After I lock up the apartment, Kevin walks me to his car. Parked a few spots away is his black Ford Focus, which is riddled with stickers that insinuate that the car is fast. There’s also a few on there that boast sexual innuendos and allude to his hobbies. He climbs into the driver’s seat, and as I make my way around to the passenger’s side, I can make out the silhouette of a snowboarder near one of the taillights. Snowboarding isn’t really my thing. I’m not really into sports at all. But hopefully we’ll have other things in common. Hopefully.

The drive to the restaurant lasts about seven minutes. I would know considering that I checked my phone about a hundred times. After all, I was sitting awkwardly in a car next to a stranger. Who wouldn’t check their phone every ten seconds? For some reason, neither of us was willing to break the silence. We both listened to the extreme absence of sound, except for the quiet shifting of his car. I know I said it was only seven minutes but it felt like a lifetime.

I get flashbacks of sitting in Jake’s car, waiting for the police to arrive. I didn’t feel the same awkwardness then, but maybe it was the circumstances. Or maybe it was Jake’s personality. I find myself wondering what Jake is doing on a night like this. Where would he take me on a date? I think about something I saw in a movie once. This woman fell for the man that saved her from a serial killer and I think they called it “Florence Nightingale Syndrome”. Could this possibly be what I’m feeling when I think of Jake?

When the restaurant finally comes into view, I instantly recognize the gaudy decor of America’s favorite Italian restaurant chain. Olive Garden. I try not to judge him by his choice of restaurant but I guess Italian is a safe bet, considering he doesn’t know me at all. Because, who doesn’t like Italian food? But it dawns on me that that’s why he is dressed so informally. I’m definitely going to stick out like a sore thumb during dinner.

Kevin quickly pulls into a parking spot, about as far away as you can from the restaurant. Friday night at 5:30 was prime time for couples to have dinner at their favorite restaurant. I mean, I can’t imagine Olive Garden being anyone’s favorite restaurant, but to each their own. I sit quietly, puzzled, because even as packed as the restaurant is, there are spots much closer. As I exit the car, I realize that he didn’t park far away because there were no spots. He’s one of those guys that always parks far away because he doesn’t want anyone to hit his “expensive” car. Bro, it’s a Ford Focus. Calm down.

I roll my eyes as we head into the restaurant and eventually to our table. Still, there isn’t much going on in the conversation department, so I try to break the ice.

“So, Kevin, what do you like to do for fun?”
“I like snowboarding, going to the track, drinking with my friends, riding dirt bikes and four wheelers, hunting. Wait, did I say snowboarding?”
“Yeah, I think you mentioned that.”
“What about you? What do you do when you’re not getting your phone stolen by random guys.”

I force a laugh, trying to decide whether or not it was actually funny.

“Well, I like to paint and I’m a journalist for the Bellevue Bugle.”
“Wow, that’s cool. So you’re the creative type.”

He phrases it as more of a statement than a question. A statement that he doesn’t seem very pleased with. It was evident, just from the stickers on his car, that we were not each other’s type.

“Yup, that’s me.”

Another long, awkward pause. But then, as if sent from the heavens, our waiter approaches to provide us with some relief from this terrible conversation. Kevin perks up as well, clearly feeling the exact same way.

“Good evening. My name is Miguel and I’ll be your server tonight. Is this your first time at Olive Garden?”

 In unison, we both reply, “No”. I mean, who hasn’t been to Olive Garden?

“Great. Well, have you decided on drinks?”
“I’ll have a Pinot Grigio and a water with no ice, please.”
“I’ll take a Rolling Rock.”
“Great. And are you two ready to order or do we need a few more minutes?”
“I think I’m ready, if you are.”
“Sure. I’ll have the Tour of Italy.”
“That is a wonderful choice, Sir. It’s one of our most popular dishes. And for you, Miss?”
“I would love a bowl of Zuppa Tuscano and a side caesar salad, please.”
“Sounds wonderful. I’ll take your menus and I’ll be back with your drinks in a few minutes.”
“Thank you.”

We hand Miguel the menus and exchange forced smiles. How are we going to fill the silence until the food comes? I guess we’ll have to talk until we find something we have in common. At least, that’s what I thought. Needless to say, we waited for our food, received and ate our food, skipped dessert, and waited for the check and boxes, all without speaking a word to each other. Even Miguel could sense the tension between us and my conversation with him was ten times better than the one I had with Kevin.

