Page 6 of Big Dick Energy

My phone buzzed. For one pathetic, desperate second, I thought it might be Landon, with some elaborate explanation involving a car accident, a kidnapping, or alien abduction. At this point, I'd accept anything if it came with an apology.

It was my mom.

Mom: Did you have fun on your date? Is he nice? When can we meet him?

Davina: Great! Talk tomorrow!

I shoved my phone back into my purse with more force than necessary. Somewhere across town, Dallas was probably back at his table, entertaining his twenty-five-year-old with stories about whatever professional wrestlers talked about on dates. Protein intake? Body slam techniques?

Why was I still thinking about him?

I wasn't thinking about him.

I was thinking about how much I wasn't thinking about him, which was completely different.

She's twenty-five. Plenty old enough.

The way his jaw tightened when I'd made that crack about the kids' menu showed how much the comment got under his skin.

Not that I cared. I didn't care.

Here was what I didn't understand: I wasn't bad at first dates. I was funny. I was interesting. I could discuss everything from carburetors to the best way to make carbonara. I wore dresses that fit me, I smelled good, I laughed at jokes even when they weren't funny, because I was trying.

And yet.

Seven first dates in the last four months. Seven. Not one second date. Three ghosts, not including tonight’s: two, I’m just not feeling a connection, texts, and one I'm getting back together with my ex,” and one guy who'd told me I was intimidating, which was apparently code for too successful and not apologetic enough about it.

Meanwhile, Dallas Dodger could probably show up to a date covered in Cheeto dust, monologue about himself for two hours straight, and still have women fighting to give him their numbers.

God, I've missed this.

STOP IT, BRAIN.

What was wrong with me? Was it my laugh? Did I talk too much? Not enough? Was I too curvy? Not curvy enough? Too ambitious? Too…

I stopped myself before I spiraled any deeper. I ran a company that celebrated women of every size. I'd built an empire on the principle that everybody deserved to feel beautiful. I couldn't exactly preach self-love on my podcast every week and then spiral into self-hatred over a guy named Landon.

But knowing and feeling it were two very different things, and right then I felt like I was carrying a neon sign that read “unlovable,” complete with flickering bulbs and a sad trombone sound effect.

I finally reached my building, a converted warehouse with exposed brick and a temperamental elevator, but it was secure, and that was what was important. The first floor was where the magic happened for Curvy Closet Apparel, and now it was also the office and studio of the Big Girl Panties Podcast. Most of the second floor was where I lived, and the rest was offices for my company.

Even though I could afford more now, I liked my cozy apartment, plus I preferred to put my money elsewhere, like back into my company, paying my employees better, and charities that were important to me. I didn’t grow up with money, but I grew up happy thanks to my amazing parents. The first thing I did when I made it was buy them a house.

I trudged up the stairs because the elevator was out of order… again, my feet screaming in these heels.

I fumbled with my keys, dropped them once, swore creatively, and finally managed to unlock my door.

I stepped inside, and…

“AROOOOOOO!”

Ricky.

My two-year-old dachshund launched himself at me like a furry, elongated missile. He was performing his signature move: the Full Body Wiggle, where his entire tiny sausage-like body shook with so much excitement that he could hardly walk straight. His ears flopped as he whipped his tail wildly. His small legs scrambled against the hardwood floor.

“Hi, baby,” I said, and to my absolute horror, my voice cracked.

Ricky did not care that I was on the verge of tears. He only cared that I was home.