by Tash Skilton
I’m not exactly sure why I’m motivated to go to Riverside Park today instead, except that maybe when I start out by playing “The River Is Long, the River Is Strong”—the theme song from Undersea—on my phone, it inevitably leads me to listening to the entire soundtrack on repeat. And that soundtrack doesn’t deserve a paltry mile-and-a-half run. It deserves a miles-long view of the mighty Hudson River, past marble tombs dedicated to legendary war generals, and beneath majestic branches of cherry blossom trees that have almost, though not quite, lost their last blooms. And I only spend a very, very small portion of it daydreaming about Mary Clarkson in that mermaid suit. And a smaller portion wondering if the Biscotti Bandit really does know her. That girl is a mystery wrapped in an enigma encased inside wonky arm warmers.
By the time I get back to Dylan and Charles’s, I’m out of breath and a sweaty mess. My watch tells me I ran seven miles. I used to do a daily five around Prospect Park, but that hasn’t happened in months since my former running partner got a monthlong “stomach virus” before dumping me. (In retrospect, I am really, really thick.)
I buzz up when I get to the apartment. Dylan and Charles have both been too busy to make me a key yet, and I’ve been too mopey to take it upon myself. Besides, I’m pretty sure the situation would have too much of an air of permanence about it for Charles (and maybe even Dylan), if they actually went to the trouble of making me my own key.
“Oh, God,” Charles says when he opens the door for me. “Are you crying?”
“It’s sweat,” I respond.
He peers more closely at me, trying to affirm that the droplets are, in fact, coming from my forehead. “Hmph. I guess,” he finally says. “Mind the runner. It’s antique Kermanshah.” He points to the dark carpet that runs down their hallway, which he carefully pads around in his corduroy slippers.
“I’m pretty sure we bought that at Target. Or maybe Overstock dot com,” Dylan comes over and whispers conspiratorially as I’m taking off my sneakers.
I smile at him as a bead of sweat drips down my nose and falls onto their dark parquet floor. Dylan grabs a tissue from the hall table and immediately wipes it up.
Dylan was my roommate in college, and he was a fantastic one. He was friendly, he was neat, and he never made a big deal of whether or not you were the same. He’s still all those things, only now he’s with Charles, which I think is only possible because he’s not overly attached to “nice” as an attribute in a boyfriend.
Maybe that’s not fair. Maybe Charles is perfectly nice to someone who hasn’t spent the past six weeks invading his personal space, sweating all over his possibly Kermanshah rugs, and filling his fridge up with half-eaten cartons of chow mein. (I always want it fresh, but then I hate wasting food, so the leftovers tend to pile up. It’s the ultimate millennial conundrum: determined to be conscientious while simultaneously wanting everything on demand.)
“He hates me,” I say as I stack my shoes neatly by the door. “He doesn’t hate you,” Dylan replies too quickly, which makes it hard to buy.
Oh, well. To be honest, I’m not sure Charles ever liked me. Maybe I wasn’t able to hide the “Wow/How” in my face when Dylan first introduced me to him. The moment Dylan, the epitome of tall, dark, and handsome—the ultimate wingman, since we were never competing in the same pool—walked into the bar, his face flushed and glowing with Charles behind him, I automatically assumed that he had gotten separated from the boyfriend I was supposed to meet by an older, balding, bespectacled gentleman. I craned my head to look behind him for the young, hot dude I was expecting.
Until Dylan put his arm on Charles’s and gave me a huge grin. “This is Charles.”
It was probably too late to stuff the look on my face back into the box, and Charles noticed. Charles notices everything.
Like last night, when I was trying to figure out what to order for dinner. Charles took one glance at the app I was on and chimed in with, “Let me guess. Chow mein.” I switched over to sushi, just to spite him. (Now there is half of a yellowtail/ avocado roll in the fridge, too.)
Last week, he must have seen my laptop opened up to three different tabs of Sudoku, a crossword, and KenKen because when I came back from the bathroom, he casually asked me how work was going. “Busy,” I lied automatically.
