I pull off the sweater I’m wearing and toss it on the floor before rummaging through the pile of clothes on my bed. I pick up a few hangers and move them aside, not sure what I’m looking for but sure it’s not that loud-ass pattern.

Tonight is the night. My first real date with Sara. I’ve fantasized about this moment so many times.

And, no, I don’t mean like that.

I mean, I’ve thought about what restaurants I would take her to. What stories I would tell to make myself seem both thoughtful and fun. I’ve thought about how, when we were walking side by side down the sidewalk, I would just sort of brush the back of her hand with mine. So lightly that it could have been an accident. And that maybe, if she wanted to, she would look over at me as she laced her hand with mine. She’d roll her eyes, letting me know that I wasn’t as slick as I thought, but then she would smile.

I thought of how I would minimize the awkwardness of a first kiss at her doorway at the end of the evening, although I guess that’s already taken care of.

But never once did I think about what I would wear.

I grab a red pullover and tug it over my head, then check myself out in the mirror.

Oh no. That doesn’t work at all. I look like I’m headed to Christmas mass or something. I pull off the sweater and reach for the navy blue one crumpled on the floor. I guess I had it right originally.

I check the time. About ten minutes until I told Sara I would “pick her up” at the other side of the building. I wipe my hands, which keep collecting sweat, off on my jeans.

I turn my attention to my hair, heading back to the mirror. It’s sort of standing up on one side and doing a weird swoopy thing, which might look cool if it was a few inches longer and I was still in the Bieber-obsessed middle school days, but is definitely not working right now.

I reach for the gel on my shelf, making sure to use exactly a pea-sized amount. The worst possible scenario would be having to rewash my hair. I take a deep breath, and try to calm my pulse—which is at two shots of espresso in a row levels.

There’s a knock at the front door.

“One second,” I call out. I run my hand through my hair a few more times. It still looks pretty weird.

Sara, I’m assuming, knocks again, louder this time.

“Sorry!” I say, turning away from the mirror.

Fuck, this will have to do. I rush from my bedroom and across the common area. “Sorrysorrysorr—”