Feisty

I'm not too proud to admit that finding Mr. Right involves swiping right. Right? Welcome to dating in avocado toastland. Here I am, on my first blind date, ever, courtesy of a smartphone app and my two annoying best friends. So what is Chris "Fletch" Fletcher doing, walking across the room, looking at his phone like he's pattern matching a picture to find a real person he's never met before? Oh. Oh, no. The guy I drop-kicked in seventh grade cannot be my blind date. The guy who earned me this infernal nickname. That's right. Feisty. It was bad enough that last month all my old kickboxing training came in handy when a disgruntled noncustodial dad invaded my preschool class and tried to take one of my kids without permission. That ended with news coverage of the closed-circuit video that parents saw in real time as I beat him up and pinned his neck to the ground while waiting for police to respond. We won't mention the part where I thrust my arm into the air in a power stance and, uh... Roared. Hey. HEY! Don't judge me. I protected those kids. And the kid most in danger was Fletch's nephew. The same Fletch who just now noticed me sitting here. Being noticed is bad. Being his dating app match is even worse. Why? Because no matter how hard I've tried to avoid him since high school, every time I see him I have the same reaction. I wish I'd never kicked him. I wish, instead, that I'd let him kiss me. Which it looks like he's trying to do. Right now.