Page 34 of The Comeback Summer

No more.

“Okay, it’s time,” Libby says, facing me across our office. “You ready?”

My stomach flips over. “No.”

“It’s going to befine. Rob is very nice.” She picks up her phone, scrolls to the app, and rattles off information. “Thirty-two, six foot one, a Chicago native. Rescue dog named Bartholomew. Hobbies include playing board games and cooking recipes passed down by his Italian grandmother. He’s cute, right?”

She turns the phone to show me his picture.

“He’s a generic white guy,” I say flatly. “Nothing about him stands out at all.”

Libby huffs. “Not everyone needs to look like a Disney prince.”

“That’s not what I mean. It’s better if there are identifying characteristics. Piercings, tattoos, facial hair, birthmarks. Just in case...”

“Stop,” Libby says, knowing exactly where my mind is going. “Not every man is a murderer.”

“Sure, but no one suspects the ordinary-looking white guys, so they’re the ones who keep on killing, and killing, and killing...”

My sister sets the phone down and takes my hands in hers. “Han. It’s going to be okay. You’re meeting him in a public place, and it’s just a drink.”

I freeze. “What? I told you no drinks or dinners. You promised!”

She at least has the decency to look apologetic. “We couldn’t make anything else work out. It’s just a quick drink to see if you’re compatible.”

My breathing goes shallow. Those chattering monkeys who live in my brain double and triple and quadruple until my mind is nothing more than a string of panicked thoughts.I hate walking into bars by myself. What if he doesn’t show up? What will we talk about? What if I get sick or spill my drink or blurt out something ridiculous?

I know it doesn’t make sense. I know. Iknow. But anxiety isn’t rational. And sure, Libby’s been talking to this guy on the app, but it’s easy to seem nice online. Aside from all my normal (ha!) anxieties about meeting a new person, there’s a small butnot-zeropossibility that he’s a predator.

“I hate you,” I whisper to her.

“But Ilooooooveyou!” she responds, giving me two thumbs-ups as she ushers me out the door.

As we pass the front desk, Great Scott looks up from his phone and puts his hand on his heart.

“Go with God,” he says solemnly.

•••

A FEW MINUTESlater, I’m sitting at a table at Tavern on Rush, across from Rob. The bar is packed with older men and younger women, and the vibe is everything I hate: dark, loud, crowded. It’s also fancier than I expected, and I feel underdressed in my vintage Nirvana T-shirt, denim skirt, and Converse. Within a few minutes, I have a headache from the competing noises of conversation and clinking glasses.

And Rob? Not a thing in his profile appears to be true. He’s maybe an inch taller than me, not six foot one. And there’s no way he’s thirty-two—the pictures on his profile were probably from a decade and about four inches of hairline ago. Not that I’m judging his appearance, but I don’t like that he misrepresented himself.

Oh, and the rescue dog? He gave it back to the shelter because it was too needy.

Asshole.

The one positive is that Rob is a talker, which at least keeps me from having to think of much to say.

Here’s how our conversation is going:

Upon noticing my T-shirt: “Oh, you like Nirvana? Name ten songs.” When I can’t, he scoffs and says, “Figures,” then launches into a diatribe about the ridiculousness ofbandwagon fans.

On the subject of movies: “Who’s your favoriteStar Warscharacter?” When I say I like Rose Tico, he mutters, “Typical,” and lectures me about how Hollywood’s obsession with political correctness has destroyed theStar Warsuniverse.

Regarding his work: “I’m an entrepreneur. You ever hear of the gig economy?” then he rambles until I tune him out (but I’m pretty sure he does DoorDash and Uber Eats).

When the server brings our drinks: “It’s about time, Usain Bolt,” with an exaggerated eye roll in my direction, which I do not reciprocate.

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