1
Never trust anything you read on the internet.
It’s sound advice. I’d read it somewhere, possibly on the internet, but I’d never really taken it seriously until the night Brandon, 26, from Brooklyn stood me up.
According to his bio, Brandon was a “thrill seeker who lived for the moment and loved with abandon,” which should’ve been my first clue that he was full of shit.
As I sat alone at the bar, staring at the bottom of my empty cocktail glass, I cursed myself for agreeing to this date in the first place. Normally, I’d never waste a Friday night meeting some random guy I matched with on the internet. First dates were reserved for Tuesday or Wednesday nights only, when there was almost always nothing better going on. But when Brandon’s beautiful bearded face slid across my screen asking me to join him for a drink at a bar in the Financial District, I thought there’d be no harm in making an exception to my rule.
That was a rookie mistake.
I tapped my phone and stared at the screen. It was 6:18. The last message I’d received from Brandon was at 4:37: meet u @ the barley house @ 6.
Maybe he was just running late. I messaged him back: Are we still on for tonight? then waited in vain for a response.
“Another vodka soda?” The bartender whisked my glass away and wiped down the lacquered wood countertop. I had a choice: I could escape now with my dignity and go find Whitney, who was likely tearing it up somewhere on the Lower East Side. Or I could give Brandon from Brooklyn the benefit of the doubt, and nurse another drink while I waited for him to arrive. I swiped through his profile photos and felt giddy at the sight of his pouty lips and deep-set eyes.
“Sure, I’ll have another.” Yeah, he was probably just running late. After all, this was New York. There were a million obstacles that could be preventing him from getting here on time: train malfunctions, traffic snarls, police investigations shutting down major thoroughfares. I needed to stop being so cynical.
Still, Whitney’s words echoed in my head: Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. So I fired up the Fluttr app and checked to see if there were any potential love interests in the immediate vicinity.
Fluttr was the dating app of choice these days. There wasn’t anything particularly special about it—it worked just like every other dating app I’d ever used: post a couple of not-terrible photos. Enter your name, age, and location. Then swipe through a seemingly infinite pool of available men. A left swipe meant no, a right swipe meant yes, and if you swiped right on a guy who swiped right on you, you could message each other through the app. Simple, straightforward, and not at all original, but for some reason, it was hugely popular. There were more people signed up for Fluttr than any other dating app in the city.
So far, I hadn’t had much luck with it. Most of my matches led to disappointing first dates, endless go-nowhere in-app messaging, or the occasional unsolicited dick pic. But with so many guys to choose from, I was sure Mr. Right was only one swipe away.
“Here you go.” The bartender set my drink down on a fresh cocktail napkin. The first sip made my head swim. Time to get to swiping.
Bachelor number one was shirtless. Swipe left.
Bachelor number two was slamming a beer bong. Swipe left.
Bachelor number three was sandwiched between two bikini-clad women. Swipe left.
Finally, hope appeared in the form of Joe, 25, from Murray Hill. Hazel eyes, thick black hair, and the perfect amount of five o’clock shadow. No booze or half-naked babes to be seen. And he was wearing a sweater. Swipe right.
Digital confetti rained down from the top of my screen. Fluttr proclaimed: It’s a match!
“Melanie?”
Aha! My patience and faith were rewarded. I quickly switched off my phone and swiveled toward the sound of his voice. But the guy addressing me wasn’t Brandon from Brooklyn. It was Alex Hernandez, the new guy at my office, and a fine specimen of manhood.
“Hi.” The word tripped over my vocal chords. I was surprised he even remembered my name. A few weeks earlier, we’d received the briefest of introductions during his orientation tour of the building, but we hadn’t spoken since.
He’d left a big impression, though. In an office full of bedraggled computer nerds, Alex’s sense of style was an anomaly: hair perfectly mussed, jeans perfectly cuffed, button-down shirt perfectly fitted to his lean, solid torso. I’d wanted to see him again, but there was never a good excuse for me to swing by his cubicle, no good reason for us to strike up an idle chat. If I’d known he hung out at The Barley House, though, I probably would’ve started coming here sooner.
“Mind if I sit here?” he asked.
“Of course not.”
He slung his laptop bag along the back of the barstool and slid into the seat. I fussed with my earring, struggling to act casual. It was difficult, given the fact that Alex Hernandez was mere inches away from me. He smelled like leather and cloves. I bet his skin was warm to the touch.
“How’s the help desk been treating you?”
Alex was, of course, referring to my role at Hatch. If any employee had a problem with their personal computer—a broken mouse, an outdated version of Word, a virus they’d accidentally downloaded from an infected website—I was the gal to solve it.
“The usual,” I said. “Fine. Busy. Nothing exciting.”
“Cool. So, what are you doing here all alone?”
“I’m not alone.” Of course, I was obviously alone, but I didn’t want Alex thinking I was some loser who hung out in bars by myself on Friday nights. Then I remembered why I was really there: to meet a guy from Fluttr, who was most likely in the process of standing me up. “I’m meeting someone. Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Here was another rookie mistake: arranging an internet date within walking distance of my office building. I worked on Water Street, right at South Street Seaport, so most of my coworkers grabbed their happy hour drinks at bars along those cobblestone streets surrounding Pier 17. The Barley House was farther west, closer to the Stock Exchange, tucked away in a hidden corner of Maiden Lane, so I figured it was a safe zone. I thought I’d disappear into a sea of off-duty traders celebrating the end of their workweek. I didn’t realize the place would be half-empty, or that my secret office crush would roll in and sit down next to me.
Rather than risk embarrassing myself with a truthful answer to Alex’s question, I deflected. “Is this bar some hush-hush Hatch hangout I’ve never heard about?”
“Nah, no one ever comes here except for me. I live down the block. I’m here all the time. And after the day I’ve had, I need a stiff drink.” He flagged down the bartender and ordered a Maker’s Mark on the rocks, then turned to me and asked, “Do you need another one?”