Page 28 of I Think He Knows
The amused look slides off the guy’s face at my stumbling words and his lips smush together as he studies me. I imagine that I’m quite the sight to behold—streaky makeup, stained dress, singed hair that’s still giving off the smell of burnt toast.
“License and registration.” He doesn't say please. I don’t blame him. I dutifully hand them over and he takes them without breaking eye contact, peering at me like I’m some kind of zoo animal. “Do you know why I pulled you over, Ma’am?”
Lovely. I, Lana Mae Donovan, am officially a twenty-seven-year-old “Ma’am” who, after tonight, will be swearing off any and all dating and resigning myself to an entirely hermit-like existence forevermore.
Because enough is officially enough.
“Um… was I speeding?” I bite my lip and pick at the pink polish on my thumbnail.
The guy levels me with alook.“You were going 35… in a 60 zone.”
“Oh,” I reply weakly. Probably best to omit that I’d been too busy shrieking along to Taylor about being crumpled paper—complete with one fist clutching a fake microphone—to focus on the actual task at hand. That being driving.
“Ma’am, have you been drinking this evening?”
“No.” I shake my head. Then, I reconsider and nod. “I mean, kind of. I ordered a drink but I spilled it, so I only had one sip.”
I don’t add that the spilled drink was a foreshadow of how the rest of the evening would pan out.
After my conversation with Carter last night, I knew I had to force myself to get back up and keep trying. Not to be discouraged by my failure with Andrew, but to remind my humpback whale self that there are plenty more fish in the sea, and maybe therewasa real chance that Mindy’s doctor friend would actually end up being my lobster.
That was the mindset I had when I left the house a couple hours ago. I was feeling relatively hopeful. I was wearing the same nice, freshly ironed cornflower-blue wrap dress I’d donned on a couple of my recent first dates. My hair was curled. I was wearing mascara and eyeliner. I’d even contoured my cheekbones, for goodness sakes.
And then, I got to the restaurant. Discovered that it was more of a monochromatic, tight leather pants and backless slinky tops, bandage dresses, and sleek, slicked-back buns sort of establishment. Realized that I looked like a preschool teacher amidst a horde of high-fashion models.
At first, I shrugged it off. Sat down and waited for my date.
He showed up twelve minutes late in a cloud of spicy aftershave looking very, very suavely handsome in a crisp white button-down with the sleeves rolled up. He air-kissed me on both cheeks, signaled the waitress with anactual click of his fingers, then flopped down in the chair opposite me and introduced himself as Braxton.
Slightly dazed by both his handsomeness and his audacity, I stared at him for a moment, then asked “Like Braxton Hicks?” before I could help myself.
Apparently, I am beyond help.
He gave me a strange look before saying “Like, Braxton Fletcher, actually.”
And that’s when I kicked off what would go into the books as the worst date in history by making delightful small talk about contractions for ten minutes.
Braxton—Dr. Braxton Fletcher, the resident doctor at the medical aesthetics clinic Mindy works for—returned the favor by countering my nervous word vomit with a list of treatments he recommended for ‘improving’ a post-baby body. He even gave me a pen so I could take notes on my napkin.
The date went from bad to worse when the waitress appeared and Braxton ordered a Negroni while blatantly looking down her shirt. Apparently, he didn’t think she needed any of his “professional help” in that area.
Feeling a little small by this stage, I decided that I would order a cocktail to look classy and like I knew what I was doing, and also because alcohol was very badly needed. But the cocktail menu was written in tiny, swirly script that I could barely decipher, so I panic-ordered a “Cosmopoutan”.
Of course, the swirly letters actually said “Cosmopolitan”. And while I’d never actually had one before, I’ve seen enoughSex and the Cityin my lifetime that I should’ve known that. Guess it serves me right trying to be a Carrie when I’m clearly a Miranda.
When my drink arrived, I managed to spill most of it on myself. Then, while reaching for my freshly inked napkin, one of my hair-sprayed curls fell into the candle in the middle of the table.
Braxton beat out the flames with his Armani blazer, earning him a round of applause from the other patrons and a hug from the waitress with the low-cut shirt.
After a tense hour of picking at our meals, I left with both my leftovers and my pride boxed up to go. Braxton left with the hot waitress.
Cut to the teary T-Swift car concert while I drove like a geriatric. Which is why I’m now stopped on the shoulder of the road, closing my eyes and hoping for a nice coma to give me some sweet relief.
No such luck.
“Ma’am, I’m going to need you to step out of the vehicle.”
Of course.