“I don’t know about that.” A hitch of an eyebrow, and a cocky smile up one side of his face.
And he braces himself for the smack.
Chapter 8
Gordon does an about-face on his way to the mini-fridge. He’s got his hands pressed to his cheeks à la Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, but more in exasperation than in fright.
“So do we hate him or not hate him? I’m confused.”
“It depends on the hour.” I feign looking at a watch that isn’t on my wrist. “Right now, we are kind of okay with him.”
He tsks. “Oh, that’s clear. Thanks. And…help me understand again just why it is that you couldn’t have been serious about Mr. Capitol Hill way back when? Because he sounds pretty dreamy to me.”
I shove him. “That’s just part of his schtick,” I say. “That’s what he wants you to think.”
“Me?” One eyebrow quivers.
“No! Everyone! It’s complicated!” I throw up my hands in laughter and get back to the budget report. “I didn’t want to think real thoughts about him because I knew he slept with half of Isla’s bridesmaids, so—hello—why would I have thought us having sex was anything more than just that?”
“Sue Ellen?” He whips around. His eyes pop.
“Thankfully no. But only because she turned him down.”
“So he’s a skeeve then.” He nods. “Interesting.”
“They’re all skeeves!”
“Don’t I know it, sister. Don’t I know it.”
“But, no, I guess he’s not a skeeve. I just thought he was at the time.”
He shakes his head and makes like explosions with his hands. I can practically see the smoke coming out of Gordon’s ears.
“But you had feelings for him,” he says.
He lets the sentence hang there, and his gaze, his accusation penetrates the horizontal stripes of my top and goes all the way through to the desk chair.
It steals the wind from me, but once I catch my breath, I scoff.
“For, like, a split second. Maybe.” I look away. “But I was drunk.”
“Who wasn’t?” he says with a high five.
The air is light again, and I stick my nose back in the books, hoping the convo’s over but knowing that even if it is for the moment, he will probably not let me off the hook this easily. For the time being, Gordon’s merciful and drops it. He starts clicking away on his phone, humming to himself while he updates our social media accounts with news of the Sean Riker event.
“Well, this is great timing for you to not want that dude because guess who came in this morning looking for you…”
“Ryan Gosling?”
“Close.” His face lights. “Justin Trudeau.” He pauses, I guess to let that sink in. Waggles his fingers. “Well, not the actual Canadian Casanova, but his cutie-pie li’l lookalike from the other day.”
He slaps a scrap of paper in my hand and emits a little squeal.
It says “Cliff” in a scratchy scrawl, and underneath the name, there’s a phone number.
“Isn’t it so two-thousand-one? I love it! The simplicity of it all!” Gordon snatches the number back from me and waltzes with it pressed to his chest.
“You’re insane.” I steal it back and stick it to the corkboard with a pushpin.
“I’m insane? You’re the one who’s lost not only an eye but also her mind if you’re not going to at least text the poor guy.”
All I do is point to the new accessory on my face. “Arrrrr you sure?”
And, goddammit anyway, we both crack up.
“Stop it! The doctor said I’m not supposed to cry!” I wipe at renegade tears of laughter.
“There goes your weekend.” He tosses a hand. “I guess it’s a bad time for you to be pirate posh, but psh. That eye patch is just an excuse. You wouldn’t contact him regardless.”
I hook a lip. “You got that right!”
I wave Gordon off before he can delve further into that little nugget and take to the Ansley burner phone. Kevin’s given it a day, but he’s responded: So what do you do for fun?
I flare my nostrils at the screen—hello, unoriginal—but he can’t be worse than beef tartare, right?
I also realize I’m a judgy asshole and it’s got to be hard for some guys to break the ice. I didn’t give him too much to go on with the profile either.
Accident prone.
I smile again. Still got it!
Gordon towering over me, a hint of annoyance skating into his voice. “Aren’t you sick of just…make-believe?”
