Page 57 of Girls Will Be Girls
Louisa:
What is it then?
Lou (fiancé):
I need you to chaperone my date with Willie
Worried he won’t be able to keep his hands to himself
Louisa:
You annoy me more every day, you know that?
Lou (fiancé):
Very aware, baby girl
And tonight is straight up groveling
You’ll know when it’s the date
I didn’t know how to respond and after ten minutes he texted me again.
Lou (fiancé): See you tonight x
I felt bad for leaving him on read, so I heart reacted his last message.
I can picture him feeling smug about that.
And I wouldn’t admit it to anyone out loud, but him referring to us going on a date asthe dategave me little stomach flutters.
I think I’m still within my right to feel annoyed and angry at him for ignoring me, but I’m no longer feeling anxious that it’s something to do with me.
It felt like I’d done something wrong, even though I hadn’t. Like when someone at work messages you,“Can I call you?”and you think Linda from marketing somehow has the right to fire you.
I know that it’s a him problem, not a me problem.
I dip into my Barbie wardrobe tonight as it’s the one that gives me the biggest confidence boost — and I know I look hot as hell in it. It’s one of my favorite dresses: pink with white dots,a tight skirt above the knee with a small slit up my thigh, and a twisting-wrapped top with a cut-out in the middle.
I pair it with some dark brown cowboy boots — toeing the line of the bachelorette wardrobe — and head to the bar. I’m about twenty minutes early because I feel a little nervous, and figured having a drink before he arrives can’t hurt.
It’s quiet in here on a Tuesday with only a few regulars around. I ask the bartender where Willie is, and they tell me it’s his night off while handing me a white wine. There’s a tiny part of me that thinks Lou would bribe Willie to take the night off and pretend they’re on a date just to mess with me.
As I swirl around the last sips of my wine, I check my phone — eight o’clock.
I empty my glass and stand up to get a new one right as Lou walks through the door.
He’s wearing something similar to the last time I saw him in here. Dark pants with a wrinkled button-up, curled up at the sleeves. He has a laptop bag on his shoulder and a grin on his face, hiding the new layer of fatigue I can see under his eyes.
I take a step to the bar and he copies. We meet at the counter, and his eyes trail down me longer than is kosher for a night thatisn’t a date.
He rubs the corner of the slit in my dress between his finger and thumb, lightly brushing my thigh with his knuckle. His eyes hold on to the movement, as he touches only an inch of the fabric for a split second.
It’s so familiar, so confident — it may be the sexiest thing I’ve ever witnessed.
His gaze lifts to mine. “You look nice.”
“Thanks,” I say through the dry lump in my throat. “You look tired,” I say, still feeling petty.
