Elevator Pitch (Hapless In Love #1)

1. Egg On Your Foot

1

egg on your foot

Selah

Manhattan, NY | September 2, 2023

When I sprayed perfume on my ankles tonight, I obviously had other plans. Instead, I ended up with my ankles in a public sink while I scrubbed raw egg off my foot. After the worst date I’ve ever had, I’d just like to go home, curl up with a book, and forget this ever happened. I’ve tried giving real men a chance, but that’s it. I’m deleting my dating profile and going back to fictional men.

I’ve committed to a date or two a week, and while I haven’t been successful, it’s been eventful, to say the least. I can’t say I wasn’t warned about the water conditions. If this is the dating pool, it’s a lazy fucking river. My girls have been very transparent about their experiences with dating, and I figured it wouldn’t be so damn bad since I wasn’t looking for love. I was sorely mistaken.

Last year, I created a version of a bucket list that I call a “ Fuck It List. ” My goal has been to force myself out of my comfort zone, and that includes sexual fantasies. After wasting my twenties with my abusive ex-fiancé, Jourdan, this list has allowed me to embrace my newfound freedom, and I hope to complete it all by my thirtieth birthday. I have accomplished a great deal, but I'm cutting it close with eight months left and a handful of tasks uncompleted.

I met the guy I just went out with on an app called SoulBlend , which is advertised as the most successful dating app for finding your perfect match. I personally haven’t seen any positive results, considering this is the twelfth date I’ve matched with, and I haven’t yet struck gold.

I’ve been transparent in therapy about what I’m doing here. It’s been two years since Jourdan, and I’m still not ready for a relationship, but I do have needs. Needs that a man hasn’t fulfilled in 788 days, but who’s counting? Surely, my friends are, who refer to me as "Cobweb Queen.”

I’ll admit it is funny.

While I'm very proud of my toy collection, and there isn't much it can't do, I'll need human interaction to check the more suggestive things off my list. That’s why I'm dating.

My Uber is ten minutes away. As I recount the events of this evening, I’m wondering when the exact moment I should’ve hidden in the bathroom or made up a fake emergency was. Was it when he interrupted me every time I spoke? Maybe when he called me Layla multiple times? Or better yet, when he tipped the chef forty fucking dollars after he dropped a raw egg on my foot, but the meal I wanted was too expensive? Either way, it was a train wreck, and I was chained to my seat with no choice but to sit and watch.

His name was Keith, and he was very handsome with dimples and a devilish smile. He had a really nice voice—the kind that would sound amazing in your ear, guiding you over the edge. Our love for music was one of the few things we had in common. He didn’t cross off many boxes, but he looked the part, and since I wasn’t seeking any other connection aside from his parts fitting into mine, I gave him a shot.

We had dinner at a hibachi grill. Nothing wrong with that, except when you’re on a first date, things are already awkward enough. Let’s add flair by sitting at a table beside strangers while trying to get to know each other. Fun.

The cook introduced himself, asking us to go easy on him since it was his first night on the floor. We cheered, and he started making the rice. He went around asking everyone what they’d like, and I wanted egg with my rice. You know how the cooks engage with the audience by making small talk while creating actual flames in front of you?

I did my best to ignore the fire dancing across the grill and focus on my date.

He started throwing food for people to catch in their mouths— count me out . My date, however, was catching loads of shrimp in his. I should mention that I hate shrimp. He had to be that person. He caught about eight pieces back-to-back. I’m sure he didn’t even take breaths in between. I was equally impressed and annoyed at the attention being directed my way. I wouldn’t be kissing him tonight, and he wouldn’t be using that mouth on me.

After the cook played catch the food , he started doing tricks with the eggs. Facing me, he threw an egg in the air and caught it with the side of his spatula, making a clean crack before placing it on the grill to cook. He grabbed another egg to repeat the trick, except the egg didn't fall on his spatula. It slipped through an open slot between the table and the grill…landing on my open toes . I wanted to scream, vomit, and commit assault. The internal panic was like a hundred fire alarms going off at once.

If there was ever a real-life moment to redeem a get-out-of-jail-free card, that was it.

