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It’s my sexy getting ready song, my sexy gettin’…. Wait. No. Can’t sing that. It’s a horrible omen! I mean it’s from a show called My Craazy Ex-Girlfriend! NOT good for a first date!
I stand in front of the bathroom mirror, my heart racing, steam from the shower curling around me like stage fog. It’s kind of a badass look, if I can say so myself. Which I guess I can, but talking to myself in the mirror—even silently—is kind of awkward. At least I’m not saying it out loud. That would kill the whole badassery vibe. Just…forget about the whole singing thing. It didn’t happen and you can’t prove it if it did.
Damn, why am I so nervous? This is just a date.
With Eddie Diaz, my best friend. Maybe my forever?
I’m getting ahead of myself. It’s our first date.
So...not just a date.
The most important date of my life.
I don’t need to try and impress him. He’s seen me at my worst, already. He’s seen me cry at Steve Martin’s “Father of the Bride” (Seriously, the way he keeps missing his daughter at every turn gets me Every. Single. Time). He’s also seen me pass out drunk. And worse, not pass out drunk.
He’s seen me die, for God’s sake. So, this date thing should be easy!
And yet?
I’ve changed my planned outfit six (okay, possibly nine) times and still haven’t decided which one to go with. They’re all laid out on my bed. Except the tux. That was pretty overkill for a trip to Daviolia’s. Sure, it’s a nicer Italian place, but not tux nice. I put that back in the closet. What was I even thinking?
I was thinking that the orange sweater was too hot and not in the sexy way. In the I’m already sweating, and I’m not even dressed way. The black t-shirt shows off my arms. And yeah, okay, my pecs. Bonus. But is it nice enough? Not really.
The green henley is too green. The polo is…ridiculously outdated. The hoodie…?
I actually googled ‘best outfit for first date’ but ended up on some Avant-Garde site with some really bizarre choices. And nothing that even slightly resembled anything in my closet. I thought about asking my Morning Sunshine! ™ alarm clock featuring Hildy, but I stop myself, thinking about all the global damage AI assistants cause (according to Christopher). I still need to research that a bit more, but I don’t have time right now and I’m really…overthinking.
I take a deep breath.
The henley. I should go with the henley. Not the green one I have laid out. The blue one that is hanging in my laundry room. It’s been cleaned and dried and even ironed. And Maddie tells me it really makes my eyes pop, which I guess is a good thing, not like the creepy eyes popping out thing that I used to envision whenever I heard someone say that phrase. So eyes popping = good. Eyes popping out? Gross.
Okay. I can do this. I can go out with my best friend, be a normal(ish) person, be charming, and maybe even kiss him goodnight. Is that going to be weird? I mean…I love Eddie. I always have loved him. First sight and all (what a man, what a man…). But it’s totally not in that tragic bisexual-pining-for-his-straight-best-friend way that everyone around me always seems to think. It used to be just…love. Like a brother.
Until it wasn’t.
Until he confided that he isn’t straight. And he thinks that maybe he’s demisexual. Like Shannon was his best friend longer than he realized he was in love with her. And thinks that maybe he’s had a crush on his bisexual best friend for a while and wants to ask him out.
After I realized he was talking about me, I beat him to it and asked him out.
On a date. An actual date! With Eddie Diaz.
I let out a calming breath. The hot shower was exactly what I needed to steady my nerves.
I’m ready.
“Go get him, Tiger,” I say to my reflection in the mirror.
Yeah, that…definitely kills the badassery vibe.
So does the finger gun pointing and wink I give myself.
The air is still heavy with steam, but I feel good. Centered. I reach for the bathroom door and give the handle a turn.
It doesn’t budge.
I blink. Try again. Harder this time.
It’s still stuck.
“…No,” I grumble, because clearly, I’ve stepped into a rom-com written by the universe and directed by Satan. Or possibly Darabont. “No, no, no!”
Okay. This is not the time to panic. I’m already running a little bit behind schedule, and Eddie will be here any minute.