After what felt like an eternity, but in reality was only an hour and a half, Miguel drops off the check and our boxed-up leftovers. We both wanted more than anything to pay the bill and get the hell out of here. But, it wasn’t until he looked at the check that he claimed he “accidentally” forgot his wallet at home. I think I can safely say that this is the worst date I’ve ever been on. On top of having absolutely nothing in common, he makes me pay the bill?! The only thing that’s keeping me from kicking this guy in the shins, is the thought of Rowan, waiting for me at my apartment.

I reluctantly foot the bill, leaving Miguel a generous 30% tip. Takeaway boxes in tow, we make our way to the car, the impending silent car ride in the back of both our minds. Finally, we arrive at my apartment and Kevin doesn’t even bother to walk me to my door. We exchange goodbyes in the car, a goodbye that consists of nothing more than sad smiles and awkward waves. As I ascend the stairs, I pull my phone from my purse and delete Kevin’s number from it. I don’t think either of us is going to be calling or texting the other anytime soon. I delete the texts as well, for good measure. No reason to have them haunting my inbox.

My apartment feels warm. The kind of warmth that envelops you and comforts you after a terrible night. I kick my heels off as I make my way into the bedroom. Seconds after walking in the door, my clothes are already off and I’m in the shower, more than ready to purge myself of the terrible evening. After about fifteen minutes of hot water raining down on my skin, I finish up and wrap myself in my favorite robe. It’s pink and plush and warm. Perfect for a night like tonight. With a second towel, I do that weird twisty thing that all girls do with their hair. It looks like soft serve ice cream on the top of my head.

I exit the bathroom and instantly hear a noise coming from the kitchen. I stop dead in my tracks, waiting for the sound again. A melodic ringing and tremorous vibrating indicates that it’s my phone. I shuffle over to the countertop, where I discarded it the second I walked in. I have one missed call. Rowan. I put the call on speaker and take note of the time. 7:47. She should be here any minute. I wonder why she’s calling.

“Hey. I was wondering what kind of wine you wanted. I’m at the store now.”
“Chardonnay is fine. What about you?”
“You know me. I’m getting White Zin. But I’m gonna check out. I’ll see you in like ten minutes.”
“Okay, bye.”

Rowan will be here any minute, so I should probably get dressed. I want to be comfortable but I want to look cute. I’m sure Rowan will show up looking amazing, like always. And then I’ll be standing there looking like a pumpkin, in my own house. I rifle through my wardrobe and find some patterned capri leggings. These always did make my ass look amazing. Then I throw on a baggy band tee, the one with Rowan’s favorite band on it, and step back to look at myself in the mirror. My brown hair hangs damply around my shoulders. The bags under my eyes are enormous. I quickly towel dry my hair, add some product to it and scrunch it, creating subtle waves. Plus, the product smells amazing.

I hear a loud knock at the door, no doubt Rowan. I toss the towel and my robe into the hamper, take one last quick look at myself and run to open the door for her. She’s standing there, in my doorway, in biker shorts, her favorite jogging sneakers and a tight camisole. Over it, a dark gray pea coat that she didn’t bother to close. She must be freezing. The sun set almost two hours ago and the temperature outside was starting to drop. But then again, she always was hot-blooded.

Rowan practically screams my name when I open the door. Wielding two bottles of wine, one in either hand, she shoves her way into my apartment and sets them down, loudly, on the coffee table. She strips off her coat and throws it over the back of one of my kitchen chairs. She grabs two glasses from a nearby cabinet and plops down on the couch, clearly ready to play Truth or Dare. I was more than reluctant to play. It was always Rowan’s favorite game in high school and usually someone ended up getting hurt, emotionally and/or physically. Though, I’m sure there won’t be too much damage because it’s just us.

“Hurry up! I’m soooo excited!”

The look on her face says it all. It has been a while since we’ve hung out and I can’t go too long without needing a healthy dose of Rowan. And there she was, sitting on my couch, waiting for me to join her. She sits cross-legged, using the arm rest to support her back. I do the same, mimicking her position. I have no idea how she sits like that. It’s so incredibly uncomfortable. It must be all the yoga she does.

Meanwhile, she pours two glasses of wine and hands me one, holding hers in the air and expecting me to do the same.

“To old friendships.”
“To old friendships.”

 Friends. We’ve been friends for 15 years. Just friends. I clink my glass against hers, and we both say “cheers”, Rowan a little more enthusiastically than me. She takes a generous sip while I take several generous gulps. I think she noticed.

