Page 55 of Dating Goals
“Well, un-reassess it.” Her voice turns stern in that way only pregnant women can master. “Either you come to Bern to meet Thomas, or I will personally waddle down to Grächen and drag you to this dinner if I have to.”
I sigh, dropping the shag carpet coat. “Wouldn’t that be inconvenient with your enormous belly?”
I dig deeper into the abyss of bohemian fashion disasters that my mother calls a wardrobe, deluding myself that it might suddenly sprout a designer gown if I glare at it hard enough. Spoiler alert: it doesn’t.
“So next Wednesday at seven,” Ivy declares. “James is texting Thomas now.”
“Mmm,” I mumble noncommittally, pulling out a floor-length purple thing with embroidered moons and stars. It screams hippie chic. How am I supposed to attend a black-tie investor party while dressed like I read tea leaves for a living? Gold coins fringe the sleeves that clank when it slips on the hanger.
“Anika? What’s that jingling sound?” Ivy asks.
“Just cleaning my closet,” I lie, shoving the purple nightmare back where it came from.
I don’t feel like explainingwhyI’m going through the closet. Telling Ivy about Griffin feels dangerous somehow, like naming a wish out loud might prevent it from coming true. If I don’t tell anyone about these practice dates, then I won’t have to explain when they end.
And they will end. That’s the whole point.
No. I’m definitelynottelling Ivy about Griffin. Or the party. Or the strange flutter in my chest whenever he smiles at me.
I hold a brown dress against me in front of the mirror that might actually work if I make a few minor (okay, major) alterations.
“Thomas is really excited to meet you. And James can make his famous lasagna.”
“Actually…”
“No, No. I don’t want to hear it,” Ivy continues. “Once this baby arrives, James and I won’t be available for another decade, minimum. So unless you want your first date with Thomas to be just the two of you with no buffer…”
“Next Wednesday might not work for me. The bar has been busy lately.”
“Why are you suddenly hesitant?” Ivy presses. “Last time we spoke you seemed almost excited.”
Because last time we spoke I wasn’t spending every other day with a six-foot-something Canadian goalie who makes me forget everything else in my life.
“I know, I know. It’s just…complicated right now.”
What’s complicated is that every time Griffin smiles at me, my stomach does this weird flippy thing that I’m pretty sure isn’t indigestion. What’s complicated is that I’m supposed to be learning how to date one man while I’m falling for another.
“Nothing is complicated about dinner,” Ivy insists. “You show up, you eat food, you talk to Thomas. If you hate him, you never have to see him again.”
My thoughts drift to Griffin, to his dimpled smile and ridiculous inspirational quotes. To the way his hand felt around mine at the restaurant. To the fact that none of these practice dates are preparing me for Thomas. They’re making me wish Thomas didn’t exist.
I toss the dress aside and slump onto the bed beside the mountain of fashion crimes. Who am I kidding? This thing with Griffin will soon be a memory. A very pleasant memory, yes. But what makes me think anything will ever happen with a man who’s only teaching me how to date other men?
I stare at the ceiling wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.
“Anika? Are you still there?”
“Ja,” I grumble.
“Oof, need to pee again,” Ivy groans through the phone. “This baby is using my bladder as a trampoline.”
“TMI, Ivy,” I say.
“Don’t think this conversation is over,” she warns. “I will keep calling until we set a date for Thomas. Pregnancy has given me superhuman persistence and zero shame.”
“Fine, fine,” I mutter, knowing full well I have no intention of agreeing to anything.
“Gotta go before I wet myself! Love you, bye!”
