Here I am on a Saturday night, preparing for another dreadful evening with a man my father handpicked.

“Brody Boyde. You know him. He sits behind us in church.”

My father is correct. I have seen him before—just not in the quaint church setting he described. The last time I laid eyes on him, he was doing a belly shot off Louise at the bar. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure he was pouring beer over his shirtless chest, too. Yes, that’s the warm memory I was searching for. Brody also showcased his impressive multitasking skills by singing the  lovely and spiritual hymn that went a little something like, “It’s getting hot in here.”

It was a sight to behold. The bright fluorescent lights made the beer glisten as it dripped down his hairy chest. It was as if he were an angel—a holy, glowing angel with the sweet scent of Budweiser trailing behind him.

Brody—the man whose hand somehow always found a way to brush against my butt as we left church. He would act as if nothing had happened, keeping his head buried in his pamphlet when I turned around.

At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I know my parents are growing restless. After all, I was their miracle child. They tried for twenty years until I finally came along. They are courteous enough to mention, quite often, the magical anniversary trip on which I was conceived.

I could tell my parents how Brody had this unique way of saying goodbye—how he isn’t the kind of man they want their daughter with. But what’s the point? It would only result in another setup with an equally repulsive man. Hell, at least this one’s harmless.

My parents see us off at 7:00 p.m., grasping each other tightly as we pull out of the drive, waving as if we’re on our way to our honeymoon. In reality, we’re going a mile down the road to the local tavern, which isn’t exactly my idea of a date spot. Maybe I’m too picky, but I feel I shouldn’t have to stick to my seat and the floor. I’m worried it might distract me from the deliciously burnt bar food and warm beer.

The music is too loud, and Brody makes a point of being even louder. Lucky for me, everyone seems to be out tonight. I watch heads turning toward us, lips moving. I already know the tale being spun.

“Sarah and Brody, what a perfect pair.”

“Such a pretty girl. Finally, someone will make an honest woman of her.”

Our saint of a waitress, Maggie, magically appears as if she sensed my dire need for alcohol. I order a martini.

“Dirty or straight up?” she asks.

“Dirty,” Brody says, staring right at me.

Maggie shoots me a loaded glance. It asks, What the hell are you doing? Are you that desperate? Run.

“Get as many drinks as you’d like. It’s on me tonight,” Brody says, ending his statement by projecting a bit of saliva in my direction.

I cringe as it lands on my cheek. I feel it burn.

It takes an hour for Brody to realize I’m not going to be a good time after all. After a couple of failed attempts at “buttering me up,” he turns his attention to the game. Soon he needs to “go tell Jake something.”

I nibble on soggy French fries, knowing he isn’t going to return—and honestly, I’m glad. I can feel the looks of pity aimed in my direction. I’m sure my parents have already been informed that the date was not as successful as they had hoped.

When an NSYNC song blares over the speakers, I throw in the towel. I decide to walk home—the only enjoyable part of the night.

My parents are down on their knees saying their nighttime prayers when I return, praying to the old wooden cross with bite marks from our dog, Peter.

Okay. Let’s talk about that.

Who the hell names their dog Peter?

Are they crazy? The dog is a girl.

“Peter—Jesus’s most loyal apostle,” my mother would say, gazing at the dog with pride. I swear that in those moments she believed Jesus himself was shining down on her, pouring his blessings upon her.

Yeah, Mom. Jesus is totally looking down, tears in his eyes, saying, Bless you, Margaret. Bless you for naming your female dog Peter.

Well, the loyal Peter chewed on their favorite cross. After that particular incident, my mother would often whisper “Judas” to the poor dog whenever she entered a room.

Needless to say, Peter became my dog after that.

I sit on my bed and stare into the darkness outside. It feels like it could swallow me whole, if not for a light far, far off in the distance. Peter shuffles into my room and plops her head in my lap. I scratch behind her ears. My parents are probably still whispering to their cross, praying I “settle down.”

“Well,” I mutter, “at least someone knows how to pick a winner.”

Peter blinks up at me, her eyes patient and loyal. Somehow, that’s enough for tonight.