Which actually makes it the perfect time to panic! I’m trapped, naked, in my bathroom, and he’s going to be here any moment!
My eyes immediately scan to the door frame. I hadn’t really noticed it before (it’s my third night in the new place…first if we consider that I actually spent the first two over at Eddie’s), but the bathroom door is hung weird. The hinge pin is on the other side.
That doesn’t make this impossible. It just makes it a lot harder since I can’t just pop the hinge and take the door down. I also can’t just ram the door since it opens inward. I’d have to ram hard enough to take down the entire frame. Which…I don’t want to do. Not in my new house. Sure it can be rehung, but…it just feels wrong to destroy something this early in our house-homeowner relationship.
My hands are also slickened by the steam in the room. And I don’t have any tools to work with. Maybe I should start stashing an axe in here.
No. Because then if a psycho ever breaks in while I’m showering, he’ll have a weapon right there. I hate Chimney for making me watch that Psycho movie.
Okay, so…thinking. Thinking. It’s so much easier breaking into a room than out of it. Without an axe. Or a pry bar. I may be strong. No. I am strong. Possibly strong enough to break down the whole doorframe, but I don’t want to hurt myself and have to explain to Eddie why I have to miss our first date.
Okay. So.
“What would MacGyver do?” I hear the Chimney in my head asking, as he so often does.
“I still don’t know who that is,” I reply. I do know, but only because I looked it up online after the first time Chimney mentioned him. To mess with him a bit, I first ask why the guy from SNL would be helpful in any minuscule way, unless I was looking to blow up the house in the next 20 seconds. Which all things considered doesn’t seem to be a horrible idea, except for that whole house-homeowner relationship thing. And that I haven’t even made my first mortgage payment.
My inner Chimney passes away for a few moments only to be resurrected. He simply groans when I ask why what Lucas Till’s thoughts on the matter are important. He mumbles something about Richard Dean something-or-other being the only true MacGyver and then wanders off deeper into my brain.
The better question to me, anyway, is What would Bobby do?
Gotta think. Gotta think.
Okay, so I don’t have a pry bar. But I do have a towel bar.
I smack the decorative end of the towel bar with the heel of my hand and twist it free. Now I have a weapon. Or a tool. Okay, it’s a thick metal rod that’s absolutely useless for wedging anything.
Okay. So…I need to flatten it.
Do I even own anything heavy enough to flatten metal? Does a waffle iron count? Possibly, but of course I don’t keep it in the bathroom. Now wouldn’t that throw off the psycho breaking into my bathroom if he found that instead of an axe?
Not helpful thoughts. Focus!
Okay, so…maybe I can bend the bar using the shower drain. I pull up the grate and stick the end of the bar into the drain pipe. Now…I step into the tub, trying to get to a better angle. And I bear down with my full weight. The bar bends, all right. But the floor of the tub is really slick and I go down, taking the shower curtain with me as I tumble out onto the bathroom floor.
Ow.
Oh…fuck that hurt.
I stay still for a few moments, mentally assessing myself for injury.
Feet. Both present and accounted for. Knees. Check and check. Ribs…
Ribs?
Okay, there they are. Not even a little bit sore. Which probably means I broke a couple and adrenaline is keeping me from figuring that out.
So. Nothing truly hurt except my pride.
I have a shower curtain wrapping around my legs like Saran Wrap. I try to kick it off, but my foot gets caught and the shower rod smacks me in the head as it clatters down on top of me. Perfect. Now I’m naked and wrestling a polyester death shroud.
I roll onto my side, groaning, arms flailing as I try to peel the curtain off my face. For a second, I think I might actually suffocate under my own poorly chosen bathroom décor. Eventually, I manage to sit up, though, sweaty and out of breath, with the curtain twisted around my body like some sort of toga of shame.
But at least now, I have…a bar that is curved, but in no way flat. And a shower curtain. And the shower curtain rod that is also not flat.
