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I fake a yawn, which turns real halfway through. “Sorry,” I say. “I’m really tired.”
Listening to a guy talk about otters all night will do that to a girl.
Ronald not only ruined the date, he ruined otters for me. Otters! One of the cutest mammals on the planet, possibly tainted forever.
But that’s what happens when your date spends the evening talking your ear off about the otters he sponsors. Which could have been a cute thing, but Ronald’s obsession level is far too high. I mean, watching them on a webcam from his phone throughout dinner? No. Then there’s the baby talk. Men using baby talk for extended periods of time, even for adorable animals, is, in a word, unsettling.
If that weren’t enough, he gave me a mild scolding—one of many throughout the evening—for not being properly excited about his otters. Nothing sets a mood better than being chastised like you’re a naughty toddler! He even quizzed me on the otter’s names. Twice—because I failed the first time.
Let the record show I also failed the second time.
Fact: otters all look the same. Unless they’re dressed in little sweaters or have different colored collars, that is.
But when I suggested this to Ronald, he spent ten minutes explaining how the idea of dressing them up would be offensive and damaging.
“They’re not domesticated,” he told me, his voice laced with disbelief and disdain. “These aren't pets.”
Right. They just have names and he speaks to them in baby talk.
Makes complete sense!
Despite all this, the otters were the highlight of the date.
By FAR.
Ronald isn’t nervous and awkward like I originally thought at the start of our date. Once we got to the restaurant, he transformed into something else entirely. His ugly personality picked up steam as the night went on, gaining momentum like a runaway freight train.
He was rude to the servers and mansplained the menu to me. When I picked at my fish (which was definitely burned, not blackened), Ronald clucked his tongue and told me I should have let him order for me. Then, he made a big scene, sending my food back, despite my protests, before asking for a discount on our bill. I was mortified.
The rare moments he wasn’t talking about otters, Ronald expounded on his political views, which fall somewhere between fascism and imperialism. Whatever it is, it’s an ism I don’t want anything to do with.
The otters were somewhat of a red herring, as they made Ronald seem like a sweet guy.
Sweet, he is not. Passive-aggressive, rude, and misogynistic—yes, yes, andyes.
Honestly—what was John thinking? I accused him of catfishing, but whatever Ronald put in his profile clearly hid his real qualities.
Even if Ronald had been a perfect gentleman and not a smug, patronizing, otter-obsessed fascist, it couldn’t have saved the date.
Because I spent the whole dinner thinking about Mason.
Since last night, my mind has been as tangled-up as a strand of Christmas lights. I’ve been searching for signs Mason might be into me, and, seemingly out of nowhere, last night there were tons of them.
There was his thoughtfulness in getting me a replacement tree, in buying fancy hot cocoa, in making whipped cream and getting homemade marshmallows from Mom. Even putting onMean Girls, which to anyone else might not seem like a gesture. But it was one more little big thing showing that Mason pays attention to me. That hecares.
Ordoeshe?
I think about the almost kiss last night. And the way he looked at me tonight, leaning in the doorway before my date. I mean, every guy knows about leaning in the doorway, right? It’s the body language equivalent of wearing a Henley and pushing the sleeves up—essentially catnip to women. Hewasdoing that on purpose, right?
Or maybe I was imagining the tension between us last night and today. Did I misread his signals?
I don’t think I did. But then it was like a switch flipped and Mason quickly and thoroughly set back up the wall between us. Okay, tonight it wasn’t Mason pushing back but me—I was the one slamming the door in his face.
But what was I going to do—demand that Mason tell me what’s going on while Ronald was right there baby-talking his otters?
Things between Mason and me might be feeling different, but in the end, nothing has changed. Except for my frustration, which is growing by leaps and bounds like some kind of mutant virus.
I wonder what Sam would say.
