Jeanie
Gabe told me to dress nicely for our date. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I guessed my usual jeans and work boots were out. I put on the new dress I had bought previously for my interview, and hoped it wasn’t too wrinkly, because I didn’t even own an iron.
I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been on a real date. The hook-ups I’d had during my teenage years didn’t really count, and I’d only been out a handful of times since my recovery, mostly with friends.
It was almost like my date with Gabe was my first date. Ever. Maybe that’s why I felt so awkward and nervous as I checked the mirror for the fourth time. My hair was braided loosely, with a few curls purposely pulled out to frame my face. I’d put on some mascara and lip gloss, just because… It was a date. I felt weird
