I’d almost passed out on the car ride home, my dad filling the silence with an interrogation about Nathan.
How long had we been dating?
Did he treat me right?
Was he planning on making an honest woman out of me?
I’d given him vague, sleepy answers, dodging most of his prodding with “Dad, I just got off a flight, let me live.”
When we got home, I hugged my mother, and bless her heart, but she took one look at me, said, “Oh, sweetheart, you look awful,” and promptly marched me upstairs for a nap.
I didn’t tell her that, actually, I wasn’t jet-lagged. I was just stillslightlydrunk and currently experiencing a very unfortunate cocktail of dehydration and regret.
I glance at my phone.
Two hours until dinner.
Two hours until Nathan has to walk through the front door of my childhood home and put on yet another performance.
If he shows up at all.
A hot fist of anxiety clenches in my stomach.
What if he doesn’t?
What if this was the moment he realized,holy shit, what am I doing?and left me hanging? I mean, I couldn’t blame him. I barely know him. He barely knows me. We met in a damn bar.
God, what if I get ghosted?
My mother will never let me live it down.
I scrub a hand down my face and shake the thought away. No use spiraling now. Instead, I drag myself out of bed and head to the bathroom, switching on the shower and stepping under the scalding water.
When I emerge, towel wrapped around my body and hair dripping, my phone is sitting on my nightstand, screen lit up with a notification.
A text from Nathan.
I hesitate before picking it up, my stomach twisting.
Nathan:What’s your address?
I exhale slowly.
Okay. He hasn’t backed outyet.
Still, I give him one last out.
Me:Listen, you don’t have to do this. If you want to back out, now’s your chance.
It takes him exactly ten seconds to reply with a picture of our napkin contract.
My stomach flips.
Me:You kept it?
Nathan:Of course. I take contracts very seriously.
Me:So you’re telling me you’re contractually obligated to show up tonight?