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Chapter One

How long am I required to sit and listen to my dinner date talk about pus and rashes before it’s no longer considered rude to leave? I’ve had the pleasure of hearing about his little sister’s skin condition with a ridiculously long name that he kept referring to as chicken skin. Of course, I have a chicken dish sitting in front of me, which I can’t eat now. I do feel sorry for his little sister. Poor thing. But with my appetite ruined, “sorry” isn’t what I’m feeling for her brother.

Especially after the mention of the garlic in my dish reminded him to tell me all about his dad’s chronic bad breath and all the medical treatments he’s attempted, which haven’t helped. And then there’s the nugget of information about how my date hasn’t celebrated a birthday since he turned eight, when his cat chewed an electrical cord and got crisped at his party. Yes, he used the word crisp, which is also in the name of the chicken dish I can no longer eat.

I’m clearly not going to use my fork again, so I set it down and study the wallpaper. I’ve been here several times, but never really noticed the décor. The red velvet walls with elaborate gold designs seem extravagant for a small-town Chinese restaurant. Maybe even old-fashioned. I don’t pretend to know the current trends in restaurant decor, but everything in this restaurant seems aged and worn. I chose it because I know they have good food and great service. At least I can enjoy the latter.

I tap my phone screen to check the time.

“Do you have a date?” Jimmy asks with a snort.

I narrow my eyes at him. “Isn’t that what you are?”

“It was a joke. Doesn’t anyone ever say that to you when you’re checking the time?” He pretends to check his watch. “What’s the hurry, Jimmy? Got a date?”

“Yeah…no one has ever said that to me before.”

Jimmy brightens. “But that reminds me of this one date I was on when…”

As my friend Ava would say, Kill. Me. Now .

Ava, our other friend Bek, and I refer to Jimmy as Hot Dog Cart Guy. I met Jimmy when I was on a date with Barista Boy. I knew pretty quickly that Barista Boy and I weren’t going to work out, but I remembered the attractive food cart vendor I enjoyed talking to during my second date with Barista Boy. I swung by the cart—by myself, of course—a couple of times and found Jimmy super easy to talk to. And he made me laugh, so I asked him out.

Not even an hour into the date and I want to stab my eardrums with an ice pick until they bleed. Except for the random one he just asked that made no sense, he hasn’t asked a single question about me. I find that strange. It isn’t like the date must be about me, but shouldn’t he at least want to know me a little? Standard questions about school, family, hobbies. Anything. I’ve stopped asking questions because the answers have all led to stories that involve something gross. Often involving blood, secretions, or weeping wounds.

I check my phone again and cringe when I see it has only been three minutes since the last time I checked it. I pick up my empty water glass and wave it in the air for our server, who I think is avoiding our table for the same reason I want to flee. These stories are not mealtime friendly.

“…so, then we had to scrape all the slime from the inside of the refrigerator before the party! Can you believe we made it on time?”

I shake my head. Remind me never to go to Jimmy’s house. I have no clue what he’s been talking about, but that sounded rank.

“So, how long have you worked for the hot dog cart?” I immediately bite my tongue. A self-punishment for asking another question.

“It’s my dad’s. So, forever, basically.”

My stomach roils. Though I wasn’t listening to know how the slime he mentioned got in his refrigerator, what if that same slime found its way to the hot dog cart? I ate hot dogs from his cart! I pray they are cleaner with the cart than they are with their personal refrigerator.

“I don’t mind the work though. I get to be outside,” Jimmy says. “And I get to meet amazing people like you.”

I smile. That was sweet.

The server materializes beside me to tip water into my glass. He tops off Jimmy’s and then asks me, “Are you still working on that?” We both look down at the plate still laden with fried rice and crispy garlic chicken. I say a silent apology to the delicious food for my loss of appetite and shake my head. I’m pretty sure the server gives me a commiserating look as he snatches my plate and leaves. I watch him go with envy.

