etely wedged himself under my skin, and I couldn’t bring myself to go on another meaningless date with yet another man I know I’ll never care about.
The minute after Ryan left my house last night, I texted Hunter and bailed. Why? Because I already told you, Ryan is a wrecking ball in my life. He rolled into town and crushed right through my walls. Suddenly, dates that have absolutely no chance of leading to anything permanent feel disappointing. I don’t feel liberated by them anymore—just suffocated by my loneliness.
I want Ryan in my life.
However, since I am the most stubborn human being on the face of the earth, I am pretending I’m on a date with another man, because Ryan cannot know that he’s won my heart over so quickly. I need to make him sweat. Torture has always been one of our favorite games, and I’m playing it now with a smile on my face.
Just as the theater goes dark and the trailers begin to roll, my phone lights up in the cup holder. My maniacal smile grows when I see who it is. I even go so far as to chuckle evilly, but then cat-man turns around and shushes me like I’m the one with the social problem. Fine. I hunker down into my seat and try to hide the light from my phone in case the illumination offends the cat.
Ryan: On your date?
June: Yep. It’s going great too.
I’m smiling at my diabolical ways as I dip my hand into the buttery pot of gold in my lap and wait for his response.
Ryan: Good. You deserve a fun night out.
My shoulders deflate a little, but I’m not completely discouraged, so I trudge on.
June: Fun is definitely the right word. Best date I’ve been on in a while.
And that’s not even a lie! Turns out, I’m a phenomenal date. I don’t even skimp on the refreshments. Most dates take me to Walgreens before the movie so we can stock up on candy to fill my purse with and sneak it into the movies. Not me. I’ve treated myself to a box of candy, a bathtub of popcorn, AND a large Coke.
Bonus: I don’t even have to worry about someone with bad breath trying to stick their tongue in my mouth during this movie.
Ryan: Shoot. Hunter must really be something special. Should I be worried?
June: For sure. And he looks so good.
Still not technically a lie, because now I’m talking about the hot actor on the screen.
Ryan: I don’t care what he looks like. What are you wearing?
First, my cheeks turn into lava. Second, I look around the theater to make sure my mama hasn’t magically appeared over my shoulder to read my scandalous text. And third, I look down at my 98° sweatshirt and black leggings that are so threadbare there’s a chance they will fall off mid-movie when the extra strain of this popcorn kicks in. How can I spin this one?
June: A little black number that leaves little to the imagination.
Because of all the holes in the seams.
And then, just to drive the knife a little deeper, I turn my phone on do not disturb and focus all of my attention on the movie. It’s difficult, though. My mind strays to Ryan like he’s telepathically pulling me to him. After what feels like the longest movie in the history of movies, the credits finally roll.
“Thank goodness,” I say in something like a groan, which makes cat-man give me some serious side-eye as he’s stuffing his furry friend back into his duffle bag. Also, who lets someone into a theater with a duffle bag? Teenagers should not be ticket-stub rippers.
I’m so tired I just want to rush home and dive under my covers, but I’m afraid that somehow Ryan will know, so I force myself to sit here until the last name rolls across the screen and the lights come on. A group of teenagers comes in with brooms, laughing about something until they spot me sitting alone in the dead center of the theater like a horror movie that’s come to life. Their smiles drop, and they all clear their throats as if they’re afraid I’m going to tattle on them for laughing.
But then, when they get closer (because I’m still sitting here) their smiles crack again—this time at my expense.
“Nice sweatshirt, grandma,” says the one with spikey blue hair, snickering as he makes his way down my aisle to sweep.
I’m the mature one, though, and don’t have to stoop to his childish level. I don’t have to, but obviously I do, because that little weasel needs to learn some manners. There are at least ten popcorn kernels left at the bottom of the bucket, so I make frightening eye contact with the little rugrat before I dump the bucket over onto the floor. “Oops,” I say with a dainty shrug.
I’m feeling pretty good about my epic burn on that high schooler as I make my way to the parking lot—up until I trip on my own feet and accidentally slosh the rest of my Coke onto the front of my shirt. For a minute, I panic. But then I remember I’m trying to learn to love myself again even when I’m not all made up or perfectly put together. So, I do something I haven’t done in a long time and laugh it off. I look like a hot mess right now, and that’s okay.
Best part of all of this: I had a peaceful evening in comfy clothes, AND I still get to win my war with Ryan. Would I rather have been curled up in that theater holding on to his strong biceps? Yes. But under no circumstances must he learn that information.
I pull into my driveway and finally pull out my phone to send Ryan a taunting text about how great a kisser my date is, when I notice a light coming through my living room window. A light that I specifically remember turning off before I left.
I jerk my eyes to the street, and that’s when I notice what I didn’t notice before. RYAN’S CAR. What in the heck is he doing here? But I don’t have to think too long about that. He’s moving his chess piece across the board, is what. I have got to get that spare key back from him.