I look up. “No. I’m not. Because it’s all make-believe. Look at everyone. Look at what relationships have become.” I start exaggeratedly swiping profiles left and right without even looking. Like I’m rabid. “This is it, baby—I’m fulfilled! It’s like I get the best of both worlds. Either it’s stimulating conversation, or I get to shut it down because of a lack thereof. Send these women off to fall in love—or not. But I get all the fun stuff.”
“Like what?”
He crosses his arms over a broad chest, and I begin a slow pace in front of a row of carts.
“The flirty beginning. The banter. The part where you hook someone, and it’s light and it’s fun.” I do an exaggerated sigh. Clasp my hands up by one cheek. “And then when you meet, and it goes south? My words are just like a whisper on the wind.” I flutter my fingers and then gesture away. “I don’t have to see it, I don’t have to deal with it, and—best of all—it’s not happening to me.”
And then I brush my hands together, the ol’ one-two, like I’m washing them of the situation.
“Yeah, a whole lot of nothing is happening to you.” He gives me a side-eye, and the suggestive little hitch on the word nothing is not lost on me.
I scoff. “I can’t believe you’re, like, ‘you need a man to fulfill you’ right now. First off, I don’t need a man. Second, I’ve got you.” I paint on a grin. “What more do I need?”
He clicks his tongue. “I’m not here for this Will & Grace reboot. NBC’s already tried that. But I will tell you one thing.” He points at me with a paperback he’s just taken out of a box on the floor. “If some handsome leader of the Western world lookalike waltzes his fine self in here and leaves me his number? You’ll need to craigslist a new roommate faster than you can say Single White Female.”
Ding!
The phone buzzes.
“Uh-oh. What fresh hell is this?” Gordon gives a sarcastic flip of his palms heavenward, but he’s shoving into my personal space and checking the screen right along with me.
It’s a message notification.
From Henry.
Gasp.
We draw back and look into each other’s eyes. Well, I do my best with just the one.
Henry: Of all the dating apps on all the phones in all the world, she swipes into mine.
I choke on a laugh, and the reaction surprises me.
“Well, isn’t this a pickle.” Gordon smiles.
I gaze at the message and shake my head. “I’m just not going to answer.”
“But what about your rules? ‘The customer is always right.’ Isn’t that one of them?”
Already channeling Ansley, I begin to chew my bottom lip.
Rule Number 6. Gordon’s right.
I hate that.
“Henry wasn’t terrible yesterday. Maybe it’s fine.” Even I hear the bullshit slide to my voice.
“Yeah, this is a great idea.” He does his fingers like OK and backs his way out to the floor, leaving me alone with the device in my hand.
Alone with my thoughts.
I sit back down at the desk and stare at Henry’s words.
Hammer out a quick message to Ansley.
You sure you really want to talk to this Henry guy?
I came up with Rule Number 7 mostly because, when it comes to love, I’ve had enough interactions with friends and given enough advice to know that, no matter what anyone says, people are going to do what they want to do anyway.
I can taste the saccharine in her tone from across town.
I press my lips into a thin line. My insides twisting as I twist in the desk chair.
It might not be the most ethical thing in the world, but my intentions are good with this business.
I flip through his profile again—those dreamy-ass pictures—until I get to his info. He does say he’s looking for a relationship. So that’s good. Guess there’s no mistaking his intentions this time.
Just because we had a thing for one minute that didn’t work out a couple of years ago, it doesn’t mean he’s a bad choice for someone else.
Ansley’s really excited about him.
There’s a twinge in my stomach as I type my response to him.
I hold my breath. Force a smile.
In an effort to be less cynical, in an effort to make a connection between two decent people, to be better myself, to admit I was wrong for once, I type: Here’s lookin’ at you, bae.
And then I hit Send.
* * *
For the rest of the evening, I settle in with a bottle of red. Gordon’s at his Bible study—he’s a multifaceted fellow—and I’ve been delighting in my work since the afternoon. This side job—these horrible people of the online dating world—have never been this enjoyable.