“But boy do I have stories from working the cart!” Jimmy continues. Of course he does. And odds are I won’t like any of them. “There was this one time that a couple of dogs came out of nowhere and mauled a guy for the two hot dogs he’d just purchased. Man, there was blood everywhere. I swear, every dog in the park came over, hoping to get their nose in it.”

My grimace doesn’t indicate to him that I don’t like the story. Though it should. I’m envious of the other patrons, laughing and engaging with one another, sharing stories that most likely don’t include blood or halitosis. Mom always taught me to exit an awkward or uncomfortable situation with grace. Squinting at Jimmy, I wonder if he would recognize grace if it hit him upside the head.

I catch the server’s eye again and make a motion in the air like I’m writing. He nods and I feel a sense of relief already. Turning my attention back to Jimmy, I find he’s talking about the time their family dog got maggots.

“Jimmy!” I breathe. “Seriously, that is just too much.”

He misunderstands me. “I know, poor Fluffer Nutter was miserable.”

“No, I mean it’s completely inappropriate to talk about that at dinner. Why would I want to hear about these gross things while I’m eating?”

Jimmy blinks at me. “Gross things?”

His expression is like a deer in the headlights, and I feel like an ogre for pointing out what I feel is obvious, but now that I’ve brought it up, I can’t back down. I soften my tone though, because I truly don’t think he realized what he’s done. “Skin conditions and bad breath aren’t too bad, but slime in refrigerators, bloody face maulings, and maggots are definitely not mealtime conversations.” Especially, on a first date, I think.

His gaze falls to the table. “Oh, so, the plane crash and the boat propeller were bad then too, huh?”

I hadn’t even heard those stories. Man, I was tuned out. I tap my finger on the table. “Those would be good stories for around the campfire, I think.”

The server sets the bill on the table, and I snatch it before Jimmy gets a chance. I hand a fortune cookie to him. And set mine aside. “I’ll take care of this. And I’m sorry, but I really should get going. It’s getting late.”

He frowns and glances at the clock over the register by the doorway. “It’s only 7:00.”

“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I have a thing in the morning. I need to get to bed early tonight.”

I grab my purse and push away from the table. Jimmy follows me to the register.

“You don’t have to pay for dinner,” he says.

“I asked you out, remember?” I smile as I hand the bill and my credit card to the ancient Asian lady slouched on a stool behind the register. I add a tip to the slip she gives me and sign my name, before slipping my card and my receipt into my wallet and thanking her.

I push through the door, with Jimmy on my heels. “Thanks for coming tonight.”

“It was fun,” he says.

I don’t want to agree and give him the wrong idea, so I just smile again. I walk to my car and unlock the driver’s side door. We met here, so his car is somewhere else in the parking lot. It was nice of him to walk me to mine, though.

He opened the fortune cookie as we walked and now smiles as he reads aloud. “Your fortune is the people you surround yourself with.”

“That’s a nice one.”

“What does yours say?” He looks at my hands as if he expects me to be holding it.

“I didn’t open mine.”

His face falls like I just knocked his ice cream to the ground.

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around, Jimmy. I’ll stop by to say hi if I’m at the park.”

“How about we go out again? Have you seen that new cops and robber movie that’s out? What’s it called?”

Great. More blood. “I don’t think so, Jimmy. Thanks, though. But like I said, I’ll see you around. Drive carefully!”

I slide into my car and breathe a sigh of relief when the door closes me inside. As I start the engine, my hands shake a little like they always do when I tell a boy I don’t want to see him again. Jimmy stands outside my window, staring at me with his mouth agape. Guilt worms its way through me even though I haven’t done anything wrong. We simply aren’t compatible, and it isn’t worth trying to force it. I should know. I’ve dated a lot of guys and I’ve learned if the first date is a dud, every date afterward will be too.

I back out of the parking spot, careful to make sure my front bumper doesn’t hit him. Then I wave as I pull away. Hot Dog Cart Guy stares after me, in shock.