“Really?” he asked. “That second column is wrong by the way.”
And today, just as I’ve peeled off my shirt to hop into the shower, he leans against the wall and comments, “So you finally went for a real run today?”
I bite my tongue to keep from retorting something about how would he know what a real run is, considering the only bit of exercise he gets is running his mouth. I’m a guest in his home, I remind myself. Their one-bedroom home.
“Yeah,” I respond instead. “Riverside Park.”
He nods. “A city gem you discovered in You’ve Got Mail?” He grins evilly.
I give him the finger when he turns around. The thing is, how would he know Riverside Park plays a crucial role in You’ve Got Mail if he hasn’t also seen the movie? Huh?
He doesn’t turn back around but does let me know that, “You know the windows? They’re reflective,” as he looks me in the eye through one of them. I carefully fold my middle finger to join the rest of my fist.
By the time I’ve gotten out of the shower, Charles and Dylan have left for a work dinner thrown by Dylan’s law firm. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” Charles has scrawled on the magnetic whiteboard on the front of it. “Seriously. Just. Eat. Them.”
I open up the fridge and count the six white cardboard boxes, and the one plastic one of sushi. Aside from a neat row of salad dressing, raspberry jam, and a bottle of ketchup in the door, that’s all there is in their fridge. Neither Charles nor Dylan cooks. I used to, if you can call getting all the ingredients and recipes delivered to me in a box once a week real cooking. But since I currently don’t have a home to deliver said box to, that’s not happening so much anymore.
I hate to admit it, but Charles is right. I should eat the leftovers. I should just heat them up and eat them … but doesn’t a nice bowl of soba noodles and veggies sound pretty perfect right about now?
Good job on throwing dreamboat my way. I feel like I’m working on a spread for Vanity Fair. It’s a text from Aisha. As predicted, it had been pretty easy to sell Jude on her add-on the day after our initial meeting.
He genuinely needs your help, though, I respond. His pictures were doing him no favors.
I spoke briefly on the phone with him too, Aisha writes back. He sounds like Jamie Fraser.
I wrack my brain, trying to figure out who that is. When I don’t respond immediately, Aisha figures out my problem.
Outlander, she writes.
Ah, right, I write back. I cut the cord a while back so I haven’t seen the show.
Why does this guy need your help again? Aisha writes.
As soon as I get that message, my phone buzzes with another incoming one. Jude. Hey. So I’ve gotten an initial message from a girl I’m interested in. What’s my next step?
I write Aisha back quickly first. I guess we’re about to find out. I gotta go. Cyrano duties call.
Then I switch over to Jude’s window. Hey. Perfect. You free to get on a video chat? Easier if we talk through the first one together.
My phone rings almost immediately.
“Hi,” Jude says, his face filling up my screen.
“Hey. So which site are we on?”
“Game Set Match,” Jude says.
“Great,” I respond. Of the many, many dating apps and sites I’ve worked with, it’s actually one of my favorites. The interface is pretty simple and intuitive. And matches are conveniently already sorted into three categories: Game (hookups), Set (a catchall for those who aren’t sure what the hell they want), and Match (long-term relationships). “Okay if I access your computer?”
“All yours, chief,” he responds.
I click to the remote access program that I
already had Jude install on his computer, wait for him to “accept,” and then, voilà, his screen is up on mine. He already has the browser open to Game Set Match and I can see the notification that he has one message. I click through.
It’s from someone named RayaJack5, whose profile picture is ostensibly of the large cross she apparently wears around her neck, but is, in fact, mostly of her rack.
RayaJack5: Hey. Seems like maybe we’d be a match, so wanted to say: hey.
I see she’s in the “Set” category. Well, better than “Game,” since Jude and I’ve already established that he’s looking for more than that.
