Bryn: Also, I’m not sure if you saw it, but I posted too. Thought you might like to know that.
Whoa.
I sit up straighter, return to Made Connections, and hunt through the new posts, sifting through dozens until one makes me laugh.
Looking for Mr. Lunch Box.
I read it, smiling the whole time. Damn, if I’d known the key to meeting a woman like her was random chance, well, I’d have pursued a random chance sooner.
Logan: Since we discussed the value of fun, let me say this—Sunday night sounds like a lot of fun.
Bryn: It absolutely does.
I read her texts one more time, then her reply on the app. Yeah, she seems like a Bryn.
Bryn is sexy, confident, witty.
And Bryn is my date on Sunday night.
I toggle to my text app one more time, sending a group text to Oliver, Fitz, and Summer.
Logan: Guess who’s not pathetic anymore? She replied. I’m seeing her Sunday night.
Fitz: Miracles do happen.
I set down my phone when my daughter speeds into the living room, wearing her Snoopy pj’s and swinging her new lunch box. “Daddy, I have been writing letters to my favorite authors, including this author who tells stories about superhero cats, because I want her to give the cats some new superpowers. Like flying. Do you want to read it before bed?”
“I absolutely do.”
She climbs onto the couch next to me and parks herself in my lap, then proceeds to read her letter about flying cats and invisible ones too.
After, we hunt down the author’s mailing address, pop the letter into an envelope, and make plans to mail it tomorrow.
At last, Amelia slides under the covers, yawns, and falls asleep in seconds.
I say good night, leave her room, and work for a few more hours on the couch. The trade is worth a late night of work.
Worth it for the extra time with Amelia.
I savor every second of my weekend with my kid, and when she returns to her mom on Sunday evening, it’s my turn to do something I’ve only done a handful of times since my divorce became final two years ago.
Go on a date.
Maybe, just maybe, this missed connection with Bryn will be a charm.
Maybe it’ll be everything I’ve been lacking, not just since my marriage ended, but since before it ended too.
A man can hope.
A man can dream.
I shower, pull on jeans and a Henley, grab my phone, and head to Gin Joint in Chelsea.
I scan the place, but she’s not here yet. As soon as I ask the hostess for a table in the lounge, though, I hear the click of boots behind me. The hair on my neck tingles.
My body seems to recall insta-lust, no problem.
I turn around, and then I’m looking into the green eyes of the woman I was willing to chase online.
That instinct served me well.
Better, so much better, than the overcautious instincts that tripped me up in the store. But the app gave me a second chance to find Bryn and to do things differently. Rather than freeze and stumble, I should move and act.
“Hi, Bryn,” I say, then I lean forward, sweep her hair from the side of her face, and press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Good to see you,” I whisper like I’m marking her as mine before we even head into the lounge.
Her breath catches, and she wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing. “So good to see you too, Logan.”
So much contact already. I have a feeling this is going to be an excellent night.
5
Bryn
I’ve dated sporadically since my husband, Evan, left me two years ago.
Left after he begged me to open my heart to him, to give more, do more, be more. He took off because he said I didn’t spend enough time with him, didn’t devote enough energy to our marriage. He wanted all of me, all the time. If only I had given more of myself, he’d have kept it in his pants.
It was a shit excuse as far as shit excuses went. Add in that I’d been grieving at the time, and it was the shittiest excuse of all.
But that’s life.
I’d cracked my heart open to the man, and he’d stomped on that organ.
I had no choice but to pick myself up, nurse my wounds, and move on. I don’t want to marry again. I’m not even sure I want something serious if it could wound me as deeply as he did. But I wouldn’t mind companionship.
Plus, there’s the work angle. How could I run a dating and relationship advice site without at least walking the walk and talking the talk now that I was single again?
It was fitting. It was right.
I can’t preach the gospel of putting yourself out there without putting myself out there.
So, about six months ago, I got online.
That’s how you do it these days—swiping right, checking boxes, perusing profiles. But I haven’t met anyone in those six months who’s floated my boat for an extended cruise down the river of love. Or lust, for that matter.
Still, that dating time in the trenches has prepped me for what comes next.
The getting to know you fox-trot.
After the hostess shows us to our table and I settle in on the plush royal-blue lounge chair, I take the first dance step.
“Gin Joint,” I say, musing on the words, soaking in the ambiance of this establishment, from the jewel-colored chaise lounges to the swoony music piping through the speakers. “With a name like that, I’m curious if we’re even going to be allowed to order mojitos, since they’re made with rum.”
“Or if we should,” Logan tosses back.
“Right? Is the name sort of a warning—don’t order anything but a martini or gin rickey?”
“If we want a mojito, maybe we ought to find a spot called the Rum Club.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Google, please find the nearest Rum Club right now,” he says playfully into his phone, then sets it face down on the table.
“And then we’ll pop over to Tequila Town,” I offer.
“Excellent plan. We’ll make it a barhop, and by the time we hit up Whiskey World, we’ll be wasted.”
I laugh. “Sounds like quite a raucous night.”
He grins, then gestures to the bar. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”
I sit up straighter and nod excitedly. “I do. I love secrets.”
He cups the side of his mouth and whispers, “Order the Plot Twist.”
“Will I find out the butler did it?”
“Or that it was all a dream.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness, it’s the owner’s name for her gin mojito. The woman who runs this place is a maestro of cocktails, and I highly recommend the Plot Twist.”
I mime banging a gavel, like an auctioneer. “Sold.”
As if on cue, the waitress swings by, flashing a pearly-white grin. “What can I get for you two? The signature gin cocktails are delicious, but we also have a full menu of wine, beer, and mixed drinks.”
“We’d like two Plot Twists,” he says.
“I’ll have them to you shortly.” She turns on her heel to go.
“Two is always a good number of plot twists,” I chip in once she’s gone.