named Marvin, he sure has some gall to say that out loud.

Ella

I’m getting bad vibes from him and am too scared to just cut the date short and bolt. Maybe call me in five minutes and we’ll do the whole cliche “I have an emergency” bit.

Madi

We’ll save you, girl. Hang tight! You’re at The Depot, right?

Ella

Yes, at The Depot.

I turn my volume to high so Marv and I will undoubtedly hear it ring with my impending fake emergency.

Part of me feels guilty for wanting to leave so soon. I’ve never ditched a date this quickly before. I’m aware that I shouldn’t feel guilty since the date is obviously a dud, but it’s how my brain works. Anxiety in every way, shape, and form comes easily to me. Thanks to my parents, guilt has been conditioned into me as if it’s a noble virtue.

Walking back through the half-empty bar, a sense of dread lines my chest. But I paste a cheery smile on my face and hop back onto my stool next to Marv who is now doing a tequila shot.

I sit there, nodding politely at his stories that seem more like an ongoing confession of the various crimes he’s committed over the years. If I were brave enough, I’d tell him straight to his face that this date isn’t working for me, and then I’d get the hell out. Somehow I get the gut feeling that it wouldn’t go over very well with someone like him.

The minutes tick by as I wait for the phone call that will save me. Those few minutes drag on into ten, then twenty minutes. His inebriated state increases, as does his overabundance of obvious glances at my boobs and legs.

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