Short Story First Date Disaster ...

“Sounds like a booty call,” my best friend, Bindi, said as she sifted through my closet. She claimed she could help me find the perfect outfit for tonight, but so far all she'd done was toss a dress at me, then a skirt, then a bra. Oh, and she asked to borrow a necklace or two.

“What are you talking about?” I asked. “He even called it a date. A dinner date.”

“Yeah, at his ** house. **” She clicked her tongue in disapproval. “If he asks you to watch Netflix with him, then get ready for him to make a move."

I fiddled with my tennis bracelet. "A move like kissing?"

"Well it'll start with kissing."

Bindi had made out with plenty of guys. She even slept with one or two of them. But me? I'd never even gotten a peck from the opposite sex, aside from the occasional cheek kiss from my cousins.

Bindi must've realized I was uncomfortable with the idea, because she stopped tearing through my closet and put her hands on my shoulder. "You're seventeen now," she said. "You should be excited about getting to kiss a hot boy."

"I guess. It's just--"

"Hey, if he tries to get handsy, text me and I'll come save you, all right? Now let's find you a sexy little ensemble."

I knocked on his door while wearing a cream, off-the-shoulder dress with matching boots up to my knee. It took Bindi two hours to put together the look, but it was worth it when I got a glimpse of Tyson.

"Wow," he said, still in his outfit from earlier, minus the plaid shirt. Now he had on a black wifebeater that showed off more of his muscles. "Didn't expect a goodess to show up on my stoop."

"Oh, shut up," I said, pushing past him to enter the house. I was never good at receiving compliments, and my nerves weren't helping.

After he shut the door, he showed me the way to his kitchen, where he had a head of lettuce, tomatoes, and cucumbers spread out. "Chicken salad," he said with a smile. "The chicken is already in the oven. I just have to chop this stuff up."

I volunteered to help with the chopping, but he refused. Then I volunteered to check on the chicken, and he refused. The only thing he let me do was toss the salad, and when I did, I managed to mess it up.

When I started the process, all ten of my french tipped nails had been in place. When I finished, there were only nine.

"Damn it," I said, searching through the vegetables as he bent down by the oven.

"What's wrong?" he asked. I couldn't see his face, but I could tell there was a smirk on it. "Did you get a fake emergency text already? Am I that horrible to be around?"

"How'd you know about the emergency text?"

He was laughing as he got up, the plate of chicken in his oven mitts. After he placed it on the table, he said, "It's just something girls do on dates, isn't it?"

"Yeah, what else do they do on dates?" I asked, twisting a strand of hair around my finger like I'd seen pretty girls do on TV. I'd already forgotten all about the salad. Whenever our eyes met, it was like he wiped my memory.

"Well, for starters, they tend to play with their hair when they want a guy to kiss them."

My mouth went dry. I licked my lips, but it didn't moisten them. We weren't even an hour into the date yet. How could he be thinking about kissing me already?

The closer he moved, the harder my head pounded. Right before he had the chance to put his hands on my waist, I grabbed the salad bowl from the counter and shoved it between us. "You know, you should never kiss on an empty stomach," I said, and then tried not to die from embarrassment.

** To be continued... **