Page 50 of Feels Like Home

“Yeah, okay.” I roll my eyes. “I think it’s more likely that everyone around here knows I’m undateable.” The word slips out so fast, and I instantly regret it.

“What?” He sounds genuinely surprised. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s a well-known fact around here.” I start walking again. “Let’s just say that I’ve been on a lot of first dates.”

He tugs me to a stop, confusion on his face. “And?”

“And? And that’s it,” I say. “I never get a second one.” Gosh, this feels personal. And pathetic. Why am I telling him this?

“And you think that’s your fault?” he says, more like he’s trying to sort something than asking an actual question.

“I’m the common denominator.” I shrug. “It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. I’ve got stuff to do, I don’t have time to watch the Dales of the world eat with their hands and forget to zip their jeans.” I squint over at him, then put on my sunglasses. Somehow it feels a little less revealing that way. “Why are we talking about this again?”

He laughs softly. “Hey, you grabbed my hand and made it seem like we were together. I’m just trying to work out the details.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I say through gritted teeth, thinking now I’m going to have to either tell everyone they’re insane for thinking it, or keep up the ruse.

Hmm. Keep up the ruse.

Stop it, Hattie.

“Any guy out there would be lucky to date you, Hattie.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not interested in finding out,” I say. “Dating is actually the worst.” I wander into a booth selling headbands that I absolutely don’t need. I don’t even wear headbands.

He follows me into the booth and pretends to look around. “What’s so bad about dating?”

“Do you like dating?” I ask, not really wanting to know.

“No one likes dating. But . . .” He shrugs and looks away. “But you kind of have to date to find someone, right?”

I scoff. “I’m sure you and I have very different experiences.”

“Okay, so tell me,” he says.

“Okay,” I say, aware I might regret this whole conversation later. “It usually goes like this—match with a random guy on some dating app, which only shows a picture that doesn’t even look like him. Or, better yet, since everyone knows practically everyone else in this town, you get set up by some grandma looking for a wife for her out-of-work grandson so he’ll get out of his mom’s basement.

“They ask you out—but not for dinner, oh no, just for drinks or coffee because he’s not sure you’re worth a whole meal.”

Noble’s going to regret asking me this question.

“The day comes around, and you think twice about going because you know it’s going to be awkward, but you feel like you should because, you know, biological clock and whatever, so you put on clothes you aren’t comfortable in and spend an hour in the bathroom making yourself look a certain way—you have to paint it up, because apparently that’s what guys look for⁠—”

“Not all guys,” he cuts in, but I hardly even pause.

“So you think, ‘What the heck, maybe he’ll surprise you. Maybe it’ll be different this time.’” I put a hand on his arm for a split second. “It’s never, ever different.”

I stop moving and pick up a colorful scarf that I think is supposed to be worn in your hair. “Is this cute?”

He shrugs, his face looking like he’s doing long division in his head. “Sure?”

I put it back. “Or the date is on a weeknight, after work, and even though you’ve had a really long day, you decide to go. Because you’re thirty-one and single and you’re running out of options.

“But guess what! You can’t wear your work uniform, right? So that morning, you have to pack a go-bag with a change of clothes and everything you’re going to need to make sure you look your very best—first impressions and everything. You’ve got your toothbrush, curling iron, makeup. You might as well be moving in. Change my address, boss! I live here now!” I pause. “You get the picture.”

His face says he doesn’t get the picture.

I don’t care. I forge ahead like a ten-pound wheel of cheese down a hill in England.