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“Have you got condoms?”

I frown. “No. Should I?”

“Yes, you can’t trust men’s condoms. What if they’ve put a hole in it?”

“Why would they do that?” I ask, horrified.

“I don’t know. In case he’s purposely trying to spread his sexually transmitted diseases or some shit.”

“People do that?” I shriek.

“I’m not finding out. Get your own condoms to be safe.”

I put my hand over my eyes. “Honestly, Nat, I can’t do this.”

“Just shut up and stop acting all innocent. You’ve done it before.”

Him.

I feel anger bubble at the mere mention of Rico’s existence, and I roll my eyes. “He was different.”

“He was a complete asshole, that’s what he was. What are you going to do? Sit over there in Italy and twiddle your thumbs?”

I get a vision of myself still doing the same pathetic things when I’m seventy. “Yes, you’re right.” I inhale deeply as I try to pump myself up. “Okay, I’m doing this.”

“Good, get to the pharmacy.”

________

The good thing about being brave is… nothing. It completely sucks.

I want to run hard and fast across the water and go back to Australia to escape this Tinder date from Hell.

It’s Saturday night and I’m in the restaurant, but when my date wasn’t here when I arrived, I came into the ladies’ bathroom to hide. I can’t sit at the table and wait like some desperado. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. My hair is set in big curls. I’m wearing a fitted black dress with a low back and spaghetti straps. I have my smoky makeup on with my red lipstick. I look good. I know I look good.

Tinder fuck-on-first-date kind of good.

I peer around the door and I see him sitting down at our table. He has dark hair, and he seems okay. He actually looks like his profile picture. He isn’t hideous, at least. That’s something, I suppose.

I exhale heavily and take one last look in the mirror to give myself a pep talk.

“Right, go out there and pretend that you like him. You never know, maybe you will?”

Oh God, this is a disaster already.

I walk out and weave through the tables. He smiles and waves as he sees me. He seems impressed when he stands. “Olly.”

“Hi,” I push out. “You must be Franco?”

“Lovely to meet you.” He kisses my cheek, and I fall nervously into my seat.

The server arrives. “Can I get you anything to drink?”

“Please.” Jeez, I need fucking tequila to get me through this. I pick up the drinks menu and glance up, and then I stop dead still. I feel the blood drain from my face.

What. The. Actual. Fuck?

Chiseled jaw, dark eyes, and curly hair? I would know that face anywhere.