Page 2 of The Dating Game

“Brooke.” He puts his hands on his hips and stares down at me with disapproval. Before he can expound on his disappointment, though, two figures appear behind him. Instructor man and another guy who looks like he possibly skipped out of school to be here.

“Are you guys Brooke and Grant?” the instructor guy says.

“No,” I say at the same time Grant says yes. Grant gives me a funny look, but I don’t waver from my response. Brooke is the person who signed up for this crazy experience, the idiot who scrawled her signature on that waiver form. I can’t possibly be that person.

“Grant, nice to meet you,” the second guy says. “I’m Heath, and I’ll be doing your tandem dive with you.” Grant’s eyes pop wide as he studies Heath.

“Wait,” he says, “I’m doing my tandem dive with you? I thought, I mean,” his cheeks redden with his flusterment, “I thought a tandem dive meant my girlfriend and I could go together.” He gestures to me, still sitting in my chair. Still having zero intention of jumping out of this plane in any capacity.

“Unfortunately, no,” Hot Instructor Guy (hot being an objective term that truly does best describe him) says. “As westated on the ground, our company policy is that first dives be done with an experienced and licensed instructor.”

Grant looks completely shattered by this news. My guess is that he thought the two of us tandem skydiving together would be this super romantic thing. You know, him holding me against him as we soar out of the plane. Delusional man. I don’t care what people say aboutRomeo and Juliet,there is nothing romantic about a couple dying together. Well unless they’ve been married over fifty years and it’s a case of one not being able to go on without the other. That, I suppose, qualifies as romantic.

But this is so not that.

“Okay, then,” Grant finally says, looking resigned to this new fate. He eyes me. “You must be devastated, Brooksie,” he says, “but don’t worry, I’ll meet you at the bottom.” He chucks me on the chin, and suddenly death doesn’t seem quite so bad compared to seven more weeks of dating Grant.

“I’m actually going to be staying on the plane,” I inform the three of them. “There’s not enough Xanax in the world to calm me down enough to jump off this plane.”

Heath and Grant blink at me in surprise, but Hot Instructor Guy just says, “Oh, so youareBrooke?”

Shoot. Somehow I’ve given myself away. I should’ve made a break for it and offered the pilot a benjamin to hide me.

“Yes, she’s Brooke,” Grant confirms. He does a quick scan of Hot Instructor Guy, then adds, “My girlfriend.” Apparently he’s started composing a new romantic scenario in which this tandem dive is actually my meet-cute with Hot Instructor Guy here.

Please, as if that could happen.

Although it would be just the sort of thing I would do. Fall in love then die a few minutes later. Very on point for me.

“Nice to meet you, Brooke.” Hot Instructor Guy offers me his hand, which is quite a nice hand: big, neatly trimmed nails, just the right amount of hair, and all five fingers—surprising for a person who jumps out of planes for a living. “I’m Will. I’ll be doing your jump with you.”

“Well then, Will,” I say without taking his hand, lest he be tricking me and planning to use his grasp on me to pull me from my seat, “take a seat,” I pat the chair next to me, “because I am not going to be jumping today. No, sir.”

Will just looks amused. And he doesn’t sit down. Heath has stolen Grant’s attention, busy running him through the process one last time, so it’s just Will and me engaged in this battle of well,wills.

“You know,” he tells me, “statistically speaking skydiving is actually safer than driving.”

Ha! He thinks he can best me with statistics? I didn’t spend an hour on Google last night for nothing. I take back what I said before: knowledge reallyispower.

“Oh, really?” I retort. “Because I don’t think you can truly compare the two given the high volume of driving people do in comparison to skydiving. Furthermore, if that’s the case, then why don’t I have to sign a waiver every time I drive a car, huh?” Then, because one huh is simply not enough, I add another couple. “Huh? Huh? What do you have to say for yourself now, Mr. Statistically Speaking?”

“Easy–you can’t sue yourself for injuries obtained while driving yourself,” he says with a smirk. “Meanwhile, one sprained ankle without a signed waiver could mean our company having to make some major payouts.”

“So you’re saying I’m going to sprain my ankle?”

“Not if you follow my instructions.”

“Unfortunately I’m a free spirit. I don’t likerules.”

He shrugs. “They’re your ankles.” His gaze dips down for the quickest of seconds. “Though it would be a shame to injure such nice ones.”

“Are you flirting with me?” I exclaim, torn between being outraged and being completely flattered by the attention.

“No,” he says, deflating my burst of ego. “It’s simply a fact. You have two working ankles.”

“Oh.” I play with a loose curl of hair as I gather my wits. “That’s right. I do have two working ankles. Ankles that should really stay working because I teach dance, and I can’t do that with a sprained ankle.”

“True.” He nods. “Another point in favor of you following my instructions when we make our jump.”

---