for hook: people throw rocks at things that shine and life makes love look hard

 
For all the madness that she'd dealt with trying to get ready--second-guessing her dress, fighting with hair rollers and what little makeup she wore--Emma was strangely calm waiting in the booth at Tintern Abbey with a glass of wine and her phone for company. She'd gotten there early (mostly to make sure they could get a decent table) and between the wine, the atmosphere, and giving Delsin text-message dating advice for his own romantic outing, her frayed nerves were soothed.

Dealing with someone else's love life was, after all, much easier than dealing with her own.

At fifteen til seven, Emma put her phone on silent and slid it into her purse, focusing on sipping her wine and not fidgeting. It was difficult not to look down every few minutes just to fuss with the bodice of her dress and make sure her boobs were still in place (they had not, so far, shown any interest in going rogue) or tug and twist at a lock of the hair she'd curled for the first time in ages, but it was hard to find something else to do with her hands. She toyed with her wineglass instead, uncrossed and re-crossed her legs, tapped the heel of her shoe against the floor.

She snuck a peek at the time on her cell phone. Two minutes had passed since she'd put it up. Maybe he'd forgotten. She should've offered to pick him up, hell, she had a car now. Should she call him and see if he needed a ride? Would they be willing to hold her table if she had to step out?

...And this was exactly why she hated dating. It was fraught with self-inflicted pitfalls and anxiety, and she was an idiot, it wasn't even seven o'clock yet.

"Get a grip, Swan," she muttered to herself, taking a much healthier swallow of wine than the prim sips she'd previously enjoyed.