“Okay,” I tell Jude. “So, basically, she’s leaving the ball in your court. Which is pretty common.” Sometimes, people word vomit on the initial contact, trying to get everything that they’d ever want the other person to know about them across in a cramped, convoluted block of text that—more often than not—just reeks of desperation. That’s only slightly better than the absolutely infuriating “hey.” At least Raya added a bit more flair to hers than that.
“So should I write back … ‘hey?’” Jude asks.
“Um, no,” I respond. “Because think about it. What would ‘hey’ accomplish exactly?”
Jude shrugs. “Don’t know.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Think of it this way: Every interaction should have a purpose, however small. Whether it’s to get to know more about the person, make them laugh, flirt with them, tell them more about yourself, etc. Everyone’s busy, right? Why waste your time or someone else’s time on something that’s obviously not going to work? You ask the right questions, and you won’t have to.”
Jude laughs. “That might be the most New Yorker thing I’ve ever heard anyone say.”
I shrug. “Maybe. But it works.”
I see Jude looking at Raya’s message again before turning his attention back to me. “All right then. So what would you say?”
“I’ll type it on your screen, and if you like it, you hit send, okay?” I can always get my thoughts together better in writing.
“Sure,” he responds.
“Give me a minute to check her profile out,” I say.
Jude nods and I click around Raya’s profile. She’s twenty-three, an assistant pastry chef, and apparently into something called Christian horror. (Is that, like, movies about exorcisms? I’m slightly intrigued.) Ah, she also moved to the city just a couple of months ago.
“Okay, how about …” I say before I start typing.
GreatSc0t: Heya. I see you’re new to New York. That was me two years ago. Have you figured out whether you love it or hate it yet?
“What do you think?” I ask Jude.
“Great,” he says. “That works.”
“Okay,” I respond. “You’ve got final approval power with the send button.”
“Approved,” Jude says as he hits send and the message pings over to Raya. “Okay, so now … ah. She’s online.”
So she is. I see the icon that means she’s typing in real time. We wait for her response. It doesn’t take long.
RayaJack5: Haven’t decided yet.
I wait, in case Raya decides to take it a step further and ask Jude anything about himself. But we get bupkes. Apparently, she’s never taken an improv class either.
GreatSc0t: I have a theory that it’s almost completely reliant on where you have your first slice of pizza. You have a good one, and you and New York are a Match. You have a subpar one and … it might just be Game.
The message lingers as I watch Jude’s brows furrow a bit over it. “You don’t like it?” I ask Jude.
“No, it’s good,” he says. “It’s just … I don’t eat pizza. I’ve been paleo for over two years now.”
“Ah, okay,” I say, deleting the message, before realizing what he’s actually saying. “So you’ve … never had a New York pizza?!”
He shakes his head.
“And you’re still here?” I ask incredulously. “How the hell do you know if you like it?”
Jude grins. “The hot dogs weren’t bad. I had one from one of those carts once.”
“I guess but … wait. You had it without the bun too, didn’t you?”
“Yeah,” Jude says sheepishly.
I shake my head. “Impersonating you might be tougher than I expected. Okay, how about this then …”
GreatSc0t: I have a theory that it’s almost completely reliant on where you have your first run. You pick someplace scenic, on a beautiful fall or spring day, and you and New York are a Match. You end up in the horror show that is midtown in February, you’ll be lucky if you can even bring yourself to call it a Game.
“Much better,” Jude says, hitting send.
RayaJack5: Running is cool.
Christ. This woman might need our help even more than Jude does.
“Okay, so real talk,” I say to Jude. “How much do you like this girl based on her profile and this brief interaction?”
“Er,” Jude responds. “I don’t know. There isn’t much to go on.”
“Exactly,” I say. “Remember what I said about being efficient? Now, if there’s something really striking you about her, some chemistry thing that’s jumping out at you, then we can keep this going. But, if not … I say we give her one more chance to wow us in this chat, or we cut bait. What do you say?”
I see Jude click around on her profile. “The second one,” he finally says.
