Ghost - Jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - Word count: 842
Part 1, Part 2
James was slouched down on the sofa in the living room, flicking through the TV channels without really paying attention when Sirius got home.
“Alright, mate?” Sirius asked as he dropped on to the sofa next to him.
“Yeah,” James replied, somewhat distracted.
“You sure? Cause you look sad as fuck.” Sirius chuckled.
James heaved a heavy sigh.
“Yeah, it's fine, just-” James didn't finish his sentence, but glanced at his phone sitting on the table.
“Oh,” Sirius said. “Again?”
“Yup. That's the third one in as many weeks. I don't know what I'm doing wrong.”
James had been desperately trying to get back in the dating game. Desperate was probably a bad word, but it sometimes felt like he was. Everyone he knew was in some kind of relationship and he was ready to be too.
James just sighed again. “Whatever, it's fine. Do you want a cuppa?” James asked, as he got up and walked into the kitchen.
“Yeah, please.” Sirius called after him.
Later that night, James was starting to get annoyed with Sirius, who hadn't put his phone down in over an hour.
“Mate, you know I love Remus, I do, but you spent most of the day together and now I'm trying to infiltrate this camp of ghouls and you're supposed to be helping!”
“Oh, shit, soz.” Sirius half apologised.
“You know what, never mind.” James quit the game and walked off down the hallway towards his bedroom.
He didn't mean to snap at Sirius, but he just wanted to be someone's focus for a second. James knew he wouldn't be in this mood tomorrow, it was purely circumstantial, so right now he reserved the right to be a bit pissy.
He crashed down on his bed and grabbed his book.
He had only been reading about 5 minutes when Sirius knocked and walked straight in.
“You're supposed to wait for an invitation,” James huffed, not looking up from his book.
Sirius plopped down on the bed next to him. “Listen up, sad sack. Don't say I don't do anything nice for you.”
James squinted at Sirius and waited for him to elaborate.
“I've got you a date.” Sirius announced.
“You what?” James blanched.
“A date. With a real, human man and I can personally guarantee this one will not ghost you like the others.”
James scoffed. “And how, pray tell, can you guarantee that?”
“Cause I happen to know this bloke is fucking nuts about you and actually, has been asking me to set you both up for ages now.” Sirius looked put out by his own statement.
“Why haven't you then?” James was worried what the answer was going to be.
“Cause,” Sirius took a deep breath. “It's Reggie and the thought of you and my little brother together makes me wanna heave.”
James sat bolt upright. “Wait! Regulus Black wants to go out with me?” James was stunned. He had never even entertained the idea of Regulus liking him back.
“Please don't full name him.” Sirirus grimaced.
James swiftly punched Sirius in the arm. “Why the hell didn't you set us up earlier?”
“Firstly, ow!” Sirius punched James back. “Secondly, I told you!” Sirius retorted as he rubbed his arm. “He's my little brother. It feels like incest!”
“Eww, gross, Sirius. It's nothing like that at all!” James exclaimed.
“Well, yeah, I know that, but still. Anyway, Remus told me to stop being an arse and just make this happen. Apparently, he's just as bored of listening to Regulus complain about his shitty dates, as I am listening about yours.” Sirius explained.
James was pacing. “So, Regulus really wants to go out? With me? This isn't some elaborate prank?”
“I swear on your life, James.” Sirius proclaimed. “Remus said he was sure he would say yes. So, I've actually been speaking to Reggie for the last hour trying to sort it and make him also believe me that this isn't a joke. Sooooo,” Sirius drew out. “Here.” Sirius held out a slip of paper.
“What is it?” James asked, not sure this was real.
“It's Reggie's number. He's expecting your call.” Sirius got up, handed the paper to James and started to leave the room.
“Wait!” James called out and Sirius turned back around. “Where are you going?” James asked, slightly panicked.
“Oh, if you think I'm going to sit here and listen to you gush down the phone, you've got another thing coming.” Sirius turned and left the room, shutting the door behind him.
James stared at the piece of paper in his hands and before he could talk himself out of it, he picked up his phone and dialled the number.
It rang and rang and just as James was starting to feel deflated and was about to hang up, there was a click and a quiet voice spoke.
“Hello?”
“Erm, hi, Regulus, it's erm, James. James Potter?” Fuck sake, James cursed himself for his ineloquence.
