"I don't know what you're moaning for," my best friend Calum said.
"So The Yorkshireman isn't falling all over himself to set up date two? You wouldn't be interested if he was. Dating is supposed to be psychological warfare."
I'd been waiting three days to hear back from The Yorkshireman after I'd texted to see if he wanted to meet up again. That's a lifetime in dating years. The night of our first date, after I'd cancelled on him twice, was a night that played on my mind as being somehow significant, and so every hour that passed without response felt like failure. Like I'd misremembered the connection that had fizzed.
It's pretty straightforward to have a solid first date: drink a bit too much, use some tried-and-tested first date stories, smile loads and make sure you tell them how interesting they are. There's no reason a first date with The Yorkshireman should've been any different and yet, it was.
Dating is a dance or a hunt, depending how you look at it.
Meeting him, it wasn't so much I fancied him as I felt like I'd met my match. He was familiar and dizzying, both at the same time. On a cellular, bodily level, he felt like a game-changer. A dating pivot-point. A something.
And then, by being the one to ask him out the second time, I worried I'd blown it. Shown my hand. Because, well: fellas like the chase. No matter where we've come in terms of equality, I'm a feminist who believes that it can be really lovely to hold back a bit, to be a wee bit coy, so that he might get the joy of discovery. Isn't that the sexy part? Dating is a dance or a hunt, depending how you look at it. Either way, magic and mystery is key. Had I eradicated the intrigue by asking him out?
My Italian mate Luigi told me to let The Yorkshireman chase, like they do in Milan. "Guys like to do the extra work if it takes five minutes, or five weeks towards the goal," he said. My other friend Zach agreed: "I'm seeing somebody it took four years to snare," he said, happily.
"I screwed up," I wailed to Calum. "I was weak, and now he knows he can have me if he wants me. Everyone agrees it was stupid. Gah! I hate the mind games!"
Calum reassured me I hadn't screwed up, whilst also warning me against 'double texting' – texting again after the last message goes un-responded. He told me to make The Yorkshireman work for it, yes, but also that: "Laura, just be your normal self." But it's hard to stay yourself when you suddenly wonder if there's something to lose. It's hard not to take it all so bloody personally.
"How is it possible I am being so self-pitying over one date?" I moaned, embarrassed.
I woke up to The Yorkshireman's name on my phone the next morning. "Does Thursday work for you?" he asked. I waited twenty-four hours to text back – mostly as salve for my bruised ego. To feel some semblance of control in how I felt.
"Thursday is a dream," I replied, "Let me know where and what time. I'll be there." I ended with two kisses to punctuate the exchange with finality. To remind myself not to expect anything back too soon. To play it as cool as he is, even as my heart beats out of my chest with hope. Thursday.
Read Laura Jane's column each week in Grazia magazine.
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