Page 51 of She Used to Be Nice
He tossed her a small smile, indicating that maybe everything truly was fine. She stared straight ahead behind the bar, smacking her lips together to hide her own smile shoving its way through. She hoped that he would always be this forgiving and that she’d remain this open to him. Maybe soon he’d be able to trust her fully, and she him.
“Just so you know, this doesn’t count as the date,” she said.
Pete laughed. “Don’t worry, I’d never take a date to the hellhole that is Times Square. Are you free Friday though?”
Avery hesitated for a moment, to make a feeble attempt at taking the power back. But it was pointless. Her defenses were down the second she’d texted Pete to meet up. And she could tell by the amused smile on his face that he loved it.
“Friday sounds great,” she said.
And she’d never admit it out loud, but she loved it, too.
That Friday, before her first date with Pete, Avery spent an hour flipping through her closet to find something to wear. The more outfits she tried on, the more her body overheated, forcing her to peel everything off her sweaty skin like Velcro. She hated every single thing she owned. What was shethinkingwith this aggressively red wrap shirt, and in a size extra small no less? Even fucking Morgan wouldn’t fit into this.
She felt the beginnings of a temper tantrum boil inside of her, so she settled on the first outfit she tried on, a black semi-sheer blouse and tight jeans. Then she spritzed perfume on the insides of her arms and the back of her neck, the parts of her body Pete would be the closest to when they hugged hello. It was a trick she’d learned from Blair. Which irked her to think about now.
She made her way downtown to Carroll Place, the Italian restaurant where Pete had made a dinner reservation. Butterflies fluttered in her stomach as her subway car flew underground, and she kicked herself for being such a cliché. But she hadn’t been on what she would consider a real, meaningful date since Ryan, and his idea of a date was usually just burritos at the Chipotle down the street from campus. She didn’t blame him—they’d been on a college budget—but still. This date with Pete felt different, was the first time drinks with a guy in her postgrad adult life could lead to more than just sex.
On her walk from the subway, Avery stopped in front of the passenger seat window of a parallel parked truck to study herreflection, smooth out her shirt, and fluff up her hair, pressing her mouth in a hard, nervous line. The night she ruined everything with Ryan was not going to continue ruining the rest of her life. Starting tonight, she was going to try to believe that she was worthy of good things in the present, no matter what happened in her past. She would give this thing with Pete a shot, and maybe eventually he could be her date to Morgan and Charlie’s wedding, and not just as her armor against Ryan and her friends but also as her boyfriend. Maybe. Eventually.
Pete was waiting for her outside the restaurant with his back pressed against the wooden exterior. Avery’s eyes lit up at the sight of him in a checkered button-down and pair of fitted black jeans. He smiled back at her.
“You look nice,” he said. “Hot date?”
Avery rolled her eyes, but inside her heart swelled as she breathed in the mint and sandalwood floating off his shirt. He looked so handsome and smelled even better.
“Funny,” she said.
Carroll Place was dark and cavernous, with deep red brick walls and twinkling chandeliers dripping from the high ceilings. Couples were snuggled together in two-tops and paired off at the communal table to the right, and upstairs on the second floor, at least what was visible from the lobby, it looked like more of the same. Avery was determined to not be overwhelmed by the implications of a place as romantic as this, by her questions about whether she deserved to be here with Pete at all, having this nice of an evening. While this was only a first date, it was still a date, and some indulgence and romance were allowed and even expected. She needed to just go with it. Pretend like she belonged here, with him.
A waiter led them toward a more private back room, to a small, intimate table dotted with a flickering white candle and situated right below a crystal chandelier. Soft instrumental jazz played from the speakers overheard. After they sat down, Pete ordered a Manhattan with an orange slice and a large square ice cube, and Averyordered a glass of red wine. Avery couldn’t believe they were doing this, that they were just a man and a woman sitting across from each other on a first date. It was so simple, yet so monumental, and now there was no turning back. Romance mode had been activated. The first layer of protection over her hardened heart had been sloughed away. Luckily the waiter arrived quickly with their drinks and Avery could take two huge gulps of wine.
“You seem nervous,” Pete observed.
Avery put down her glass. She wasn’t just nervous. She was terrified. She felt exposed and raw and they hadn’t even started a conversation yet. Surely they were not going to dig into her traumas on the first date. She needed to relax.
“This is just new for me,” she said.
“What is? Dinner?” Pete leaned closer to her and coolly picked up his drink, swirling the ice around in the glass. His calm self-possession only emphasized Avery’s jitters.
She gave him a side-eye. “Yes, Pete. Eating is a foreign concept to me.”
“Well, you’ve done it every night for twenty-three years. I’m confident you’ll figure it out tonight.” Pete smirked as the waiter came by to take their orders. He ordered mozzarella sticks for the table and the cheese ravioli for himself, and Avery ordered the large portion of spaghetti with meatballs. At least she could eat her comfort food to soothe her nerves.
“Great call on the mozzarella sticks,” Avery said when the waiter left. “I’m starving.”
“You know, you pronounce mozzarella like a real Italian-American from Jersey,” Pete said. “Muzz-a-dell.That’s spot-on.”
Avery blushed. “I know. Everyone at Woodford made fun of me, but I can’t pronounce it in any other way. Like … mozz-ar-ella.” She overpronounced every syllable and shivered. “It feels weird.”
“Actual Italians don’t even say it like we do, but I don’t care. Like, what even is capi-cola? It’sgabagool!”
“Or how about cala-mari?”
“No,” Pete said, cringing. “Anything other thangalamadis painful.”
Avery grinned mischievously. “Or mani-cotti?”
Pete covered his ears with his hands. “I can’t! It’s sacrilege!”
