Page 19 of Riptide

This guy is funny, and I’ve been thinking about him all week. We’ve even messaged a bit before our date, and it’s safe to say, he won me over even more. Talking to him has been easy.

I grab my phone off the bed and flick through my messages.

Finn

What’s the right amount of effort for a bar? Casual-hot or effort-hot?

Daphne

Are you seriously texting me about your outfit?

Finn

I need options, Daphne.

Daphne

You own, like, five shirts. This isn’t life or death.

Finn

Would you rather me show up looking like I just rolled out of bed?

Daphne

Honestly? That’d probably work for you.

Finn

Helpful.

Daphne

Okay, fine. Wear something that makes you feel good. But not like...try-hard good. Hot, but not “I wore a blazer for this.”

Finn

That’s literally what I was trying to figure out.

Daphne

Well, now you have your answer.

With a snort, I toss my phone onto the bed. Okay. Just fucking get dressed. I grab the black t-shirt, along with black cargo jeans. It’s simple, fitted, clean, good enough.

Sliding it over my head, I glance at myself in the mirror. My hair is still damp from the shower, curling slightly at the ends. I smooth a hand through it, debating whether I should actually style it or just let it dry naturally.

From Foxx’s pictures, he’s way more put together than I am. His hair is neat, his beard is neat, but not, like, too neat. He’s effortless in a way that makes me want to put in effort, and I don’t know if I’ve ever really done that before.

I exhale, staring at myself, ruffling my hair a bit. No, it’s fine. I look good. Exactly like the kind of guy who walks into a bar, flirts with someone who pretends to be unimpressed, and then leaves with him later.

Rolling my shoulders, I try to shake off the weird weight pressing down on me.

I glance toward the clock on my nightstand. 7:29 p.m.

Still time, but not enough to sit around and think about it. This place is about an hour from my parents’.

The house is quiet as I step out of my room, my footsteps barely making a sound on the hardwood floors. Too quiet. I’m used to it being loud. Daphne talking too fast on the phone with Liv her best friend, my dad watching whatever sports documentary he’s obsessed with that week, my mom humming in the kitchen.

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