Saturday morning (Wiley's blind date)

On Saturday morning, I woke up to the sound of Sarah’s phone buzzing. She was at the table, texting furiously, face scrunched into an expression I recognized as equal parts stress and determination. She was tracking Wiley’s progress in real time, relaying updates on his outfit, his pre-date jitters, and the weather conditions at the location of the meet-up. I had hope to use his time away to restart the sex that his fat ass so rudely interrupted, but from the way she was focused on him, I realized I had zero shot.

“He’s so nervous,” Sarah said at one point, looking at me with a kind of pleading in her eyes. “What if he blows it?”

I shrugged. “He will,” I said. “That’s what he does.”

She didn’t laugh. Instead, she was already composing her next text, fingers flying over the cracked glass of her phone. “He’s really trying this time. I just… I don’t want him to freak out or do something embarrassing.”

I took the coffee pot from the counter and topped off her mug, then mine, then hers again. “He’s a grown man, Sarah. If he can’t handle a Starbucks date, maybe he’s not meant to mate.”

She shot me a look—half daggers, half disappointment. “You don’t get it. This matters to him. It’s not just about the girl. It’s about, I don’t know, dignity. Feeling like a fucking person for once.”

I almost said, “Maybe he should have thought of that before he let himself turn into a fat pervert slob,” but I didn’t. We’d run this argument before, and I already knew all the exits.

Eventually after staring at me for a second, she shrugs “At least promise me you won’t make fun of him when he gets home?”

I promised, though I didn’t mean it. If anything, I was looking forward to narrating the disaster for her after the fact, as a form of **** for destroying my Thursday morning sex plans.

Sarah spent the next hour orchestrating a digital pep rally—pumping Wiley up with memes, gifs, and the sort of inspirational quotes you’d see in the office of a middle school guidance counselor. At first, I found it sort of cute. Eventually, it started to grate. When I caught her reading out his texts and giggling, I felt a weird, prickly urge to spike my own coffee with dish soap.

At three o’clock, Wiley left for the date. Sarah watched from the window as he made his slow, loping way down the sidewalk, and I realized she was actually rooting for him, as if he were a sports team she’d bet the rent on. For the next three hours, she alternated between pacing the kitchen and furiously cleaning every surface in the house. By six, she was practically vibrating.

At three o’clock, Wiley left for the date. Sarah watched from the window as he made his slow, loping way down the sidewalk. It pained me to see how much she was rooting for him, as if he were a sports team she’d bet the rent on. For the next three hours, she alternated between pacing the kitchen and furiously cleaning every surface in the house. By six, she was practically vibrating. But oddly enough despite knowing it was a lost cause I was rooting for him too, only because if this date worked, he would finally be out of our hair.

But in the meantime, I tried to steer her back toward us, pulled her onto the couch, suggested a movie, but she barely lasted ten minutes before leaping up to refresh the group chat for updates. I watched her, a little dazed, as she texted questions to Wiley every fifteen minutes—How’s it going? Are you having fun? Does she seem into you?—and then texted the answers to herself, as if she were building a case file.

I asked if she wanted to go out for dinner, maybe have a drink, but she shook her head, glued to the phone, eyes darting back and forth as if she were running code in her head. “We can order in,” she said. “Just in case.”

I wasn’t sure what “in case” meant—for Wiley’s meltdown? For a ****? For the collapse of Western civilization? But I said okay and ordered Thai, then wandered into the bathroom to kill time. When I came out, Sarah was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at her phone like it owed her an apology from the universe.

I looked over her shoulder. There was a string of texts from Wiley: “Meet up went ok. She’s cool. Not sure if she likes me that much tho.” Then, ten minutes later: “Should I ask her for a second date or wait?”

Sarah’s response, composed and ready but unsent, read: “Go for it! Women like confidence.”

But she hesitated, like she was afraid that pushing him would break him.

I took the phone, gently, and typed: “Ask! Worst she says is no.” Then I squeezed her shoulder, hoping she’d see the joke in it—that we were accomplices, not co-conspirators.

She softened a little, leaned into my side. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I worry too much.”

“I know you do,” I said, and kissed her on the forehead. “But it’s kind of your thing.”

Sarah’s phone buzzed at 6:27, startling her out of her vigil at the kitchen table. She read the notification, winced, and held the phone away from herself like it was a dead ferret. I watched her face as she tapped the screen—her lips tightened, but she didn’t say anything. A full minute passed before she finally muttered, “Well. There it is.”

I let her draw it out, hoping she’d want to talk about it, but she just slopped more curry onto her plate, poking at the tofu cubes with the end of her fork. After a while, she handed me the phone, the message from her co-worker (the person she set Willy up with) blown up in neon blue:

“Sarah, thanks so much for setting up the date. Wiley is a nice guy, really, but he’s not what I’m looking for. Hope you’re having a good weekend!”

I snorted. “That’s it? All that buildup for a canned rejection?”

Sarah ignored me and typed out a reply to her coworker: “Any particular reason? He’s honestly one of the best guys I know.”

A thirty-second pause. Then the three dots. Then, finally: “He’s just…kind of ****? Super intense. I mean, he’s sweet, it’s just a lot for a first date.”

I tried not to laugh, but some part of me relished how accurate that sounded. I imagined Wiley, face red as a potato, nervously monologuing about his third-grade trauma or the time his parents forgot to pick him up from karate lessons. Some part of me wanted to text him right now, just to see if he’d melted back into the upholstery of his own home.

Sarah, though, was clearly wounded on his behalf. She sat at the table, phone in one hand, fork in the other, staring at the message like it was some unsolvable calculus proof. I watched her process the rejection—her gaze narrowing, flicking up and down as she replayed every word of the exchange. She looked like she wanted to punch something. Or, failing that, rewrite the history of the last four hours.

I asked if she’d heard from Wiley, but she shook her head, not looking up. “He hasn’t texted. He must be really upset.”

I shrugged. “He’s a big boy. He’ll get over it.”

“He’s a big boy,” she repeated, mocking my tone, but the joke didn’t land. She put her phone down and stared into her curry, as if the answer to life’s disappointments was somewhere at the bottom of the carton. I could tell she was working through a whole script of possible responses—ways she could have prepped Wiley better, or warned her coworker, or maybe just shielded everyone from the awkwardness of trying to do something nice for once in her life.

An hour passed. Two. Outside, the sky bruised violet and the neighborhood filled with the sounds of dogs barking and distant sirens, a city-wide symphony of failed expectations. Inside, Sarah was glued to her phone, waiting. She sent Wiley a message: “Hope you’re okay. Proud of you for putting yourself out there.” No reply. He’d gone dark, which was both in character and somehow more unnerving than if he’d sent her a string of crying emojis.

I tried to distract her—suggested we open another bottle of wine, put on a movie, maybe order dessert—but she just shook her head. I could tell she was running through the permutations in her mind, like if she thought about it hard enough she could rewrite the ending. I wanted to tell her it was pointless, that you can’t save people from themselves, but I knew that would only make her dig in deeper.

By midnight, Wiley still hadn’t responded. Sarah was quiet, less anxious but also less herself, as if some essential piece had been hollowed out and she was waiting for it to grow back. I watched her from across the couch, counting the ways I could have made her smile, and wondered how many more of these little deaths she’d have to endure before she finally let go of the idea that everyone deserved to be happy.