Thank God. I mean, I’ve dealt with having to steer the conversation with reticent matches on more than one occasion, but this feels like we’re parked in neutral.
“Let’s give her a real shot though,” I say. “Talk about something she’s supposed to be interested in, okay?”
“All right,” Jude agrees.
“Have you seen The Exorcism of Emily Rose?”
“Um … yeah. I think I have,” Jude says.
Okay. Good enough.
GreatSc0t: Hey, you’ve seen The Exorcism of Emily Rose, right? Did you know they were originally going to use a dummy to get the character’s contortions, but then the actress was so flexible, it’s actually just her with very minimal special effects. Isn’t that wild?
Jude hits send. We wait.
We wait awhile. This could be a good sign. Maybe Raya finally has something to say.
“Is that true?” Jude asks me.
“Yeah,” I respond. “I think it’s one of the reasons she got the part.”
“That’s brilliant,” he says.
“We’ll follow the little trivia up with a more open-ended question,” I assure him. “This is just so that she knows you have some knowledge about something she’s into.”
We finally hear a ping.
RayaJack5: Never seen it.
Er … . okay, I have to ask.
GreatSc0t: Really? When you said you liked Christian horror, I figured that was a perfect example of the genre?
Apparently, Jude is as curious as I am, because he hits send immediately.
RayaJack5: Christian Horror. www.fifty-shades-of-horror.net
I click on the link and my eyes are immediately assaulted by a black website with neon pink writing. I squint trying to read it.
CHAPTER 1
Christian Horror was a lot of things. Billionaire CEO. BDSM God. Vampire.
And I, Anastasia Silver, was about to be his cross to bear. Maybe even his … Silver cross. Or clove of garlic.
I stop reading. Dear God, is this fanfic of fanfic? And is it turning the whole thing back to being about vampires? Also, what the hell is it with this week and Fifty Shades of Grey?!
“So … seen enough to make a decision about Raya, you think?” I turn back to the task at hand, trying to keep any judgment out of my voice. After all, I’m not here to comment on our clients’ tastes, just to help them find what they’re looking for.
“I might have seen too much, mate,” Jude says, his face one of confusion. “I don’t think this is a match.”
Good man. “All right. Let’s do
this properly, okay? No ghosting.”
GreatSc0t: Ah, got it. Must have gotten my signals crossed. Listen, I have to go. But good luck on here. It’s been nice chatting with you.
There’s no great way to do this. A rejection is a rejection. But better an obvious one than one that says something like, “Maybe chat again sometime?” Because no. They won’t.
RayaJack5 doesn’t respond, just logs off.
“Sorry that one didn’t work out,” I tell Jude, “but it sometimes takes a while to find someone worth chatting with.”
“Nah, man. I appreciate it,” he says. “The ‘efficiency’? Is that what you called it?” He laughs. “Well, you were right. It did save me a lot of time.”
“I’d suggest taking a gander at your matches yourself,” I say. “See if there’s anyone who catches your eye. We can initiate the conversation and start it off on the right foot.”
“Okay,” he says. “I’ll take a look.”
“Stick with the ‘Match’ section if you can,” I suggest.
“All right. I’ll let you know if I find anyone.”
“Great,” I respond. We say our good-byes and hang up, after which I immediately use my phone to order that cup of soba noodles.
Apparently, the delivery guy reaches the building at the same time as Dylan and Charles, because it’s, in fact, Charles who delivers the food to me.
I briefly consider tipping him, but there’s no option on Grub-hub for tipping the belligerent man whose house you’re crashing at. Besides, like any true New Yorker, I don’t have cash on me.
CHAPTER 6
To: Da playa-hatas
From: Clifford Jenkins
Re: International Rolllllll-out
It’s time! For those of you who’ve been following along with our press releases (and if you’re not, you should check ’em out), it will come as no surprise that our global initiative is about to launch. Soon, the lovelorn in EVERY TIME ZONE (shout out to Russia!) will no longer be denied our services.