However, instead of the line going dead, James heard a quiet laugh. “Hello, James.”
First dates suck. For some, the pressure to find a mate for life — or at least for the time being — pounds away like a woodpecker drumming its beak. These are the people who snarl at their Facebook feeds full of friends getting engaged or having children. Dating is awkward, uncomfortable and, most of the time, miserable. Over the next few months, I will examine some of my all-time worst romantic outings to show that finding “the one”, in fact, blows.
Welcome to Shitty First Dates.
✶
My mother was thrilled when I told her I set up a date set up through J-Swipe — also known as Jewish Tinder.
“Yay Bretty! What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”
Four years prior, Mom asked my sister, Jordan, the same questions during her tenure with the dating app. Two days later, Daniel Schwartz got a LinkedIn notification saying my mother had viewed his profile. Jordan never saw Daniel again.
“Slow down, ma,” I said. “You’ll find out after date five, if I get there.”
I fell four dates short.
Casey and I met for dinner on a late-winter Wednesday at Quartino Ristorante, a bustling, old school Italian joint in Chicago’s River North neighborhood. She had light brown hair that reached her shoulder blades. She wore blue jeans, black boots and a black North Face fleece that screamed 2006. We hugged and sauntered to our table.
I ordered the Brodetto al Frutti di Mare, a classic seafood and pasta smorgasbord. Casey went the more adventurous route and requested plain rigatoni with a side of marinara.
“I get this every time I go out,” she told me. “I guess you can say I’m picky.”
Her flat taste buds paled in comparison to the way she ate. Casey swooped the end tine of her fork through the hole of each individual noodle. She then dipped each noodle in her puddle of red sauce. She grinned with each bite as if she’d tasted Kobe beef slaughtered from God’s own herd of Kobe cows.
“Want some?” she asked. “It’s delicious.”
Politely, I accepted. I speared a few noodles with one poke and reeled the fork towards my mouth.
“No, you can’t do that,” she said. “You have to swoop it.”
She wasn’t kidding.
“That’s how I was raised,” she said. You have to swoop it.”
Oy vey.
Nothing’s more appreciated than when a lady offers to pay for herself on the first date. Not that I always let her, but the mere reach for her Visa and amiable attempt to place it on the table basically shouts date number two.
Casey flopped here. I wasn’t even going to ask her to split the meal, since her noodles basically cost nothing, but I would’ve appreciated the gesture. Her back pocket was lonely as ever that night.
“Want to get drinks?” she asked.
We went to Pops for Champaign, another bougie River North staple. I snagged an open booth in the corner of the noisy bar. Casey ordered a vodka cranberry with Tito’s while I opted for the Nitro Milk Stout.
For a brief moment, things were swift: Casey and I discussed our passion for the Bulls, our desires for international travel and the fact that both of our fathers have completely white beards and full heads of black hair (no dye). Maybe Casey wasn’t so bad after all.
But then she saw my dance moves.
The song “Friend Zone” by Thundercat blasted on the surround sound speakers — an ironic tune for the occasion. I bobbed my head and swayed my shoulders like John Travolta in Saturday Night Fever. Casey swelled with embarrassment.
“Oh my God, please stop,” she squawked. I thought she was kidding, so I bumped my shimmy to turbo drive. She put her left hand over her mouth; her eyes widened.
“You need to stop right now!” she said.
I stopped. And to my surprise, Casey invited me back to her apartment. We Ubered to her Gold Coast high rise and entered the front door. I tipped my nonexistent hat to the doorman and he tipped back. We reached her eighth floor, one-bedroom palace and sat on the couch.
Casey was an awful kisser. Her lips danced on mine like she was guessing the flavor of a cocktail while her tongue flopped to every corner of my mouth with no rhythm whatsoever. Nonetheless, it was a kiss — something I hadn’t experienced in a while.
After slopping for about half an hour, Casey said she was tired. And rightfully so, since it was 2:30 a.m. Instead of inviting me to her room or even letting me crash on the couch, she told me to leave. Straight up kicked me out, forcing me to trek back to my parents’ house in the suburbs.
And I did, gracefully. And we never spoke again.
I crept into my childhood home 45 minutes later. My mother was still awake, anxiously waiting to hear about my date.
