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( 03 / 04 / 17 - 29 / 06 / 17)
If I've put H's name in any of the previous chapters, kindly ignore that bc Kat isn't supposed to know his name until this chapter. As you'll be able to tell (if you can't already) the pace of this version will be much slower and hopefully more realistic than the original.
Thank you to all of you guys for bearing with me on this :)
I'm kinda sad tho bc I read through the original and there was decent stuff in there man 😭😭 what a waste
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The next nine days pass much too quickly, Saturday rolling round before I know it. With Frida away shopping for the perfect first date outfit, I can almost forget it's happening, just I have for over a week now. As always, thinking about it causes my brain to conjure up all the worst-case scenarios that could play out, filling my stomach with dread. What if he is actually really cute, and he turns out to be nice? I barely have experience talking to guys, let alone one that I want to potentially like me. Having thought about it, I don't actually know what's worse: my mystery date being an absolute weirdo, or him being a good-looking, decent guy, and me being the weirdo in the situation.
Like I have for over a week now, I attempt to push it out of my mind by focusing on something else - in this case, History, and the failed attempts by Giuseppe Mazzini to unite Italy by democracy. It doesn't work, and soon enough Mazzini is replaced by Frida in my mind (complete with a ridiculous stereotypical italian moustache), trying to unite the states of Italy: the mystery date and I. With a huff, I throw my textbook aside - carefully ensuring it lands on my bed, because textbooks are expensive. My outfit has been picked out for two days already, and the first thing I did when I woke up, after showering and drying my hair, was straighten it. It only just brushes my shoulders when it's curly, but straightened, the back tickles the bottom of my shoulderblades, and the front falls down to my breasts. I've been saying I want to grow it out for years, but every time summer comes around and I have to tackle an insulating ball of frizz every day, I give in and get it trimmed above my shoulders again. For a brief moment, I wonder whether my date will like my hair. Whether they'll still like it when I inevitably get too lazy to straighten it at some point and they see it in its true state. Then I realise I'm being stupid and stop. Who cares if he likes my hair? I don't know him, and he certainly doesn't know me. Who would he be to tell me how to wear it?
"For fùck's sake, Kat," I mutter, getting up off my bed before realising I have nothing to be doing and sitting back down. Only, sitting back down suddenly makes me fidgety, so I stand up, reach for my phone, and call one of the only people I know who are sure to distract me. The ringing cuts off at the fifth repetition, a familiar American-Irish lilt filtering through the speaker.