My phone vibrates as I stand near the curb, waiting for my Uber. I’m shocked to see a Venmo request from Keith for twenty-five dollars. I assume he’d like to be reimbursed for that rubber dog toy of a steak he ordered me. Well-done steak and dog toys are basically the same thing. He left a note that simply states, “You are a bitch.”

This is why you don’t have to be nice to men.

I deny the request and send him fifty dollars instead. He obviously needs it, and I’m impressed at his audacity. I added a note: Take Layla somewhere that doesn’t serve eggs . I roar a laugh that would’ve surely earned me some stares back in St. Louis or West Chester. However, this is New York, and nobody gives a fuck. The city of minding your own damn business.

I should’ve moved here sooner.

A notification flashes on my screen: my driver, Deena, is approaching in a blue SUV. My Uber driver isn’t very social, which is fine by me. I settle in, block Keith’s contact, and screenshot the Venmo requests. The girls will have a good laugh about that.

I’ve still got a few more minutes before getting back to my place, so of course, I’m using that time to overthink. My therapist wants me to journal more, so I’m making bullet points to summarize the eventful date in my notes app. I was so considerate of Keith until it was painful, and I was called a ‘bitch’ anyway. I wasn’t even rude when I spoke up. I can’t win. I’m a people pleaser in recovery. We prioritize everyone else’s happiness, even strangers who don’t mean anything to us. It’s just in our nature. Externally, I’m too fucking nice. Internally, I’m a badass like the women in my family. I struggle with displaying both sides in a way that is healthy for me.

Something about Keith made me shut down like I was with Jourdan again. I think that’s why I couldn’t just fucking leave the restaurant, even with the strike system. Which is a guiltless system I created to give myself the green light to do something mean or inconsiderate whenever I feel unsafe, unhappy, or uncomfortable. If a date hits three strikes, I can lie, make an excuse, or tell the truth. It doesn’t fucking matter if I abide by the rules and leave .

I considered how I could’ve handled tonight differently. Like sending a text from the bathroom and sneaking out. It wouldn’t have been the first time, and I’m no stranger to bailing over a call or text. I even paused Harry’s House to dump my fiancé over the phone.

What? Harry told us to leave our boyfriends, and I listened.

If anything, a phone call was all he deserved after wasting five years of my life.

Acknowledging my tendency to please others and making a conscious effort to unlearn that behavior has been one of the most challenging aspects of my personal development. It takes some work to grow and unlearn this habit, but I’m progressing. I’m creating a life I’m pleased with by putting myself first. I refuse to apologize for who I’ve become because I’ll never be an afterthought again. I also believe that if I ever “settle down”, I won’t be settling in the least. Someone is out there waiting to love me . Someone will see all that I am and provide ample space for me to just be . Someone will contribute to the life I’ve created for myself without dimming my light.

I'd consider letting love in if I ever found someone like that. I understand that person is not on a dating app. After twelve doozies, I’m throwing in the towel and revising my list. I don’t need a partner, nor do I want one. I pull up my SoulBlend profile, and my thumb hovers over the deactivate button.

I am distracted when my Uber driver says, “We’re here.”

I grab my things and open the door.

“Thank you! Have a great night.”

She gives me a soft smile and a wave goodbye. I step onto the curb and head toward the entrance of my building. I’m greeted by our door attendant, David, and chat with him for a moment before I step through the doors, accidentally dropping my keys and bending to pick them up. As I rise, I see a tall figure heading toward the entrance out of the corner of my eye. I turn around and walk further into the lobby. It’s a dead zone, so I grab my e-reader, open to the chapter I left off on, and read it as I walk. I would’ve much rather spent my evening doing this than having a front-row seat at a shit show.

I hear the entrance door beep as someone enters the building and focus on my story, which is heating up, and I can’t wait for the spice. I stop once I’m close enough to the elevator and press the up button. Stepping aside, I read as I wait. Footsteps approach, from the person who came in behind me. Once they stand beside me, I’m enveloped in a heady scent. It’s intoxicating and sensual. Very masculine.

Judging by the scent, I’d imagine it’s something a man who goes for exactly what he wants would wear. He smells sexy . Very sexy. I don't bother looking up from my book to see his face because I no longer have the energy to converse with anyone. E specially not a man.