I’m hoping it’s because I really like Ansley and these two dudes seem viable and not because subconsciously I’m thinking about how I’m making double the money.
Maybe it’s fifty-fifty?
As for Kevin, we haven’t said a ton, but from what I’ve got to go on so far, I decide he’s pretty simple. He’s not picking up on my sarcasm too well, so that’s negative points for him, but I’m conflicted because Ansley doesn’t seem to be as sarcastic as I am. So maybe it’s actually good. Maybe it will allow for a smoother transition from Blanche communication to Ansley communication.
But I’m in such a good mood, I don’t even unmatch him when he sends another gym selfie.
And I’ve had a blast messaging with Henry. While I know it’s a bit of an ethical nightmare, knowing his personality and being able to counter it with my own, being able to interact with him freely without the stigma of three years ago hanging over our heads, has been a lot of fun.
From his response to my digital Casablanca reference (What’s bae? Biggest Asshole Ever?) to the fact that we haven’t even had a real conversation yet, just swapped movie quotes souped up with online dating references for the better part of the day, it’s been nothing but a nerdy laugh riot.
Each reference has been more ridonk than the next.
I scroll through every last one of them, wineglass planted against my cheek, and I’m giggling all over again.
Henry: All right, Mr. DeMille. I’m ready for my selfie.
Me: You swiping at ME?
Henry: Do or do not. There is no ghosting.
Me: Frankly, my dear, I don’t give an app.
Henry: My momma always said life was like a batch of matches. You never know what you’re gonna get.
Me: Toto, I’ve a feeling we’re not on Wi-Fi anymore.
Henry: Earbud.
It’s been a solid couple of hours since that last one of his, and I’m racking my brain for something good. But it’s also Friday night, and I don’t want it to seem like Ansley is some desperate loser who doesn’t have plans.
You know.
Like me.
So I’m torn. To write, or not to write? That is the question. (I decide I’m not using that one.)
I’m tapping my index finger to my lips and staring blankly up at the TV screen affixed above the white brick fireplace, an episode of The Golden Girls well under way, when: Ding!
My breath catches, and a shot of adrenaline spikes. I glance down at the phone in my hand, and my decision’s been made for me.
Henry: Ouch. I know that last one was shit, but give a guy a break—they can’t all be winners!
I snort.
Me: I was trying to think!
After a moment:
Henry: Does that mean I won then…?
Me: Absolutely not!!!
I watch the three dots toggle to indicate he’s typing, but he keeps starting and stopping.
I imagine Henry sitting there—somewhere—scratching at the back of his buzzed hair. Trying to think of something clever to say to me. To Ansley.
Maybe there’s a grin blooming on his face. All excited at the prospect of meeting someone new.
Is he on his couch too? Out to dinner with some friends? Sitting in an Uber?
The thought hits me kind of low in my gut, however, and at once I go from giddy to deflated.
Maybe this is the reason for Rule Number 7. Why you don’t get involved in this business with someone you know.
I’ve never thought about any of this before, the ethics of this whole damn endeavor. Not until this afternoon talking with Gordon.
I take a long pull of wine.
“Get yourself together,” I say out loud like a crazy person. Bang the heel of a palm against my forehead until the negative thoughts are gone.
Then: Eureka!
Henry’s still toggling—indecisive much?—and my fingers zoom over the keys.
Me: E.T. Phone home.
And to punctuate it:
Mic drop.
His writing dots stop. I sink my teeth into my bottom lip and stifle a smile. Hold my breath.
Henry: Cheater!!!
My cackle echoes through the empty apartment, a dreamy haze settling over everything as my head gets deliciously fuzzy with wine.
I wrap my favorite ratty afghan over my knees and just giggle, giggle, giggle as he teases me—teases Ansley—for the rest of the evening.