“Rough night?”
“Oh, you have no idea.”
“You can tell me about it later. Let’s play. Truth or dare?”
“Woah, relax. This game was your idea so you have to go first. Truth or dare?”
“Dare, of course.”

I think for a moment. Rowan is the kind of person that isn’t afraid of anything. I could literally tell her to jump off the roof of my apartment, and she would do it. This is my favorite and my least favorite thing about her. Don’t get me wrong, I love that she will take a chance and try anything once. But by the same token, she will take things way too far just to say that she did it.

“There’s a bottle of hot sauce in the fridge. I dare you to drink the whole thing.”

She doesn’t even blink. I probably shouldn’t be surprised. She shoots up from her spot on the couch, walks over to the fridge, grabs the bottle of hot sauce and chugs it.

“Easy. Don’t be so soft, Torres. You’d better give me something harder next time.”

She returns to her seat, breath reeking of hot sauce, but it doesn’t seem to bother her at all.

“Okay, your turn. Truth or dare?”

Just as I’m about to answer “truth”, my phone pings from the kitchen. Before I can object, Rowan jumps up and grabs my phone off the counter.

“You got a text from some random number. It says, ‘I had a great time tonight. We should do it again sometime’. Who the hell is this from?! Did you go out on a date and not tell me?!”

I let the information sink in for a moment before answering her.

“Yeah, I just got back like 20 minutes before you got here. It was the rough night I was telling you about. I met this guy at the AT&T store when I was getting a new phone. He asked me out and we went to dinner AT OLIVE GARDEN. It was terrible. We had absolutely nothing in common, and he conveniently forgot his wallet at home, so I had to pay for dinner. We didn’t even say a word to each other on the car ride home.”
“Oh my God, that’s terrible. I can’t believe he made you pay. Hahaha.”

She starts laughing hysterically. I’m not sure what’s so funny but Rowan’s laugh has always been contagious. She’s just standing in the kitchen, holding my phone, doubled over, laughing so hard that I swear I saw tears come out of her eyes. I guess it was pretty funny. I mean, who makes the girl pay on the first date? We both cackled at my misery for about five minutes before Rowan sits down again, my phone in her hand. She gives it to me, the screen still showing the text from Kevin.

“I dare you to text him back.”
“What? Why?”
“Because you had a terrible time.”
“What would I even say?”
“Tell him that you had a shitty time and that he’s an asshole for making you pay!”
“No, I couldn’t do that. That’s mean.”
“After the night you’ve had, the only one that’s mean is this guy.”
“Kevin. His name’s Kevin.”
“Well tell Kevin to fuck off.”

Situations like this always make me extremely nervous. She’s right, I did have a terrible time, and he did make me pay. But what if I run into him on the street or I need to go into the AT&T store for something? On the other hand, it is a dare and I kinda dared myself earlier to act more like Rowan. I need to stop giving a shit about what people think. I start typing, unsure of what exactly I’m going to say. It takes me a little over ten minutes to come up with something actually worth sending. Of course, Rowan helped.

“I’m sorry but I have to be honest. We didn’t have a single thing in common and it was kinda awkward. Also, you’re a dick for making me pay. I don’t think there’s gonna be a second date. Have a good night.”

Rowan called me soft for not being more mean to him, but I was satisfied. I stare at the text for a moment, debating whether I should send it. I’m not really the straightforward, mean kind of person. Rowan, on the other hand, is exactly that person. She doesn’t really care who she’s hurting, as long as she’s telling the truth. But, reluctantly, I hit send and lock my phone, placing it on the coffee table.

“There, done. You turn. Truth or dare?”
“I did dare last time. So this time I’ll do truth.”

I didn’t need to think about this one for very long but I pretended to. There was something I’ve been wanting to ask her since we first became friends. We’ve never really talked about it and I thought tonight would be the perfect time. Lucky for me, we’re both two glasses into our bottles of wine. Asking it is a little easier with the help of some liquid courage.

“Have you ever done anything with another girl?”

She giggles and blushes slightly. No matter what the answer, I know that she won’t lie. Because, not only am I her best friend, but Rowan never lies about anything. She always owns up to everything, mistake or not.

“I made out with Claire Dawson in tenth grade at a party and I fooled around with one of my college roommates. But that’s it.”

 I never knew that about her. And Claire Dawson? I always hated her but this fact made me hate her even more. Or maybe it was envy.