Page 7 of I Saw Her First

His mouth curls back into that grin. A car’s horn honking behind us makes us turn to the street.

“I’d love to stay and chat,” he says, pocketing his phone, “but my ride is here. I’ll text you later.”

I nod, watching as he climbs into a heavily modified Dodge Challenger. The tinted windows obscure any view of the driver, and the car is so low it barely clears the ground. My stomach falls at seeing him climb into such a ridiculous car. Part of me had thought he was different from guys my age, but that car is all I need to know I was wrong.

By the timeI get home, I’ve all but convinced myself to cancel plans with… what was his name? Jesse. What was I thinking, agreeing to go out with a total stranger? Sure, he was cute, but is he really the kind of guy I want? Someone who smokes weed, who gets around in a car that looks like something off the set ofThe Fast and the Furious?

Besides, is my life really so bad as it is?

After letting myself into the apartment I share with Denise in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn, I set the Thai takeout down on the kitchen counter and open the fridge, looking for something to drink. Hundreds of pink Post-Its assault my vision, each with a huge letter ‘D’ on them, and I roll my eyes. “Oh, for fuck’s sa—”

“Good, you’re home.”

I snap my mouth shut, turning to see my roommate standing behind me, blond hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, one manicured hand resting on her hip. I know what this pose means; she’s pissed about something I’ve done, even though I tread very carefully around our apartment.

“Hey,” I say warily, grabbing a bottle of water from the door of the fridge. It’s one of the few items without a Post-It on it, because it belongs to me.

“You ate my yogurt again.” Denise’s eyes follow the water bottle as I carry it to the living room with my dinner, no doubt checking it’s mine.

The tiredness from the day finally catches up with me, and I sink onto the sofa. “I didn’t eat your yogurt. I ate the yogurtIbought. It was on my shelf.”

At least twice a week we have this conversation. It’s exhausting.

“You can’t sit out here,” she says, gesturing for me to move. “I’ve got the girls coming over for the final ofThe Bachelor.”

I press my eyes shut for a beat, summoning patience. It’s never worth fighting with Denise, because it makes life in this apartment extremely unpleasant.

“Fine.” I rise to my feet, grabbing my dinner and bottled water. At least she’s forgotten about the yogurt. “I’ll eat in my room.”

The word “room” is way too generous, though; it’s more like an alcove off the living room with nothing but a curtain separating it from the rest of the apartment, which is why I can afford to live in this neighborhood on a barista’s income. I think it was once the dining room in the original layout of the house before someone broke it into apartments, but I can’t be sure. Either way, it gives me the space I need for a twin bed, dresser, and an armchair with a view overlooking the street, but it has almost no privacy. Usually, Denise goes out with “the girls,”but it seems tonight I’ll be subjected to them tearing apart the women ofThe Bachelor.

As Denise’s friends arrive, I pull the curtain to my room shut, shoving my noise-canceling headphones onto my ears. Then I settle into my armchair and kick my feet up onto the windowsill, looking out across the street as I eat. The food is as good as last time, and I try not to feel guilty about spending what little extra cash I have on takeout, instead of cooking. I used to love cooking, but it’s hard when I share a kitchen with Denise. The shrieks from the living room cut through my headphones, and I fight the urge to hurl myself out the window. I’ve been unhappy in this apartment for some time now, but the thought of trying to find a new place to live is overwhelming. Denise usually calms down after a while, and I usually convince myself everything is fine.

Though as I sit here, thinking back over my day, everything feels far from fine. I’ve spent seven years in a job I only ever intended to be short-term. I’m still a virgin who’s never been in love. And my living situation makes me want to tear my hair out.

But tonight, something different happened. Tonight, I got asked out by a cute guy.

I reach for my phone to reread our brief text exchange, as if to reassure myself that it was real and I didn’t imagine the whole thing. And there on the screen is a text from him.

Jesse: It was nice to meet you tonight. Unexpected and really nice.

With a smile I set my food down, responding.

Daisy: It was nice to meet you too.

I know the standard thing for guys is to play it cool and not text back immediately, so I probably won’t hear from him again tonight, and that’s—

My phone buzzes in my hands. I stare in surprise at the reply he’s sent.

Jesse: I’m looking forward to tomorrow night. What kind of food do you like?

I glance at the Thai food and grin, replying. And to my amazement, he replies immediately again. I ask his age: twenty-three. He’s younger than I’d hoped, but the way he texts back in such a timely manner—and doesn’t ask me to send nudes—gives me hope.

Maybe I misread him earlier.

We chat while I finish up my food and get ready for bed. Denise’s friends are still here, so I climb under the comforter, my noise-canceling headphones still in place, and when I tell Jesse I’m going to bed, he sends me a kiss. It’s sweet, if not a little premature.

I think again about his cute, mischievous smile, and snuggle under my comforter, trying to ignore the raucous laughter of Denise’s friends that cuts through my headphones. I want to get out of my rut, and going out with Jesse is a good first step. I can’t help but smile as I close my eyes, and for the first time in months, I drift off thinking of someone other than Weston.

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