Libby: That’s a lie. I don’t really cook, but I’ll have something delicious waiting for you. Reagan: I’m sure you will. . . Libby stared at the ellipsis and wondered what they meant. She shifted in her seat as her pulse raced. In a long line of firsts, she was trapped in an existential crisis over three tiny dots. Reagan: Tonight too soon? Libby: 8? It would give her time to shower and shave her legs, she thought before shaking herself out of the haze. It’s not a real date, she lied.
