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enough first-date confessions to reassure you that I’m not gonna hand you any lines?”
    The way she pushes her lips together and looks askance at me makes me think she still doesn’t believe me, but then her face relaxes into a broad smile. “Hmm. True.”
    “So why don’t you return the favor, then?” I goad.
    Her mouth drops open. “What do you mean? I spent the first forty-five minutes of this date telling you everything about me.”
    I fake-yawn. “I don’t mean your eHarmony profile.” When her eyes widen, and her tongue peeks at me from between her teeth, I laugh to let her know my teasing is in good fun. “I mean, tell me something you don’t tell just anyone.”
    Her smile completely gone now, she stares me down, and to keep from squirming, I analyze the precise shade of her irises. (Nutmeg? Milk chocolate?) Finally, though, I give up on classifying her eye color and getting more information from her. “Never mind.”
    “No,” she quickly capitulates. “I’m thinking, that’s all. Trying to decide if I want to tell you this. It’s something I’ve only told one other person, my best friend I’ve known since second grade.”
    I swallow loudly, suddenly afraid of the intensity radiating from her. “Wow. It doesn’t have to be something that secret. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘I get chills when I hold babies,’ or ‘I pee in the shower.’”
    “Ew.”
    “I know, right? It was just an example. I don’t do that.” I rub my neck and continue to wait as she taps the toe of her shoe against the table leg. Here it comes. The deal-breaker to end all deal-breakers. “I’m married,” springs horrifyingly to mind, along with, “I used to be a man;” “I am a man;” “I came on this date on a dare;” “I don’t shave my underarms;” and “I’m a chip double-dipper.” (Because that’s just nasty.) Or worse, “I love Nascar romance novels.”
    Oblivious to my building panic—or getting off on it—she takes a deep breath and her sweet time before saying, “I don’t just read chick lit; I write it.”
    “Okay…” Still bracing for the bombshell, I ask, “So, why’s this such a big secret?”
    With a toss of her hair, she answers, “I don’t know. I could wallpaper Buckingham Palace with my rejection letters.”
    “Idiots, all of them. I’m sure you’re a great writer.”
    I’m not sure at all, but that’s what you say, right? I mean, for all I know, she’s terrible. It seems everyone—except me—fancies themselves a writer nowadays. There’s a ton of shit out there. I’ve read half a ton of it.
    She folds her hands on the table in front of her. “Oh, I’m an excellent writer.”
    Something tells me not to say, “Oh-ho!” or anything equally deprecating, and I’m glad I don’t when she continues, and it becomes obvious she’s being completely earnest in her self-assessment.
    “My writing’s not the problem; my image is the problem. I’m another thirty-something woman writing about women finding their way in their late twenties and early thirties, you know? I’m a staticky television in a sea of white noise. Not enough of a standout.”
    “A staticky television in a sea of white noise” ? Yikes. I know it’s not fair to judge everything that comes out of her mouth based on the new knowledge that she’s a writer, but… she invited it with her “I’m an excellent writer” boasting. Bragging is such a turn-off.
    Still, I feel obliged to ask, “Can I read something you’ve written?”
    “No! I hardly know you. Plus… what if you didn’t like it? I mean, it would be totally subjective, and I know it wouldn’t be a reflection of my talent, but… You’d be put in the position of lying to spare my feelings.”
    “Oh, I wouldn’t lie. I’m picky about my chick lit.”
    “Then definitely no.”
    I laugh, suddenly understanding how “great” her writing must be. And it’s not nice to pick on someone’s weaknesses, so I steer the