“Yeah, tell me more. What does he look like?”

I want to show her pictures, but I also don’t need her going online and stalking him before I’ve had the chance to do it myself.

So I just tell her, “He’s gorgeous.”

Really gorgeous, as a matter of fact. Handsome in a rugged kind of way, if his photos aren’t lying.

“Be more specific.” Hannah pronounces the word specific like pacific, which drives me cuckoo. But I won’t get into that right now.

“Dark blond hair—”

She interrupts with a drawn-out, “Hmmm…”

“Now what?”

A diminutive shrug. “It’s just that I’ve never met a dude with blond hair I thought was attractive.”

“JB is an attractive blond.”

“Blowjob is an attractive blond, you mean?” She chuckles like the troll she is. “I’ll have to take your word for it since you’re obviously not going to show me his pictures.”

“If I show you his picture, you’re going to stalk him on every social media site you can find him on.”

“True, but it’s not like I can’t find him without your help. You’ve already told me his name and given me his hair color, and you told me he wrestles. It will take me three seconds to find him.”

“Well wait until you’re alone in your bedroom, would ya?”

“Fine. I’ll wait to stalk him.”

“And don’t give me shit about it, because I haven’t gone out with him and the date could totally suck, and I’ll never hear the end of it.” There’s still time for him to cancel on me, too.

“The date isn’t going to suck.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you’re glowing, and you never glow.”

Am I glowing? “Gee, thanks.”

“I can’t lie to you, Sky. You only glow when you’re wearing tons of blush, which is a look we try to avoid. Ruddy doesn’t look good on anyone, least of all you.”

“Gee. Thanks.”

“My point is, you practically skipped out of your bedroom, so that must mean something, yeah?”

She’s right.

She knows I spend most of my time daydreaming about my future, one where I have it all. A partner and a career and—maybe someday—a child or two?

Daydreaming is food for the soul, my grandmother used to tell me. Don’t be stingy with your dreams, Skylar. Close your eyes and imagine…

Closing my eyes and imagining myself somewhere else has never been the problem for me; keeping my feet planted firmly on the ground has. Staying focused instead of getting distracted has.

When I was younger, on family road trips, I’d sit in the back seat of my parents’ car and lean my head against the window. Close my eyes and think. Write stories in my head, plot out romances—if I were to write one. I would never read—I’d get too carsick for that—so instead, I daydreamed the days away while my dad drove. Hours and hours I would sit, thinking—never sleeping.

Daydreaming.

Writing in journals. Notebooks.

Notes and phrases and stories. A diary of sorts, fiction woven between the pages and in the words.

It’s probably not a good thing, because…well, here we are.

Mediocre grades.

Mediocre love life.

Hopeless romantic in a world where guys don’t call anymore. They’d rather slide into your inbox. Or send you a picture of their dick.

To be fair, I’ve never been on the receiving end of a dick pic, which in itself is rather insulting.

Am I not dick pic worthy?

How rude. At least send me one so I can act disgusted, tell all my friends, and then delete it.

Dick pic FOMO, Bethany once called it.

“I am pretty excited.”

“Where are you going for this Wednesday date of yours?”

God, I don’t even want to tell her. She’s going to judge JB for his choice, and then she’s going to judge me for agreeing to it.

“I don’t want to say,” I admit.

Her brows go up and her mouth falls open. “Why?”

“You’re going to get judgy.”

“Oh honey, I’m judging you anyway. Because I’m your friend and that’s what friends do.”

I laugh, pointing out the obvious. “Actually, that’s the opposite of what friends do.”

“You know what I mean.”

I do. Hannah is the least judgmental person I know, and one of the sweetest. If I asked her to come along on this date, she would. If I asked her to hide in the bushes wearing camouflage, she would do it.

If I asked her never to utter another syllable about this date again—well, she’d never do that, so it would be pointless to ask.

“He wants to meet at McGuillicudy’s.”

“McGuillicudy’s?” She asks like she heard me incorrectly, her inflection indicating disbelief. “The bar.”

“Yeah.”

“The burger joint right next to campus, where they have wild parties and dye the beer green, where some guy went down on Tamara Stewart in the hall by the bathrooms freshman year?”

Tamara was in Hannah’s sorority before she transferred schools. “The very same.”

“McGuillicudy’s. The bar.”

“Is there an echo in here?”

“You can’t be serious. Does this guy have any class?”

Apparently not. “You said you weren’t going to judge me.”

“No I didn’t—I said I was going to, and I am. Because he’s taking you to a dive bar.”

“In his defense—”

Hannah flops her ice cream spoon in my direction, almost bopping me on the nose with the end of it. “No. You and I both know that’s a shitty place to take a first date.”

“Maybe so,” I admit reluctantly. “But we both also know the whole thing could end up going south, and why go to a decent place and waste time if we hate each other?”

“You get two points for making a semi-decent point. However!” Her spoon rises. “How. Ever. There are way better places than an Irish pub. Literally any other place, Skylar.” My roommate takes a lick of her spoon. “So he either plans to ditch you halfway through the date, has friends planning on crashing the date, or he’s just a fucking idiot—which one do you think it is?”

“I don’t think he’s an idiot. I think he’s a guy.”

“Let’s not be blaming his lack of dating aptitude on his gender. He’s probably been on forty LoveU dates, and he’s taken them all to that stupid bar.”

“JB isn’t like that.”

“You don’t even know him.”

“I’m getting to know him! I’m trying! You’re the one who made me download the freaking app, Hannah!”

“I’m not the one who told you to agree to McGuillicudy’s! The place is a cheap knockoff of the liquor brand! And not even a decent one! The owner asked Jessica on a date once—do you know how old that dude is? Forty-three! He’s ancient! God, gag me.”

Could she be any more dramatic? “Forty-three is not ancient.”

“Puh-leaze. My dad is in his forties, Skylar.”