Thirty-Three
 
 AFTER THE NIGHTI got, um, shot in the head, Glenn made Taylor cover the first two weeks of my Korea assignment so my million-dollar injury could heal completely. He offered to have Taylor take the whole thing, but I declined. “No more giving Taylor my assignments,” I said.
 
 “Good point,” Glenn said.
 
 Jack waited a respectful length of time for my emotionally-alarming-but-not-all-that-lethal-or-even-painful injury to heal… and then he talked me into trying our date again.
 
 He said, “Can we just have a do-over?”
 
 “On what?”
 
 “The date.”
 
 “The date?” I asked. “The one that almost got me killed?”
 
 Jack nodded, like Yup.
 
 “No thanks,” I said. “I’m good.”
 
 “I just need a do-over,” Jack said. “And so do you.” Then he leaned in closer, marshaled all his handsomeness, and said, “I promise you won’t regret it.”
 
 Did I want to walk up Jack’s driveway in ridiculous footwear and nervously ring his doorbell again, even knowing for certain that WilburHatesYou321 was in custody?
 
 Not a chance.
 
 “Let’s just do something else,” I said. “Mini golf. Bowling. Karaoke.”
 
 But Jack shook his head. “I had some very specific intentions for what I was going to do to you in that moment, and I really need to see them through.”
 
 “You mean the moment when I showed up at your door all nervous and you flat-out rejected me?”
 
 “Let’s note for the record that I was saving your life.”
 
 “But I got shot anyway.”
 
 “Grazed,” Jack corrected.
 
 I thought about it. Could I bear to try again? I studied him. “You’re trying to re-create the date?”
 
 “Yes.”
 
 “Why?”
 
 “Because,” Jack said. “I need a version of that story that does not have Wilbur in it.”
 
 I could see the value of that. “Fine,” I said.
 
 “Tonight,” Jack said.
 
 “Fine.”
 
 “And wear that red dress.”
 
 I sighed. “The one I bled all over?”
 
 “You washed it, right?”
 
 “I mean… yes.”