ONE
“Speed dating? That’s your brilliant idea?”
Shyla, one of my senile best friends, nods like she’s had too much coffee. Aimee, the other partner in crime, grins and agrees with the ridiculous idea.
Right now, I don’t know who these people are.
“Completely brilliant,” Aimee voices whose side she’s truly on.
And news flash—it’s not mine. If it was, she’d be against this load of bullshit.
“Look. You sit for five minutes, talk, and move on to the next. There’s no pressure to have to date and deal with it for hours trying to figure out a way to bail,” Shyla says.
These two are insane. They’ve lost their ever-loving minds. This is a horrible idea.
But for entertainment purposes only, I ask, “How long is the event?”
Shyla begins to chew on the side of her lip. I know that look. It’s her telltale sign I’m going to hate the answer.
“Three hours,” Aimee answers instead, a little too bubbly. “But!” She holds up her finger. “You have a minute in between dates.”
My eyes almost bulge out of my skull. “Three hours?” I nearly shout and then look up to the ceiling to do a little math. One-hundred and eighty minutes. Five-minute dates with a minute-long break. If my eyes were bulging before, who the hell knows what they’re doing now. “That’s thirty guys!”
I’m going to murder them.
Shyla holds up her hands. “Look. I know what you’re thinking. I—”
“Thirty first dates that all begin and end awkwardly,” I interrupt shaking my head. “No. My answer is no. Not only no, but hell no. I’m not doing it.”
“You really need to get back into the dating game,” Aimee says over the rim of her wine glass.
“Why? I’m content being single. I’m happy. If Mr. Right pops up, I’ll jump his bones, but I’m not interested in watching a revolving door of show ponies pass in front of me.”
“What if your Mr. Right is there looking for his Mrs. Right?” Shyla says nonchalantly, like she does this every weekend. She doesn’t. She’s engaged—happily engaged—to the man of her dreams who she met three years ago at a grocery store after backing her vibrant red Volkswagen Bug into his nice little gold Mercedes.
It was love at first wreck.
“It’s a damn bachelor buffet. All you can eat men with different side dishes. I’m not hungry.” I might as well have added a huff with a foot stomp there.
“I bet your vag is begging to be fed,” Aimee says with a brow cocked up high.
I glare at her. “My vag is just fine.”
Okay, that’s a lie. It’s been eleven months. Eleven. You don’t have enough fingers to count how long it’s been since I’ve gotten laid. The horror. But I’m that girl. You know, the one who can’t have sex for the fling of it because her morals and emotions get in the way. I have to have somewhat of an emotional connection in order for me to lie in bed with a man. Life would be easier if I could just love ‘em and leave ‘em, but nope. I have to be difficult.
“I’d do it if I were in your position,” Aimee says. “It’s been almost a year.”
My position? Like it’s a bad thing? It’s not. I’m fine. I’m happy. I love my job working as a pharmacy technician, my down time with my friends, my nights reading by the fire, and whatever else I want without having to make sure it’s okay with someone else.
I love my independence. Sue me.
“Then you come with me,” I fire back at Aimee.
“I have a boyfriend,” she replies with a laugh.
I blow a huff. “Well, your boyfriend sucks.”
“No he doesn’t,” she snaps back with a warning scowl.
“God, you’re so right.” I sigh. “He doesn’t.”
William, her boyfriend, is the best. He’s always doing sweet things for Aimee and the way that man looks at her is like she’s the air he needs to breathe. He spoils her with so much love and affection that sometimes he makes me want a boyfriend. Sometimes. And let’s not forget about all the boasting she does about their sex life. The man deserves a gold medal from what she describes.
Shyla sets her glass on the table and pours herself some more wine. “At least try it. It may be fun. If not, no harm done.”
“If I agree to do this, will you two quit hounding me? I’m really okay. I swear. Whether you two believe me or not, I enjoy being single.”
Aimee and Shyla share a look and a small grin—a silent victory. I feel like I’ve just made a deal with the devil’s wife. Why the wife and not the devil? Because that bitch was crazy to even give him a chance.
Shyla holds her glass up in a toast. “I promise to leave you alone for a little while.”
Skeptically, I narrow my eyes. “How long is a little while?”
“Months. Four of them. Scout’s honor.” She puts up two fingers and kisses them.
Aimee does the same. “Me too.”
“Fine. I’ll freaking do it,” I agree, but I’m not happy about it. Not one bit.
“Good,” Shyla says. “I signed you up already. It’s this Friday.”
“As in tomorrow?”
She grins. “Yes.”
“If I didn’t love you…I’d hate you and have no qualms about throat punching you. Both of you.”
We laugh.
Truth is, they are the best of friends who mean the world to me. And I know their meddling is out of love. I just wish they’d believe me when I say I love my single life instead of trying to play match makers.
TWO
I hate my friends. Have I said that yet? If not, let me make it very clear, I’m going to strangle them. All day long, I was so nervous at work. I dropped everything I touched. Poor Mr. Southers might have floor lint in his cholesterol medicine. That bottle and those pills took a spill, and before anyone could see, I scooped them up. Not protocol. But figuring it was the fourth script I’d dropped, I needed to cover it up the best I could.
Once quitting time was here, I only had two hours to get ready for Insta-Dates. I took a long hot shower and then argued with my closet and every piece of clothing in it until I found the perfect outfit—a red dress, short at the knees, flowy around the waist, and shows off my girls. I may not want to do this, but I still want to flaunt it. And while I’m at it, I add my favorite pair of black heels. Might as well go full-blown hot dayum.
My Uber driver, a quiet older man, drove as if he had fine china in the back before he dropped me off at the address Shyla had sent me. The brick building with a black metal awning looks nothing like a dating spot. More like a speakeasy. I check the address for the hundredth time and then head in.
The hostess bursts into a massive smile, showing off white teeth. “Hey!” she says bubbling. “Welcome to Insta-Dates. I’m Josephine. Who do I have the pleasure of meeting?”
“Um, Brooklyn Anderson.”
I watch as the tip of her pen scrolls down the list of names before she places a check beside my name. She gathers a stock card, an index card, and a pencil and hands them to me. “This is your scorecard to help you remember who you liked enough for a second date. And this,” she holds up the longer card, “are our rules. You’re more than welcome to introduce yourself by first name, but we highly recommend you refrain from using your last, for privacy reasons of course. Also, no exchanging of phone numbers. If you’re interested in someone past this date, you contact us and we’ll contact them. It helps take the rejection out of it if you or they are not interested.”