I check, but as suspected, there is no chance that the bent bar will be at all helpful as a pry bar and there is zero chance of it being used as a wedge for the door. The curtain rod is much the same. I consider for a moment trying to flatten that rod the same way as the towel bar. It seems stronger and less likely to just bend. But, I also think I lucked out a little by not breaking any part of my body with the first attempt.
All right, then. Next idea?
Okay. Swollen wood. Tight fit. It’s sticking because it’s expanded, and the door frame hasn’t. Friction is the enemy. So, I need some sort of lubricant.
No…that’s in my nightstand.
Much like the waffle iron, I keep the butter in my kitchen.
Getting nowhere here.
What else do I have to work with?
Oh! Of course!
Soap. Shampoo. Conditioner, shaving cream, aftershave. Beard butter even though I have no beard. Maddie just thought it was a funny gift idea for the “manliest brother” she has. I should give it to Eddie. Not that he has a beard these days, but I’ve seen pictures and wouldn’t mind seeing it reappear some time.
Also, ooooh I have a razor! I could maybe use that like a potato peeler and—
No, that’d take forever to whittle away at the door. Even if I just try to focus on the jamb plate area. The problem isn’t that the knob won’t turn, anyway.
Body lotion, body butter, body cream.
I think maybe I use more product than I should as Maddie’s manliest brother. Then again, she also provided me with a jar of “Unicorn Snot” body glitter so I’m not entirely sure what her idea of manliness is. I’m secure enough in my masculinity to keep it in my cabinet, though I have yet to use any. I’ve had enough problems washing off glitter after helping Christopher with art projects to purposely apply glitter to my body.
But some of the other products could possibly be helpful to lubricate.
Probably best one would be…I pick up the body butter. I guess not all butter is relegated to the kitchen, after all!
I slather the butter along the edge of the door frame. Once it’s sufficiently buttered up, I give a test pull. The door does not budge. And my hands are now too slick with body butter to get a good grip on the doorknob. I try wiping my hands on my towel, but while it helps smear a little of the butter away, it does nothing to dry my hands off. I try wrapping the towel around the doorknob and pull again, only for the towel to slip right off.
I need something…sticky.
I purposely avoid looking at the body glitter as long as I can before finally giving in.
Fine.
Unicorn Snot it is.
Thanks, Maddie.
I have trouble getting the jar open with my slickened hands and end up having to sit on the floor, jar clenched between my knees while I use my forearms to unscrew the lid. I groan as of course I manage to tip the jar and end up with a glop of the snot on my thighs.
I rub the glitter goo between my palms—it's cold and kind of sticky and smells vaguely like raspberry-scented regret. The perfect complement to the vanilla body butter.
I slap it onto the doorknob with the kind of dramatic finality usually reserved for defusing bombs. I grab the handle, brace a foot against the tub, and pull like my life, my date, and my last shred of dignity depend on it. There’s a creak. My heart stutters. I pull harder.
Nothing.
I grunt, try again.
Still nothing.
The glitter does not, in fact, provide traction.
It provides sparkle!
That’s it. I am now a fully naked disco ball, sealed inside a sauna of disgrace.
“Hildy!!!” I yell out, hoping that my “Morning Sunshine!” ™ alarm clock can hear me. And yet also hoping it can’t.
I need help. But I don’t want to need help. I can get out of this. I want to get out of this! In all my humiliated sparkly glory. If I ask for help now, maybe I can get out before Eddie gets here and I can keep my pride at least slightly intact?
“Hello, Buck. Is this in regards to what to wear to impress your date: Ed munn dough Die As?”
Yes. Fine. I asked Hildy about that earlier, too. “No,” I mumble, but she continues anyway.
“Based on the tropical humidity levels in your home, a sarong is most breathable. May I match one to your undertones?”
“What’s a sarong?”
“A sarong is a single piece of fabric that functions as clothing. It can provide the feeling of the Islands, even while inland! Unlike your current outfit selections, it does not trap heat, cling to sweat, or inspire second-guessing. I have ordered a royal blue sarong as data suggests that your date prefers blue jewel tones and blue makes your eyes ‘pop’. Estimated arrival time tomorrow at 6am.”