Chapter 9
You did WHAT?” is Ansley’s reaction when I call her the next morning to check in and tell her the good news.
“I set you up on a date with a guy named Kevin. Was that not the point of this whole thing?”
I actually hear her gulp through the receiver. “I just didn’t expect it to be…so soon. You know, after—”
Although the banter with Kevin hadn’t been as witty as with Henry, I reminded myself this is for Ansley, and set it up.
Plus, after such a great exchange with Henry, I decided I need to pull back with him a bit because if he’s expecting Blanche banter and he gets Ansley banter instead, he might be disappointed, or suspicious.
“Life is short. We have to get you back on that old horse. Plus, some guys are like that,” I say, “wanting to meet right away. They try to mask it like ‘I’m old-fashioned and isn’t online dating bizarre—I don’t normally do it’—like they’re too good for it—but I think they’re just worried about catfishing or wasting their time in general. I try to hold them off for as long as I can. It makes my job difficult! But don’t worry; it’ll be a walk in the park.”
“I don’t know about that!” She laughs.
“No, I mean literally. You told good old Kev that you’re pretty booked up this weekend, but that you can squeeze him in tomorrow afternoon for a meet-and-greet at the sculpture garden. Maybe split a pretzel—have a snow cone.”
There’s silence on the other end of the line, so I continue. “I figure, how much trouble can you get in there?” I wince. Chew the end of a nail.
Even I can hear the screech of a raven somewhere.
“Make sure you wear flats,” I add. “And I’ve got Henry brewing for you too, but I think we need to prep you first.”
“So Kevin is just—”
“Practice? Yes. Which maybe sounds awful, but every date you go on until you fall in love with The Person is just practice, is it not? And if you really hit it off with him, then we’ll go in that direction. But I can’t just marry you off to the first schlub you meet—or second, as it were; I have to give you your money’s worth. Think of this as the deluxe package!”
After I hand out her homework—to log in to her account and give Kevin a look-see—we
hang up and then it’s off to brunch with Isla for me. It’s the first I’ve been alone with her in forever, and there’s a skip in my step as I approach Reynaldo’s and think about catching up with her.
There’s a chill to the air today, but it’s finally warm enough to sit outside again, so I decide to take full advantage of the weather and snag a table on the patio.
Just as I get myself cross-legged in my seat, I get a message from Kevin—he’s excited for tomorrow, he says—and I’m about to write him back, when:
“Oh my—” Isla’s gasp as she approaches breaks my concentration. “What happened? Your eye…” She’s wearing a red polka-dot sundress and a look of pain.
I chuckle. “It’s nothing.”
I had kind of forgotten about the stupid eye patch since strangers have been polite as politically correct punch for the last two days. Only one curious toddler on the train yesterday even made me think twice about my pillager panache, and that was only because she kept covering her one eye, her long lashes peeking through her chubby fingers, and saying, “Hide go seek?”
It was pretty adorbs.
As soon as I’ve done an adequate job of bringing Isla up to speed, she’s all smiles again, the warm sun making her creamy skin luminescent.
“I have a surprise for you!” she trills as she digs into her giant Betsey Johnson bag slung over the back of her chair. She sets her phone on the table and pats it like she’s patting Ella on the tush. “Any minute now!”
I look at her over my glasses. “It can’t be better than me taking the liberty of ordering us the bottomless mimosas.”
“Excellent choice!” She wiggles a bit as though the anticipation is about to topple her, and there’s a sparkle in her stare that only amplifies as her phone starts to ring.
Eyes wide, feigning shock, like Who could this be?
When she picks it up, she stretches her arm way out from the table like we’re about to take a selfie; however, when she goes ultrasonic with squeals, I realize she’s answering a video call.
With the swipe of a thumb, Sue Ellen and Dina appear on the screen—and their faces go from glee to horror in one second flat. Dina’s dark features take on a lighter hue and Sue Ellen’s pink cheeks turn ashen.
Switch and Bait Page 9