Sunday’s shift is much like Saturday’s, minus the surprise drop-in by Chase and the early-morning heartwarming moment, but it feels like it takes three years longer. The minutes tick by slowly as I wait until I can go home and get ready for my date. Is it a date? I’m not sure it counts if it also includes half the football team. (Though some might say that makes it a really, really good date.) But he’d been going for a date when he initially invited me out—of that I’m at least eighty percent sure—so I’ll take this in the spirit it’s probably intended.

The thing is, I’ve had the perfect dress picked out for my first date with Chase for years, but as I stand in front of my closet, holding it in hand, it suddenly feels like … too much. I’d always imagined when we finally went out, it would be to a romantic dinner at one of my favorite restaurants—maybe one of those pretty spots right on the Long Island Sound. No one dreams of their first date being a casual evening with the guys at a diner. How does one dress for looking sexy with pastrami breath?

My fingers are itching to ask Shannon for advice, which is what I’d normally do. We know each other’s closets as well as our own. Even if she gives good advice, she’ll be thinking this is a bullshit date, and I’m not in the mood for it. Gia would be stressful in the complete opposite way; I don’t want to listen to what a huge deal this is for an hour either. And unfortunately, Kiki’s useless for fashion advice. Her idea of mixing up her black-and-gray wardrobe is to add pinstripes.

Jasmine would’ve been the perfect call. Shopping with her was one of my favorite things to do because she’s honest to a fault, but when you find something that looks good—and she would make me try on some craaaazy shit because she was certain it’d look fantastic on me, and was often right—she makes you feel like no one has ever looked as good in anything as you look right then in that rhinestone-studded leather bodice.

There is a great dress I’d purchased with her at the outlet mall in Nags Head, and it’s still summery enough outside to wear it, though the bright red gingham feels a little country against the backdrop of Stratford. Well, whatever—I spent the money and I know it looks cute on me. I shuck off the black yoga pants and matching T-shirt I’ve worn under my purple apron for the past six hours and jump into the shower.