She makes a face. “Do you think it sends the wrong message?”
“Nah, you look sexy as hell. Own it. He’ll be begging for a second date.” Jerome fist-bumps Mark.
“And picking up the tab.” Mark pretends to make it rain dollar bills.
“I’ll pay for my own drink, but it’s good to know showing off my legs can cut down on my expenses.” Avery smirks.
“Do you have any other options? Maybe you want to show us a couple other ones and we can vote on a fave?” I suggest. “What about that army-green shirtdress?”
“Oh! Yes. Okay. London loaned me a couple other dresses, but I think they might be overkill. I’ll try on the shirtdress first.”
She disappears down the hall with the clickity-click of her heels, and I go back to watching the game. Except I can feel Jerome and Mark staring at me. “What?”
“Why would you want her to change out of that? And what the hell is a shirtdress?” Jerome asks.
“Just for options, you know? Girls usually like to change five times before a date. She probably threw on the first thing she found.” There’s a silence, but I purposefully avoid looking at either of them.
“Yeah, whatever, man.”
A minute later she reappears, this time wearing the shirtdress.
“Oh yeah, that’s perfect.” I lick the wing sauce off my finger and give her two thumbs-up.
Jerome’s expression screams what the fuck? “Don’t listen to D, he’s high or something. Wear the black one.”
“Avery looks great in this dress,” I argue. Also, this dress is baggy and virtually shapeless. The hem ends at her knees and it has short sleeves, which means there’s a lot less skin on display.
“I agree with Jerome. You should definitely wear the other dress.” Mark says. “You look like you’re interviewing for an elementary school teaching position.” Mark happens to teach elementary school, so he’s familiar with teacher wear. “And while there’s nothing wrong with that dress in an elementary school, it definitely does not scream hot, sexy, and single like the other dress.”
“Okay. Thanks, guys!” And off she flounces down the hall. To change back into the other dress. The one I would like to put through a paper shredder.
Five minutes later, Avery’s back in the black dress. She’s paired it with a cropped jean jacket—I have to assume it either belongs to London or Harley since I’ve never seen her wear it before—and the giant bag she takes with her everywhere.
“Have a good night, guys.” She heads for the front door.
Jerome and Mark wave her off, too enthralled with the game to care, I guess.
“You’re gonna text every couple of hours with updates, right?” I call out.
“Huh?” She has her phone in her hand, her attention fixed there. Possibly messaging this dude she’s going out with.
“You’re gonna message and let me know if you’re planning to come home or whatever.”
“Seriously?” She stops texting so she can arch a brow.
I arch one right back. “Uh, yeah, seriously. We don’t even know what this guy’s name is. Where’d you meet him? How long have you known him?”
She scoffs, “You’re being ridiculous, Declan.”
“Am I, though? What about that guy who answered a Craigslist ad for a hookup and ended up dismembered and decapitated?”
Avery purses her lips. “First of all, I would never answer a dating ad on Craigslist. Secondly, I’m driving my own car to the restaurant, and I have no plan to go home with this guy. It’s drinks and that’s it.”
“Yeah, but—”
She holds up a finger. “London and Harley already know where I’m going, and we all have that tracking app on our phone so we can locate one another in case of an emergency.”
“Oh. Well, maybe we need to get that app too.” Avery’s taken self-defense and she’s athletic, but knowing she’s not locked in the trunk of some random lunatic’s car is always a bonus. It’s not like she hasn’t gone on dates before. She has, plenty of times. She’s had a few short-term boyfriends even, but they usually don’t last very long. I’ve never seen her put this much effort into a date before, especially not a first freaking date.
“I’ll send you a link.” I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not. “Would you also like me to provide updates on the lines he uses when I go to the bathroom?”
“Ooh, yeah! We can rate them based on how bad they are!” Jerome and Mark fist-bump each other again.
Avery laughs and opens the door. “You guys are the worst.”
And then she’s out the door.
I shift my focus to the game and chug half my beer, not liking the sudden uneasiness in my gut.
As soon as there’s a commercial break, Jerome clears his throat, and I glance over to find both of them staring at me. “What?”
“What’s the deal?” Mark cocks a brow.
“The deal with what?”
“That shirtdress was fucking hideous,” Jerome says.
“It looks good on her.” That’s a lie. I’m highly aware that it’s hideous, which was the damn point.
They give me a disbelieving look.
I sigh and roll my beer bottle between my palms. “It was the first I’ve heard of this guy, and I want to make sure she’s safe. Don’t you?”
“By monitoring her with a locator app?”
“What if the guy is a creep?”
“Then she’ll message and bail. She can take care of herself,” Jerome says.
“I know that.”
But it doesn’t mean I don’t worry about her.
Even when we moved in together, she was casually dating someone, so there was nothing to be concerned about. And by that time, I’d witnessed all of Avery’s moods, from premenstrual to downright surly. We’d been through a lot together, and I never wanted to put our friendship at risk.
But I can’t say that I love that she’s on a date with some random dude whose name we still don’t know, wearing a dress that makes me see her through a totally different lens. I need a distraction.
“Do you guys want to hit the bar?”
4
IT’S A BUST
AVERY
“I’ve had more stimulating conversation with a hobbyhorse.”
Both London and Harley make cringey faces. It’s Saturday night, and as promised, I came straight from my date to help them clean up after the dinner.
Now that the hobbyhorse awards dinner is over, the three of us are gathered in the office, eating leftovers and engaging in a post-date debrief.
“But he was so hot.” London pops an olive into her mouth.
“And that, sadly, is all he has going for him. At least one of us has had success with this app.” I pull up Brock’s profile on IG since he made sure I followed him within two minutes of sitting down. Then he proceeded to go through every single photo and explain, in painstaking detail, how much time, effort, and energy went into training to become as physically perfect as he proclaimed himself to be. I set my phone on the table facing my sisters, presenting them with the glory of everything Brock Stone. Shirtless, muscle-popping wonder with the intellectual capacity of a gnat. “If I’d had all the necessary information, I could have done the requisite social media check pre-date and avoided wasting my time.”