“My date is going to be here any moment! Plus, I can’t get to the door. I’m trapped in the bathroom.”
“Cancelling order for sarong. For current date night options, would you like me to upload pictures and send them to Carla, Maddie, and Karen for opinions? For the bathroom, might I suggest a dehumidifier? The level of humidity in the house can cause wood to swell.”
I groan. She isn’t wrong.
“Yes, please,” I give in.
“Ordered. Estimated arrival is tomorrow at 6am.”
“That still doesn’t solve my problem of being trapped, naked, in the bathroom and unable to get to the door!”
“Would you like me to contact your date to let him know you are running late?”
I run my hand down my face. This is so not how I want our first date to start. “No.”
“Would you like me to notify Christopher Diaz instead? He always responds promptly and respectfully.”
“No.”
“Might I also remind you that this clothing option might be most appropriate. Nudity: No fabric, no sweat, no more fretting over what color to wear.”
“NO!”
“You sound distressed, Stud Muffin.” I really should not have let Chimney “help” when I set up Hildy. “Would you like me to initiate a guided breathing exercise narrated by Morgan Freeman’s legally distinct AI counterpart, ‘Morgan Freemoan’?” Really shouldn’t have let Chimney help.
“Good, God, no!” I really need to get out of here on my own. I half-heartedly try one last time, but my feet start sliding and I reach out to steady myself, leaving a glittery, greasy handprint on the wall. I sag against the door, forehead pressed to the cool wood. “Okay,” I mutter, defeated. I’ve tried brains. I’ve tried brawn. I’ve tried body butter and body glitter. This is not a rescue. It’s a cautionary tale.
I wipe the sweat from my brow and lean back against the tub.
You win, swollen door. I give up.
Naked Man Wrecks Bathroom and Starves to Death I picture the morning headline. While Standing Up First Date
“Oh, Ev-van!” I hear my mother’s semi shrill, disapproving voice as she reads the paper. Yes. I’ve made national news with my unfortunate demise.
“Couldn’t you have found a more dignified way to go?” my father’s disheartened voice echoes.
“What are we going to tell our friends?” mom moans, burying her face in her hands.
“Not the manliest death, little brother,” Maddie adds, wiping away tears.
“I…I couldn’t believe he’d stand me up for our first date,” Eddie is quoted in the article. “I was right outside! I should have done more!”
No. No that is not happening! I’m not going to stand Eddie up for our first date!
Which leaves me only one option.
“Hildy?”
“Yes, Evan?” her smug electronic voice answers. “Would you like me to read you the recipe for soothing lentil soup? It serves six, or just one, depending on how your date goes.”
“Call…” I almost say Maddie, but I know she’s working and inevitably, she’d send Chimney. And I can already hear his cackling as he relishes telling the story over and over. Hen’s also out—I remember the photo she showed us of Athena in a rather precarious situation after she’d called Hen for help. Athena’s also out. She’s…she’s too busy. Harry and May are out. Harry would never let me live it down. And May? I think Athena would probably murder me, and I’d never see it coming. Well, except that I already am seeing it coming.
Ravi?
He's way across town and Eddie will be here any moment.
“Call Eddie,” I relent. I’m already defeated. What’s one more humiliation? Besides, he’s probably almost here by now.
A pause. “Are you certain? Your ‘Eddie’ contact: Ed munn dough Die As,” she overly annunciates (incorrectly), “is listed as ‘Emergency Contact B’ and previously set a reminder to avoid involving him with ‘stupid Hildy problems.’”
“This isn’t stupid,” I whisper, mostly to myself. “This is our first date!” I squeeze my eyes shut. Why did I let Christopher program that note? “Yes, I’m sure,” I reply, louder.
“As you wish. But I must inform you that Ed munn dough Die As dislikes my voice and once referred to me as having, quote, ‘the haughty soul of a cursed blender.’”
I don’t recall having that programmed in.
“I know,” I whimper. “Just, please call Eddie.”
“Calling Ed munn dough Die As. Please note: Outcome may vary.”