Page 1 of The Dating Game

Chapter 1

Brooke

Whoeversaidknowledgeispower obviously forgot to factor in anxiety. Case in point, here I am in the middle of the sky being reminded by a voice playing over the intercom how to open my parachute and all I can think is: Did you know that 1 in 1,000 people end up having to use their reserve parachute because their first one malfunctions?

And sure, that’s the whole point of having a reserve parachute, and nobody is really dying from having to use it, but still. Imagine if every 1000 concerts Taylor Swift came out and said, “I don’t feel like performing tonight, so my backup singers are going to cover for me. But it’s fine because you still get to see a concert.”

Um, yeah the crowd would riot. Riot!

True, I’m not sure she’s even performed 1,000 concerts, but my point remains: Where are all the rioters that should be on this plane with me?

Perhaps I should use this time of ascent to alert my fellow skydivers of the risks involved in dying—I mean skydiving.

That guy over there, for instance, is chomping on his gum and pulling his ears. Obviously the altitude change is causing him some issues. What does he think will happen when he jumps? Because if he survives the dive he looks like the perfect candidate for a case ofsinus barotrauma, which occurs when air molecules contract inside the open sinus and results in sinus pressure and facial pain.

Don’t even get me started on the headaches, nausea, and dizziness many skydivers report experiencing afterwards.

“You okay, Brooksie?” Grant—aka the man who orchestrated this whole near death experience—asks, patting me on the leg. I hold back a wince. I hate when he calls me Brooksie. It makes me feel about 7. And, seeing as he is my boyfriend, you’d think that he wouldn’t want me to feel like a 7-year-old. After all, when I was 7 the only guy I wanted to kiss was Aladdin. Though, in retrospect, this was a horrible choice given he shares Grant’s propensity for high-risk airborne activities. I donotwant to see a whole new world on your magic carpet ride, Aladdin. Hard pass.

“I’m fine,” I manage to grit out. “Just a little nervous.”

“Don’t you worry, Brooksie,” he says with a squeeze of my thigh. It’s annoying, really, that he thinks we’re at the stage in our relationship where he can just touch my bare thigh whenever he wants to. But I don’t tell him to stop. Things are already slightly precarious between us due to my lack of excitement when he presented me with a gift the other night. The gift was, as I’m sure you can guess, two tickets to go skydiving.

I’m not sure what vibe I’m putting off that says I’m a woman who would want to strap on a flimsy piece of nylon then send up a prayer that it opens up correctly as I jump millions (a ballpark number) of feet to the ground, but I am going to have to work on nixing that vibe.

I tried to explain to Grant that I have a very reasonable and healthy fear of heights, and he in turn told me that it was neither reasonable nor healthy to indulge my fears. And then, after I still pushed back, Grant said we had to do it because he’d bought a Groupon. A Groupon! I’m sorry, but there are a lot of things I like getting ata discount: clothing, food, anything I buy on Amazon—to name a few. But right at the top of my list of things I’d rather not get at a discounted price: skydiving. No, ma’am. Give me all the full price skydiving experiences. In fact, I’m willing to pay extra for a top notch parachute and instructor.

Honestly, if I die falling out of this godforsaken plane, I hope it will comfort Grant to know that at least my death was 32% off its regular price.

Seven more weeks, I remind myself. If I survive this dive I will only have to put up with Grant for seven more weeks. Then I can break up with him and go on a proper rant about skydiving and thigh touching and horrible nicknames.

“Alright, divers,” a voice booms from the front of the plane, “we just hit 5,000 feet in altitude and are rapidly approaching an altitude of 10,000 feet, which is our anticipated dive height. Time to find your instructor and get hooked up.” I look to the source of the voice, noting in spite of my current state of fear, that the man speaking is very attractive. Just looking at him is calming some of my nerves.

He’s broad-shouldered with hazel eyes and skin bronzed from the sun. His wavy, chestnut-colored hair has a windswept look to it that suggests this upcoming dive won’t be his first of the day. But the thing I notice most is his smile. It’s wide and open, genuine and energized— like he’s just happy to be here. And I don’t mean here, as in, on this plane preparing to lead us to our death. No, I mean here, as in, on this planet.

It’s mesmerizing.

“10,000 feet, Brooksie,” Grant whispers excitedly in my ear, and I hurry to rip my gaze off instructor man. I have a boyfriend. So I should not be noticing the magnetic smiles of any other men.

Even if I amonly still dating Grant to prove a point to my way-off-base friend, Sydney. I do not bounce from guy to guy. Nor—in what she called the definition of dating insanity— do I date different versions of the same man all the while expecting different results.

Sure, I may have once dated another guy named Grant, but he was brunette. My current Grant is blonde—or at least he has slightly lighter brown hair, anyway. And fine, I also once dated this guy who called me Brookie. But Brookie and Brooksie are very different—albeit equally irritating—nicknames. And yes, I have dated an awful lot of accountants and lawyers. But it’s not as if I go seeking these men out. There are simply lots of accountants and lawyers in the world.

The important thing to remember is that I’m obviously expanding my horizons because I’ve never dated a man who wanted to go skydiving before. Which might be because if anyone had ever brought it up in a past relationship, I would’ve dropped them faster than a hot pan, but still. I do not date cookie cutter men. And I am fully capable of dating a man for more than a month.

Grant here proves that. We’ve been dating for five weeks, which may only be seven days longer than my average relationship, but seven days is a significant amount of time. I mean, God made the whole world in seven days.

Instructor man is still talking, but it’s hard to focus on what he’s saying because my brain is chirping, “10,000 feet! 10,000 feet!” over and over like it’s my new life mantra. Or rather death mantra.

Next to me Grant whoops his excitement. He does that a lot. Whoops, I mean. Light turns green as we approach—whoop! First bite of dinner is delicious—whoop! He thinks I look pretty tonight—whoop!

I still find this last one especially off-putting. It begs the question: in his mind is me putting a dress on for dinner out akin to an athlete scoring a touchdown?

But also, I forcibly remind myself, I really like my boyfriend and am looking forward to dating him for seven more weeks. No less.No.More.

“Baby doll, you getting up?” Grant asks me. Baby doll? Add that to the list of things I will be going off on him about when we break up in seven weeks.

“I’m actually good right where I am,” I inform him.

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