I shoot her a hard stare. “You literally just name-checked our website in your argument on why I should consider this guy.”
“I did. Clever, huh? So, date the hot divorcé.”
“I’m not dating him. That’s my point. We had a moment. A fantastic, fiery, flirty moment that was veering this close to something more.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space between them. “I practically served myself up on a silver platter. I had ‘ask me out’ in neon on my forehead.” Then I shrug. “But he got a call, and we didn’t exchange numbers, and I’m not going to go haunt Your Little Loves every day at ten in the morning in case he returns. Thus, there is no dating pool to dive into with this guy.”
We reach the conference room, a visual reminder of my to-do list. It’s a list I thoroughly enjoy, since making this site sing is my passion.
I say hi to the writers, editors, and designers who make The Dating Pool one of the most trafficked relationship and lifestyle sites on the web.
After quick hellos and what-are-you-up-tos, we segue to business and review the newest columns, lists, tips, and articles, including the eye-contact piece.
Then it’s time for Idea Palooza. I nod at everyone gathered around the conference table: Teagan; chestnut-haired Rosario, an eager junior editor; dimpled Matthew, a clever senior writer who edits my pieces; hawk-eyed Quentin in graphic design, whose analytical eye is crucial for our success; and baby-faced James, who’s young, brilliant, and sassy.
“So, talk to me,” I say, “What are your ideas for new pieces? What do we want to work on next?”
For the next thirty minutes, the team brainstorms, and we pick our most promising ideas to pursue.
“I have a concept for a piece,” Rosario chimes in with a hint of her Puerto Rican accent, tapping a pen against her lip, then sitting up straighter.
“Hit me,” I say.
“There’s a new app that’s all the rage. Like when Missed Connections on Craigslist was in vogue?” Her big brown eyes canvas the room. More than half of us sigh wistfully.
“Those were the best,” Matthew says, bringing a hand to his flannel-covered heart. Our top writer puts the “lumberjack” in “lumberjack look.” “Or like those PostSecrets where people would mail in confessions on postcards. I could read those all day.”
Across the table, Quentin’s dark eyes sparkle with mischief, and the graphic designer leans in closer, whispering, “Same here. What’s better than a peek at everyone’s dirty secrets?”
“Exactly,” Matthew agrees. “Missed Connections on Craigslist is the same. Seeing all the near-misses and almost-chances that happen every day, all the times people should have met but didn’t. My boyfriend and I used to speculate whether they found each other, and what might have happened on their first dates.”
“That’s a fun pastime.” I smile, picturing it myself. “Daydreaming that the cute guy from the ice cream shop looks for you and imagining how it would go. Would you bond over the potato-chip-and-chocolate-chunk swirl, or would one of you love the strawberry fennel and the other obsess over the marshmallow mint?”
Matthew’s brow knits. “No one obsesses over marshmallow mint. Also, are you speaking from experience? Is there someone you once had an ice cream shop moment with?”
James whips his gaze to me. “Was that back in the days when you dated without apps, Bryn? Also, how did you handle all that . . .” He flaps his hand like he’s hunting for words he doesn’t know. “All that weird IRL stuff? I just don’t get it.”
“It was the dark ages,” I deadpan. “We barely made it through. Thank God Tinder lets old people like me sign up.”
James stretches an arm across the table to pat my hand. “You’re not that old.”
I narrow my eyes. “You do know I’m thirty-two? And your boss?”
He laughs. “Like I said, you’re not that old.”
“And to answer your question, yes, it’s an example from real life. Last summer, I chatted with a guy at Sweet Nothings in Soho over the absurdity of ice cream flavors, and I remember thinking he’d have been fun to talk to more. I had a fleeting wish that I’d found a way to get his number, or that he’d asked for mine,” I admit.
The site is about relationships, and we talk openly about dating—personally, not just editorially. It’s always been refreshing.
“But you never got his number or his handle?” James asks.
“Nope.” I shake my head.
Teagan clears her throat, cutting through the chatter and getting us back on track. “Which is precisely the point of Made Connections. What I always loved about those posts was how they gave you a real sense of how people were meeting and how many moments we let slip away. Opportunities unseized. Moments like your Sweet Nothings one, Bryn. I feel like that could be the basis for our next great piece.”
“She’s right,” Matthew seconds with enthusiasm. “The audience will devour it.”
Teagan’s excitement rises at his interest. “We should test that app for the site. Really put it through its paces. Let our readers know if it works.”
I nod wholeheartedly, giving my seal of approval to Teagan’s concept. “Speaking of seizing the moment, anyone want to volunteer as tribute to write this piece?”
This is a normal request for a site like ours to make of its staffers. Many of our writers and editors test the wares, whether they are dating venues, toys, apps, or ideas. If a concept doesn’t feel right to any of the team, I farm it out. There’s never pressure to date or not date.
James shakes his head. “I just started dating someone I met on POF.”
Matthew is next, offering an apologetic look. “I have a steady boyfriend now, so when it comes to test-drives, I’d better stick to the couples’ content.”
Rosario chimes in. “I have a second date with a guy from Tinder this weekend, so I should see how that goes first.” She raises crossed fingers with a hopeful smile.
I smack my forehead. “What is the world coming to? I run a dating site and none of my writers, editors, or designers want to test out a new dating app. Oy. I’ll have to find a freelancer.” I lower my voice to a stage whisper. “But I still love you all best.”
Then Teagan raises her hand. Perfect. She will bring her brand of irreverence to any article.
I point at her, then tap some notes into my tablet, marking her down for the assignment. “Yes, Teagan. I accept your offer. You can do it. Your pieces are always hilarious.”
She laughs lightly, a you’re so cute chuckle. “I was going to suggest you do Mr. Lunch Box.”
My gaze snaps up from the tablet, and I stare an oh no, you didn’t at her. But oh yes, she did, even though she knows the team will pounce on those words.
“Ooh. Who is Mr. Lunch Box?” Rosario asks, her voice dripping with curiosity as she bats her lashes.
Matthew parks his chin in his hand. “We’re waiting, boss lady. Details, details. Leave no hot stone unturned.”
I narrow my eyes and growl at Teagan. “You’re dead to me.”
She simply smiles, the evil genius. “Well, you did have a moment,” Teagan adds. “You didn’t seize the strawberry-fennel moment, so maybe this is your potato-chip-chocolate-chunk swirl.”