Three concerns immediately present themselves.
The fact that he expected me to be here is troublesome. For someone who wants to be alone, I’m always hanging out here to avoid being alone. Maybe I do need a date.
Austin is a phenomenal chef, so although I hate being predictable, I’ll take the fettuccine. Seems fair. He feeds me delicious pasta, and I feed him useless history facts.
He cannot see what we are doing. Sure, he’s got a girlfriend, but do I want him to think I’m off the table? Not that I’m on the table. But I might be? Some day?
“Thank you. That was really thoughtful.” Faster than Austin can dice an onion, I spring from the couch and cross to Charlotte’s desk, positioning myself to block the screen.
He ambles closer, bringing the seductive scent of garlic with him. “What are you—”
“It’s lady underwear stuff,” I half shout, at the same time Charlotte says, “Setting up a dating app.”
Austin’s eyes volley between us.
“A dating app…for Charlotte,” I amend. This is not my finest cover-up.
He stops a few feet from my raised hand and gives me side-eye. “Charlotte’s engaged.”
“She may need a fling.” I shrug. “Don’t shame her sexual needs.”
“I do need to know I’m still desirable,” Charlotte adds, because besties roll with stuff like this. “I’m a modern gal in a post-modern world, bud.”
He grazes his bottom lip with a peek of white teeth, and then, like the laid-back guy he is, lets it go. “Okay. Keep your secrets. I’m going to shower and nap before I meet Lucy.”
Right. Lucy. The totally put-together new girlfriend with a successful career in public relations.
“Let me know how you like the fettuccine,” he calls on his way out of the room.
When he’s disappeared down the hallway, Charlotte whispers, “You know, you’re doing this to get over him. So it’s okay if he knows. Because…you’re moving on?”
“Shhhh. He doesn’t know about my crush. And never will. Because you would never, ever tell him, upon pain of death. Right?”
“I’m offended. Girl Code is more sacred than the cross.”
“You’re Jewish.”
“It’s the principle.”
“Well, I’m already nervous enough about going out with strangers, I don’t need him making me more nervous. He’ll have me convinced they’re all serial killers.”
Actually, I don’t really need convincing on that part. Granny Mae convinced me years ago.
“They’re hardly strangers,” Charlotte reassures. “They’re friends of friends on your social media. Who are going to give you an O—”
“Stop, please,” I cut her off. “I need to eat my feelings with cream sauce. Want some?”
“I do, but no. I have a fitting for my wedding dress soon.”
See, Charlotte doesn’t understand what it’s like to put yourself on the internet. She’s been with her man since high school. If only my high school boyfriend hadn’t been a jerk, I could be in Charlotte’s position. Thanks for nothing, Josh. Ten minutes later, when I’ve settled into a chair next to Charlotte with warmed pasta—and more wine—Austin reappears. “How is it?”
“Delicious, as usual.” Even if it’s now stuck in my throat at the sight of his damp, rumpled hair.
“Good. I’m heading over to Lucy’s now, because she wants to nap with me.”
A nap date. Could life be more unfair? I love naps.
Austin’s crooked grin before he leaves is beguiling, and really, it’s best I do this dating thing because no one should be so enamored with the smile of such a good friend of theirs.
“Why can’t all men be like Austin?” I murmur, twirling fettuccine in an endless spiral on my fork.
“They can be, Chloe.” Charlotte places a hand on my knee. “You’re so focused on the tree, you can’t see the forest. It’s time to say timber.”
Maybe it’s the alcohol lowering my defenses, but she’s right. Austin is one of my favorite people. He brings me unexpected meals and laughs at my history trivia, but that’s as far as it goes. “Let’s do this, before I change my mind.”
She smiles. “While you were focused on Austin’s…noodle,” I choke briefly, “I set up the account with your email. Your password is forkme.” Charlotte’s pink nails fly across the keyboard and navigate to the profile page. “First, we need a cute picture to entice the forest. Got any selfies?”
“No. I’m not a selfie taker. I’m a meme saver.”
She lifts her phone and aims it at me. “Smile.”
This is happening too fast. Although I’m only half invested, I’d like to at least look like I didn’t crawl out of a hole. She gives me a few minutes to release my hair from its messy bun, remove a stray peppercorn from my incisor, and apply a bit of lip gloss. After a few awkward poses, trying to get that “oh, you caught me off guard” natural look down, my face smiles back at me on the monitor.
In the age of Photoshop and Facetune, I hope I win points for my non-filtered photo. I’ve never considered myself vain, but it’s impossible not to critique myself and find every flaw. How many strangers will see this image and based on it, decide whether they’d have sex with me? FriendsOfFriends needs a disclaimer box where I can explain that I hibernate in the winter, but now that it’s spring, I shaved my legs and made an appointment for fresh highlights.
“Should we take another?” I ask. Perhaps one Charlotte poses for.
“No. It’s perfect. You look like the girl next door.” She gives me the reassuring statistic that women who post a photo are twice as likely to get a response and tabs to the next section. “Job.”
I retrieve the wine and pour us each a generous serving. “Can we put what I’m supposed to be doing?”
“There’s nothing wrong with being a potter. Not everyone is qualified to make pottery.”
“Yes, this is true.” But I’m supposed to be a director at an art museum, selling my own art on the side. And calling “teaching children how to make wobbly cups at It’s Clay Time” being a potter is overly kind. That unfulfilled dream is the entire reason I picked Boulder for college and am still here in Colorado. Oh, well. Van Gogh sold one painting during his lifetime, so there’s still hope for me if I do croak on my hill. Being a pottery teacher may not be my dream, but neither is this dating site. As we’ve established, we can’t always get what we want. “Okay, next.”
“What’s Your Idea of a Perfect Date?” Charlotte laughs. “Didn’t you once say the perfect date was going to Nathan’s Hot-Dog Eating Contest?”
“That was before I knew nap dates existed. Plus, I was hungry when I said it. And anyway, you still think a Tool concert is a good place to meet guys.”
We continue on, filling in details, and this is all so self-esteem draining. There’s a whole “Get To Know Me” section and what if no one is charmed by my fascination with tiny houses and passion for art? And on the flip side, what if I’m not charmed by any of them? Despite the churning in my belly, we continue on, until the profile is complete.