Page 28 of The Dating Game

“Great,” he enthuses. “I’ll pick you up at 3.”

Then he’s gone, leaving me wondering if I ever actually agreed to this date.

Also, where are we going? What am I supposed to wear without knowing? How long will we be gone?

Irritation flares in my chest, but then Grant’s voice plays in my mind. “You’re boring. Borrring.”

Going on a mystery date isn’t boring. It’s adventurous. So who cares if I wear the wrong shoes?

***

Onceagain,ahonkalerts me to Will’s presence in my driveway. I repress a sigh. If any other guy did this I would just wait inside until he came to the door, then inform him that it wasn’t going to work out if he couldn’t manage to come to my door to get me.

But I have to date this man for two months.

I wonder if Sydney realizes how much of a hit my self-respect has taken as a result of our bet. I should get an award for the lengths I’m willing to go to for her. Like a Nobel Peace Prize except for great and notable achievements in friendship.

It’s also worth noting that it’s 3:10. He’s late. Again.

Goodness.

On the plus side, I would rather he be late than early. My preference is righton the dot. Is that so hard?

I grab my purse and my water bottle and head out my front door, pasting a smile on my face as I hurry down the steps. Will rolls down the window as I approach. “Hey, Brooke, c’mon in.” He gestures to the door, which I suppose I’ll be opening myself. Lovely. Nah, it’s fine. I’m as modern as the next girl. I can open my own door on a second date.

Keeping my smile locked in place I open the door. My smile immediately falters becauseeww. There is trash on my seat. And also on the floor of the car. So much trash it looks like he took a bag of garbage and poured it over the seat.

Which would be a ridiculous thing to do.

He must just be a pig.

“Oh, sorry, let me just clean that up for you,” Will says hastily. Oh good. He knows it’s gross and is going to clean it up. My eyes widen in horror as he takes his arm and sweeps it over my front seat, sending all of the trash—used tissues, food wrappers, and was that chewed gum?—falling to the floor to hang out with the trash already camped there. So, I guess my feet get to sit with the trash, then.

“Maybe I should sit in the backseat,” I say.

“Nah, nah, don’t be silly. I made space for you right here.” He pats the seat. Gingerly I lower myself into the seat, doing my best to avoid putting my shoes into anything wet or suspicious looking.

Who am I kidding? It’s trash. It all looks suspicious! Thank goodness I wore pants.

Pants I may burn after this because what is that brown substance on the tissue that just brushed against me?

Surely there is not a tissue with poop on it in this car.

Surely.

“Well, shoot.” Will gives me an appraising once over. “I’m not sure you’re wearing the right clothes for this, but it’ll have to do.”

I bristle. In the end, without any directions to guide me, I went with an outfit that seemed pretty versatile: a blue and white striped button-down tucked into my high-waisted jeans and rolled at the sleeves, paired with white keds.

Which I’m hoping will still be white after their time with the trash.

“If there was a dress code, you could’ve told me,” I point out in as neutral a tone as possible.Remember the best friend award, I tell myself. After this is over, and Sydney is happily married to Corbin Parker, I’m so going to make her buy me a mug that says something like: My Best Friend Drinks Out of This Mug or This Mug Belongs to The World’s Most Amazing Friend or—Hmm. I’ll have to work on the wording. And maybe I’ll do a water bottle instead of a mug. I drink a lot of water. Ooh! Or a bumper sticker! No, a yard sign! Boy, you really can personalize anything these days.

“You didn’t ask,” he replies, like he didn’t hang up on me ten seconds into the call.

Maybe a water bottleanda bumper sticker.

“Where are we going anyway?” I ask, choosing to bypass my annoyance.

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