Page 13 of Not Dating Material

I offer what I hope is a friendly smile. “The other gentleman didn’t pay?” He’d specifically said it was his treat, and judging by the Rolex he was flashing around, he could certainly afford it.

“No.” The server folds his arms.

“Right. Of course. Yes.” I scramble for my wallet and thank the universe when I’m able to pull my card out without dropping it. “Here.”

Then I’m left standing right in the walkway while he disappears with my card. I can still feel the weight of people watching me. He’s sneering when he returns and hands it over.

“I assumed someone in your … profession was happy with a twenty percent tip.”

I have no clue what he’s talking about as I take my card back. “Ah, yeah. Thanks. That’s fine.”

He eyes me. “I didn’t realize they let people use an alias on credit cards these days. Happy hunting, Molly.”

Then he turns and walks away.

I leave, face screwed up, confusion helping to keep the disappointment at bay until—

“He thought I was a hooker!”

The words burst from me, startling the family walking past, but I’m too mortified to care. I bolt for my car, yank the door open, and throw myself into the front seat before the tears can come.

As I sit there and sob, I can’t work out what I’m so upset about. In college, I knew plenty of people who engaged in sex work to get by. Stripping and porn … whatever. You do you. But thinking of all those eyes on me, all those people watching and judging and making assumptions about me … thinking I’m beneath them.

Is that what Gerald thought too?

Holy shit. My face is burning, indignation racing through my veins and making my hands shake. Somehow, I get the car on and hit the road, heading home where I can hopefully spend the night in bed, nursing yet another broken heart.

It’s not even broken over Gerald. It’s broken for me and all the effort I put into dating and relationships only to never be enough. I want my person, but I’m beginning to feel like no person wants me.

My tears are sticky on my cheeks by the time I pull up home, and I’ve got a headache building behind my eyes. I park in the driveway, slam the door, then stomp my way inside. As much as I want to run and hide, I make out voices coming from a room down the hall, and I could swear Madden is one of them.

Madden, who set up this nightmare of a date to begin with.

And if I can’t get ragey at fucking Gerald, I sure as hell can get ragey at him.

“What in the hell, Madden?” I gasp as soon as I reach the doorway. “Did you tell Gerald I was a … a … a call boy?”

“What?” He shoves to his feet. “What did he say to you?”

I open my mouth to relay everything, and—nothing comes to mind. “He … he asked to leave together.”

“Okay.”

“And I said no …”

Madden’s soul almost leaves his body, I swear. “Did he try to force you?”

“No, nothing like that. He said it was fine and ended the date.”

“And …”

“And he was leaving!”

“Right …” Madden’s anger is being replaced by confusion.

“Without my number! He was leaving, and I told him that it was fine and I’d go home with him, but then people were staring, and he left anyway, even though I—” I clamp my hands over my mouth as the thought hits me that maybe I brought this on myself.

“Molly …” Madden’s lips curl at the corners. “What did you say?”

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