“Terrible and boring?”
“This is why you’re single. No, I mean, doesn’t play guitar at parties in his beanie. Isn’t a chef.” Doesn’t handcuff you to the bed. “Like, your guy listens to hip-hop and works in an office.”
“Sounds terrible and boring to me.”
“Well, I’ve messaged a half dozen who fit the description already, while you were in the bathroom.” She stands. “Let’s put the app on your phone and find more food.”
For whatever reason, while we forage the refrigerator, I don’t disclose my discovery in Austin’s bedroom. Once the app is downloaded, it’s decided I’m staying the night so we can continue our efforts. We settle on the couch and keep swiping through candidates until there’s no one left.
“Now, we wait,” Charlotte says. “First guy that messages back is the one you’ll go out with, no matter what.”
“Okay.”
“It’s like the universe decides that way. Right?” She holds up her pinkie. “Pinkie swear.”
On the third try, my finger loops around hers, and I agree.
Drinking too many glasses of wine means you have to deal with your horrible choices the next morning. Hazy memories of pinkies and handcuffs cloud my pounding head as I untangle myself from the blanket swaddling me on the coach. I sit up and rub my temples to ease the ache. My phone makes an annoying vibration against the coffee table every few minutes.
A notification from FriendsOfFriends informs me I have ten messages waiting. My curiosity leads me to the app. No matter what’s there, or how horrified I am at my drunken choices, I know you can’t break a pinkie swear. Please, let the universe have been kind.
Lucky for me, the first message in my inbox is not terrible. Or boring.
“Oh,” I murmur when I see the dark-haired, blue-eyed man smiling in the little circle.
His name is Finn, and I don’t even remember giving him a rock. Before I read his message, I look him up to refresh my memory and dang, but the Drunk C’s have amazing taste in hot bodies.
“Hi,” his simple message reads.
Okay. Short and sweet. It’s charming.
I take a deep breath and write back “Hey! Nice to meet you!” but immediately erase it. The exclamation points make me seem too excited.
I try again. “What’s up?”
Ugh. I erase that too. What if he says his dick? He may be ungodly attractive, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a pervert. Granny Mae has forwarded me a few articles about the scourge of internet peen pics.
After overanalyzing and erasing a few more responses, I finally type back, “Hi.”
While I wait for a response, I scroll through the remaining messages, but no one gives me that wow feeling like Finn. The other guys have all written paragraphs that give me immediate red flags. As I’m thanking the universe for my good fortune with Finn, the other aspect of this app hits me like a ton of—pardon the pun—rocks.
Rejection.
Someone is always going to be the loser in the game of love. That’s sad to realize. What’s the etiquette here? Do I ignore these other guys, and they’ll think I’m busy? They’re strangers, yes, but they’re also people with feelings. It seems harsh to leave them hanging.
I’m nothing if not polite, even if they’re damn trolls, so I go through each one and reply with—
“Thank you for your interest. You’re awesome, but unfortunately, I’m not a good match for you. I hope you find someone that rocks your world!”
There. Do unto others and all that.
A message pops up. From Finn.
“That’s too bad. You intrigued me with the tiny houses.”
Wait. What? Of course I also sent that rejection message to Finn, because life can never be easy.
“I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to send that to you. It was intended for someone else.”
“Ah, letting them down easy. I feel bad for the guy missing out on you. Glad it’s not me.”
Oh my. A foreign rush of warmth works its way through my system. Can you blush on the inside? I remember last night’s discovery. Yes, you definitely can. Only this one is far more appropriate.
Unsure what to say back to that gem, I type out, “That’s definitely going to get you in my panties,” but then erase, for obvious reasons. I send a safe smiling emoji with “Me too.”
“So, how does this work?” he asks. “Do we text first? Then ease into a meeting?”
“Your guess is as good as mine. This is my first time using a dating app.”
“Well, let’s do it. I know it’s soon, but I’m not the kind of guy to wait around. Life is short. So...are you free tomorrow? Breakfast? Lunch? Dinner?”
Well, I wasn’t expecting a date to happen right away. I envisioned a long courtship via text would take place. Something vaguely old-fashioned to ease me in. But best not to drag it out, I guess. What if I fall in love with his words and it’s all a sham? People are much different face-to-face. Maybe he has a laugh that frightens birds off light poles. Or a habit of speaking to my chin. We could have zero chemistry. Time to rip the Band-Aid off and see what happens.
“I’m teaching a pottery class in the morning. But I’m free after five.”
“Cool. How about seven? You can choose the place.”
We talk a few more minutes, and so far, this isn’t painful. He’s nice. No warning sirens are blaring from his replies. And he’s not afraid to use the app emojis. It’s cute. He promises to message me later, and when I collect my things to tiptoe past a snoring Charlotte, I’m grinning like a loon.
Three
The internet is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because you have endless information at your fingertips. Anything and everything is just a few clickety-clacks away. And a curse, well...because you have endless information at your fingertips. Anything and everything is a few clickety-clacks away.
Like dating tips.
This morning, rabbit-holing before my class arrived, I stumbled upon an article that said choosing an exciting place for a first date increases the chance of the other person falling for you. Craft fairs are probably only thrilling to me, so I’ve got about four hours to pick a place. But how exciting do I want to be? What if he falls for me and I don’t reciprocate?
“How’s this?” Louis, a carrot-topped six-year-old asks, saving me from the Pandora’s box of anxieties I’ve opened in my mind, and preserving my hope.
I praise his misshapen bowl. “It’s beautiful.”
“Grown-ups are bad liars.”
Kids are sometimes hard to deal with in my weekend pottery class. The tiny humans are amazingly intuitive.
“Well first of all, that really depends on the grown-up. But second of all, I’m not.” I am. “Everyone sees something different in art, Louis.”
“What do you see?” he asks.
“I see something with character, that your mom will treasure. Something you put a lot of effort into designing.” I run my finger around the thumb-sized dent in the side. “It has a belly button. It’s one of a kind.”
He beams, while next to him, Gwen, a ten-year-old artist in the making, frowns at her perfect round bowl.