A Nightmare's Fate

Another Date Blown

Chapter Twelve: Another Date Blown

I don't know why I feel the way I do whenever Errik's name pops inside my mind. I can't possibly love the guy. I just met him! And I'll never even see him again anyways, so why do I feel like we should get together? Why do I feel butterflies in my heart when his name repeats in my brain? Why does my stomach churn at the thought of him?

            Even though Kenton is gone, I will not date another man. I may recover, but that doesn't mean I'll go out and sleep with men. That's just making everything worse and doesn't even make a difference with feelings for Kenton. Errik is just a guy I happen to meet by him running into me, literally. He's nothing. Period.

            I head over to a restaurant called Chicago and walk in. There are red, brick walls and wallpaper that is a picture of the city of Chicago, going all around the restaurant. Booths are wooden chairs with a red back cover and normal tables and chairs that are just wooden. There's a bar that has stools with red cushions underneath the counter as men sit upon each chair.

            The host escorts me over to a table as I sit down at a booth. I sit here for another five minutes as a waiter comes by with a frown. "May I take your order?" he questions as I look down at my menu, deciding on what I want to drink.

            "I'll have a long island ice tea, please," I answer, looking back at the waiter as he already left.

            I wait for a few more minutes, checking my phone every now and then on any messages. It's difficult not to talk to anyone; my friends hate me because of my damn actions and now I have no one. What am I supposed to do with them? I can't recover . . . and what am I supposed to do with my mother? Am I going to be her maid of honor? Am I going to see my father on his death bed?

            The waiter comes back with my drink and sits down in front of me. He isn't wearing his apron. For some reason, he looks familiar, but I can't put my finger on it.

            "Why are you sitting down? Aren't supposed to be doing work?" I ask, a little too rudely.

            "I'm off for the night," he says, holding his hands together as they are positioned on the table in a polite matter. "You've got to be joking?"

            "Joking about what?" We're staring at each other in the eyes, neither of us are looking away.

            "You don't recognize me?" He then let's go of his hands and poises his left palm right under his chin as his fingers hold his cheek.

            "No . . ." I shake my head. His emo look reminds me of someone, but I can't remember.

            "Skylar Preston . . . your first date." Once he says it, I finally recognize him.

            I blink a few times in surprise with my eyes widen, and smile. "Right . . . the emo kid––"

            "I'm not a kid! I'm twenty-five." He looks away, his eyes gazing around the restaurant, then back to me.

            "Sure you're twenty-five. I'm eighteen," I joke, mentally rolling my eyes.

            "Really? You look too old to be eighteen." Why is it that people think I don’t look like that age? Shouldn’t I be able to pull it off?

            "I'm not eighteen. I'm twenty-three, almost twenty-four. My birthday is in a week," I say, fiddling with my fingers from boredom.