Page 1 of Off Camera
ONE
AVERY
This isthe worst first date I’ve ever been on.
My hopes were low when he picked a dingy sports bar as our meeting spot, but I persevered. I showed up anyway because I’m a nice person who doesn’t ghost someone thirty minutes before we’re supposed to meet.
Ghosting would’ve been better than the hell I’ve had to endure, though. The thin glimmer of hope I had about the night going fromabsolute train wrecktosomewhat salvageableslowly slips out the window as the man across from me uses his collar to wipe his nose.
“My issue isn’t withwomen,” Matthew says urgently. He puts his whole chest behind it like he’s proud: each word is punctuated. The right emphasis is on the right noun. He reaches for his beer—his fourth, and we’ve been here less than an hour—and it nearly slips out of his grasp thanks to the wing sauce on his fingers. “It’s with women being in places they don’t belong, you know? Sports aresacred.”
No, Idon’tknow, but the only way I can get out of this excruciating conversation that’s lightyears worse than a lobotomy is to grin and bear it.
“They should get back to the kitchen, shouldn’t they?” I ask. His eyes light up like I just hit a home run out of the park. The queen of improv rolling in with the one-liner to end all one-liners. “The quieter the better, I say.”
“Exactly.” Matthew slaps the table. The last sip of my mediocre white wine sloshes around in my glass. “It’s really not that difficult.”
I need a stronger drink.
“It’s not,” I say through clenched teeth.
I wonder if I can use the knife sitting next to my plate to stab him in the jugular.
I could make it look like an accident. I’d feign innocence and claim I was defending feminism.
I doubt anyone would miss the prick.
“How do you feel about dessert?” Matthew licks his lips, and it takes everything in me not to recoil. “Want to split a slice of cheesecake? Or maybe I could put you on the table and?—”
“I’m allergic,” I almost yell. The lie slips out easily, and I give him a shrug that hopefully looks more apologetic than like I’m plotting his demise. A barstool over the head would also get the job done. “Besides, I should start making my way home—or back to the 1920s.”
“No problem. Maybe next time.” He taps the check with his sauce-stained fingers and looks at me. “You owe twenty-three dollars.”
I bite down on my bottom lip so hard, I’m surprised I don’t draw blood.
I have no problem paying for my meal.
I have no problem paying for thewholemeal.
But after sixty minutes of half-cold mozzarella sticks and enough misogynistic comments to last me a lifetime, I’mtired.
Tired of shitty dates and even shittier conversations.
Tired of men who pretend to be interested in the answers I give them while staring at my chest.
Tired of guys who believe women are only allowed to occupy certain spaces in the world.
I don’t know when common decency—like holding the door open and not making sexist jokes—became the bare fucking minimum, butgoshI hate it here. I’d rather be single for the rest of my life than deal with this shit on a consistent basis.
“Right.” I plaster on the smile that won me Miss Florida and runner-up to Miss America. I throw down two twenties and grab my purse. “Thanks for a great night.”
“You too, Ashley,” he says, and I don’t have the energy to correct him. “Want to do it again next week? Back at my place?”
I slide out of the booth knowing full well this dude wouldn’t be able to find my G-spot even with a map and step-by-step instructions.
“I’ll text you,” I lie again, and I don’t feel an ounce of remorse.
“Cool.” He stands and pulls me into a hug before I can escape. His hand drifts dangerously close to my ass when he presses me against his chest, and I contemplate breaking his wrist. “Looking forward to it.”
