WARNING: MATURE VIEWERS ONLY
Contains Sexual Content | Violence | Inappropriate Language
Destiny Anderson, a 25-year-old woman living in a modest apartment in Savannah, GA, has faced her share of hardships. After losing her mother to cancer at 18, h...
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I lay on my bed, exhausted from the tug-of-war with Stephanie over tonight's outfit. Unsurprisingly, I lost, forced to wear this dress that revealed far too much at the top. It clung to me like a second skin, accentuating curves I didn't necessarily want on display. The only thing I could remotely tolerate was the makeup—Stephanie had actually done a decent job, though the red lipstick was a step too far. I hated red lipstick.
The clock read 10:45 p.m., and I was already a bundle of nerves. Part of me doubted he'd actually show up, which would've been both a relief and a disappointment. But as the minutes ticked closer to 11:00 p.m., my stomach churned. I couldn't shake the feeling that this date was a mistake.
It had been years since I'd last gone on one. My freshman year of college, to be exact, with Josh McNeal. Josh—the typical arrogant charmer that girls fall for without realizing the heartbreak he carries in his back pocket. I'd been no different. Remembering how that ended made my chest tighten.
The sharp sound of the doorbell shattered my thoughts, and I jumped, my heart racing. He was here. Oh God, he's here.
Panic surged as I rushed to the mirror, scrutinizing my reflection. Did I smudge my makeup? Did my hair survive the hours of waiting? Stephanie would kill me if I ruined her hard work.
I adjusted the neckline of the dress for the hundredth time, smoothed the hem, and took a deep breath. The doorbell rang again, more insistently this time, snapping me out of my spiral.
As I approached the door, I gave myself one last quick once-over, silently praying I looked as presentable as Stephanie had promised. My hand hesitated on the doorknob, the nerves making my palms sweat.
Finally, I opened the door, and there he was—Marcus.
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Marcus, who was as handsome as ever, stood in the doorway holding a bouquet of roses. His hair was slicked back instead of the usual piece that hung rebelliously over his forehead. His halfway-buttoned shirt revealed a sculpted chest, while an overcoat hung effortlessly over one shoulder. He was perfection personified, a man who could seemingly do no wrong.
