Chicken Nugget Girl and the Blind Date Debacle

Mallory Reynolds was already regretting the blind date before she even parked her car. Helen, her best friend and certified chaos agent, had set it up.

“He’s perfect for you,” Helen had said. “Smart, funny, handsome. He owns his own business. Also, he’s not allergic to shellfish, so you two can finally share shrimp cocktail without you hyperventilating over his EpiPen.”

Mallory, against all known wisdom and her own gut instinct, had agreed.

Scene One: The Wrong Man

She strutted into the restaurant in her “I’m totally chill and not desperate” dress (black, stretchy, forgiving, also her funeral dress in case she died of embarrassment). She spotted him immediately: tall, dark hair, wearing a blue button-down, already seated at a corner booth.

“Hi, you must be Eric!” she said brightly, sliding into the booth before he could say anything.

He looked up from his phone. “Uh… sure.”

Sure? What kind of half-assed confirmation was that? But she was already in too deep, and besides, he was handsome enough to make her forgive minor red flags like vague verbal shrugs.

“I’m Mallory.” She extended her hand, which he ignored in favor of flagging down the waiter.

Scene Two: Disaster in Motion

The waiter brought waters. Mallory launched into her opening monologue—her nerves always manifested as stand-up comedy no one asked for.

“So, Helen tells me you run your own business. That’s impressive. I can’t even run a dishwasher without breaking at least one plate.”

He gave her a polite, empty smile. “Yeah.”

“Cool, cool. So, what kind of business?”

“I’m a mortician.”

Mallory choked on her water so hard the waiter hovering nearby asked if she needed the Heimlich.

“A mortician,” she repeated, eyes watering. “That’s… lively.”

He didn’t laugh. He just sipped his drink like he’d been waiting all day to drop that conversation killer.

Mallory tried again. “Well, that explains why you smell faintly of—uh—formaldehyde?”

“No,” he said flatly. “That’s my aftershave.”

Scene Three: The Mistake Revealed

She tried to recover. Maybe she was overthinking. Maybe he was just dry. Maybe he would loosen up after food.

“So Helen said you love hiking. I tried hiking once but got lost in a state park and had to eat my emergency granola bar shaped like Jesus. It was either divine intervention or a snack attack.”

“Never been hiking,” he replied.

Mallory blinked. “Wait. You’re not Eric?”

He set down his fork. “My name’s Carl.”

She froze, replaying the last ten minutes in her brain. Carl. Not Eric. Carl, the mortician. Carl, who thought her Jesus granola anecdote was less than divine.

Somewhere in the restaurant, a man in a blue sweater—an entirely different shade of blue—was waving awkwardly at her.

“Oh my God,” she whispered. “I’m sitting with the wrong man.”

Carl gave a slow nod. “Yes. You are.”

Scene Four: Flight, Not Fight

Mallory’s fight-or-flight response kicked in. And because she was Mallory, she chose the least dignified version of flight.

She stood so abruptly that her knee knocked against the underside of the table, sending her water glass tumbling directly into Carl’s lap. He gasped, more offended than wet.

“Sorry! Sorry! I—I have to—uh—I forgot I left my stove on.”

She bolted toward the door, but in her panic, her heel caught on the strap of her “sophisticated date clutch” (which was neither sophisticated nor practical), and she went down like a sack of potatoes.

There was a horrifying crunch.

Her ankle screamed. Her dignity flatlined.

Scene Five: The Final Humiliation

The restaurant went silent except for the Muzak version of “Careless Whisper.” Every single diner turned to stare as Mallory, lying on the floor like a freshly slain wildebeest, tried to stand. Pain shot up her leg. Nope. Not standing.

Carl appeared over her, blotting at his lap with a napkin. “You broke your ankle, didn’t you?”

“I didn’t break it,” Mallory snapped. “I dramatically injured it for comedic effect. Totally intentional.”

The waiter appeared with ice. Blue Sweater Eric (the actual blind date) finally rushed over.

“Mallory? Are you okay?” he asked, kneeling beside her.

She looked at him. Kind eyes. Concern. No formaldehyde smell. Definitely the right man.

“Hi,” she squeaked. “I’m Mallory. Nice to meet you. Please ignore the fact that I’m currently sprawled on a Red Lobster floor like a drunk sea captain.”

Carl muttered something about dry cleaning and slunk away. Eric, bless him, helped her into a chair while the staff debated whether to call an ambulance.

Scene Six: Redemption (Sort Of)

Two hours later, Mallory was in the ER, foot wrapped in a temporary cast, with Eric sitting beside her holding a vending-machine cup of coffee.

“Well,” she said. “This is probably the worst first impression anyone’s ever made.”

Eric laughed. “Actually, I think it’s the most memorable. I’ll never forget the woman who sat with a mortician, insulted his aftershave, and broke her ankle trying to escape.”

“Great,” Mallory groaned. “So, I’m not mysterious or sexy. I’m… slapstick.”

“Hey,” Eric said, smiling. “I like slapstick.”

Mallory blinked. Maybe Helen wasn’t entirely wrong. Maybe this wouldn’t be the worst blind date after all.

She leaned back against the hospital bed, wincing at her throbbing ankle but smiling anyway.

“Well,” she said, “if this leads to a second date, I’m insisting on crutches as accessories. Fashion statement, you know.”

Eric raised his coffee in a toast. “To memorable first dates.”

And Mallory—still mortified, still aching, still herself—couldn’t help but laugh.