Page 5 of Deep Feelings & Shallow Graves

His eyebrows lift. “Yeah?”

“Sure. Text me next week. We’ll grab dinner. Maybe someplace without floor stains that look like homicide outlines.”

“Cool, cool,” he says, practically puffing up with testosterone pride. “You’re not like other chicks. I like that.”

“You said that already,” I say, bright and sweet. “But repetition is good for memory retention. Helps with learning.”

He doesn’t get it.

We part ways out front. He tries to go for a cheek kiss. I Matrix-dodge that shit with a polite pivot and a little wave. “Bye now!” I chirp, already mentally listing hardware stores with good tarp sales.

I wait until he’s out of sight before I exhale. Hard. My face hurts from smiling like a Stepford wife on ketamine, and my patience has stretch marks.

I tug my coat tighter, duck my head, and head toward my car. The air is cool and quiet and somehow still cleaner than the man I just endured.

One date down. Three to go. Unless he tells me he vapes in bed or unironically uses the word “femoid,” in which case, it’s shovel o’clock and the tomatoes are getting a new fertilizer blend.

Chapter Three

Jennifer

Since Derik didn’t feed me, not that I would have eaten anything in that bar-bathroom cosplay, I’m now starving in line at a sandwich joint that looks like it was designed by Instagram influencers and funded by money laundering.

The bread smells like ambition, but I guarantee it tastes like regret and gluten. My stomach’s throwing a fit louder than a toddler who just had their iPad pried from their tiny, tyrant hands mid-Cocomelon binge.

And this guy, tall, black hair slicked back like he’s auditioning for a gritty noir reboot, eyes sharp enough to perform LASIK, is treating his sandwich order like it’s a high-stakes hostage negotiation.

I’m watching him like he’s the villain in one of those true crime docuseries I binge, trying to spot the asshole tells before it’s too late. Nothing so far except he’s a total sandwich diva.

“Okay, so,” he starts, voice smooth like bourbon, “I want the everything bread, but only if you’re back to using the sesame seed batch. If not, I’ll have the Italian herb bread, but not if you’ve overcooked it like last week.”

Overcooked bread? What, is this the Great British Sandwich-Off? Just slap some meat between carbs and let the people eat.

He leans in, eyes scanning the menu like it’s a crime scene. “Also, no roasted peppers unless they’re the fire-roasted ones, not the sweet variety. And can you check if the provolone’s aged at least three months?”

My stomach growls again, threatening violence. I glance at my phone about to DoorDash revenge.

By the time he’s finished, I’m halfway through a mental checklist:

Does he talk like a dick? No. Picky, but not rude.

Is he wearing typical asshole attire? No. He’s dressed nice. A suit at lunch in a sub shop.

Is he holding up the line like a goddamn sandwich Sommelier? Absolutely.

I’m this close to just snapping, “Hey, Frankenstein, can you make your deathly serious sandwich and move it along?”

When he turns toward me, he offers an apologetic smile.

I forget how to smile back, because it’s not lewd. His eyes stay on mine. Respectful. Like he’s a monk or something.

He moves aside to wait for his artisanal monstrosity, leaving behind a sexy, vanilla-scented vacuum like a Calvin Klein ad ghosted me.

I step up, still reeling, trying to remember how to speak like a functioning adult and not a feral divorcee hypnotized by sandwich pheromones.

“What can I get you?” the guy behind the register asks. He looks aggressively average compared to the raven-haired sub whisperer.

“Specials?” I say, sounding like someone who just got hit in the head with a baguette.

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