by Penny Reid
I internet stalked him.
Loves: cooking, hiking, camping, eighties music, film noir. Reads: GQ Magazine, The Economist, Politico. TV shows: The Walking Dead, Daredevil, and Project Runway.
. . . cooking, film noir, The Economist, and Project Runway?!?
YES! A man unicorn!
Having no choice, I’d emailed him.
Hi Derek,
I hope you are well. According to this website, we’re a perfect match. This has never happened to me before, so I thought I’d reach out and say hi. Let me know if you’d like to meet up for coffee sometime. I work downtown near the loop and am free next Monday afternoon.
Best, Marie
The next morning, I saw that he’d looked at my profile and I read his response with baited breath.
Hi Marie,
Thanks so much for your note.
Next Monday works for me. I’m near the university. You name the place and I’ll be there.
-Derek
I loved his response.
Direct. To the point. No detour into unnecessary topics, flowery language, or attempts at being witty.
To say my hopes were high would be a gross understatement. They were astronomical. Since our exchange of emails, I’d tried to curtail these blasted hopes to no avail. I couldn’t help my hopes.
Don’t run away from me, hopes! I can’t move that fast in these heels and we’re in this together.
But they did run away, hopping onto a spaceship—likely one of those SpaceX crafts that keeps blowing up and infuriating Elon Musk—leaving me waving frantically on the ground, which was probably why I was sweating.
Arm waving at one’s high hopes while wearing a sweater dress is a workout.
But he’s perfect!
This squealing nugget of optimism originated from some dark corner in my brain. Once I found the owner of this voice inside my head, I was going to. . . I didn’t honestly know. On the one hand, I didn’t want to be bitter and jaded, trading optimism for pessimism.
Or worse, nihilism. Nihilism was the worst. And the perpetuators of it had no imagination when it came to accessorizing. All black, all the time? No, thank you.
I checked the clock over the entrance for maybe the hundredth time just as a man walked through the door. My heart did an odd prickling thing inside my chest, but then the sensation eased. This wasn’t Derek. The man was too short and had no beard. And he was clearly younger than thirty-nine, more like late twenties.
With another sigh, I returned my attention to the book in my lap. I didn’t even know the title, having grabbed it from the bookstore across the street in a fit of pre-date-over-thinking induced insanity. I didn’t want to wait for him by scrolling through messages on my phone. I felt like phone-scrolling was too prosaic. And I didn’t want to be one of those people who just stared forward or people watched while waiting, even though I loved to people watch. And I didn’t—
“You’re Marie.”
I glanced up, blinking at the man standing in front of my table, the man who I’d just dismissed as being not-Derek. He wasn’t looking at me. Rather, his gaze was on the open pages of my book.
“Yes?”
His eyes quickly flickered to mine, then away and he began taking off his coat. “I’m your date.”
At this I frowned because I was surprised. And because I was surprised, it took me a solid five seconds to spring into action. By then he’d already removed his jacket.
“Oh! Hi. Hi. Please sit down.” I gestured to the seat across from mine and belatedly stood, trying not to feel weird about my smile. I never knew how big to smile during these things. I missed the days when I could just smile naturally and not have to think about it.
Re-assessing my date as quickly as possible, my eyes flicked down, then up. He was definitely not six foot three. More like six foot even, or a little shorter.
No big deal. A lot of guys embellish their height on dating sites, except . . .
He’d shaved his beard.
:-(
And, again, he looked younger than thirty-nine.
“Derek?” I sought to clarify.
“Yes. I’m Derek. Derek is my name. That’s me.” Derek, my date, reached out his hand, shook mine with a perfunctory up-down movement, and then claimed the seat I’d offered.
My smile faltered. My hopes crashed to the earth in a giant, burning cluster-comet of disappointment and fail. I braced myself. We hadn’t made it past the first minute of awkward and I already knew things weren’t going to work out.
Derek was not my perfect match.
We had zero chemistry. No spark when we touched. No shock or magic voodoo juju awesomeness. No nothing.
And he wouldn’t even look at me.
Inwardly, I sighed and cringed, wondering if we’d be able to wrap this up soon so I could run to the drug store for some tampons before meeting my knitting group for wine, and yarn, and then more wine.
Outwardly, I pressed my lips into a shape I hoped resembled a smile and sunk to my chair. My eyes sought the clock over the door. It was only 3:14. My record for a coffee date was twenty minutes. I wondered if I could break it today.
“Did you want anything?” I motioned to the cup in front of me, keeping my voice light. “I grabbed a drink already.”
“No,” he said, a slight, business-like smile affixed to his features. “Let’s get started.”
“S-started?”
Derek was looking at his watch. He pressed a button. He let his hands drop to his lap. Only then did he lift his eyes to mine.
And then he blinked, his smile slipping infinitesimally, as though the sight of me was unexpected.
I lifted my eyebrows, waiting, because apparently it was time for us to get started. Whatever that meant.
“Hi,” he said, his gaze moving over my features, his smile growing hazy, more genuine.
…huh.
I looked at him and discovered he had brown eyes. His brown eyes held me momentarily transfixed, and not just because they weren’t gray—as he’d listed on his page—but because they were dark and expressive and remarkably attractive.
His hair was also brown, but longer than it had been in his pictures.
Truly, he really did look significantly different than his profile—likely because the beard was absent. Nevertheless, despite being beardless, his face was handsome: high cheekbones, strong nose, a jaw that was more angular than square. His eyes were wide and round, but somehow they suited him perfectly. I allowed my smile to mirror his, my gaze dropping momentarily to his very nice lips, which honestly struck me as oddly pouty for a man.
Okay, maybe give him a chance. Even though he misrepresented his height, age, and eye color. . .
So. Weird.
Who does that?
“Hi,” I finally replied, studying him, my reporter spidey-sense tingling.
Derek flinched at my returned greeting, his eyes narrowing, and he frowned.
“You’re Marie?” his tone was distrustful.
“Yes.” I nodded once, slowly, cataloging his clothes. “And you’re Derek.”
“Of course I’m Derek. Who else would I be?”
“Uh…” Yeeeeeah no. I can’t wait to tell Sandra about this guy.
“Moving on.” He shook his head again, as though shaking himself, and frowned at the table. “So, Marie, you’re a writer?”
“That’s right. And you’re an engineer?” I asked, no longer in date mode.
“Your profile said you’ve had just one serious relationship in the past, is this true?” Derek lifted his dark eyes to mine again and this time his expression struck me as carefully neutral.
“Yes.” I gave him pointed look. “Everything on my profile is true.”
Not like your profile, shorty.
He didn’t seem to catch my hint. “As a woman in your mid-thirties, what are you most looking for in a companion?”
I flinched back an inch, unaccustomed to such severely direct questions right off the bat. Not that I w
as opposed to directness, just that it wasn’t typical.
In my limited experience with online dating, the order of actions was usually as follows:
1. Both people smile and try not to betray their thoughts as expectations based on photos are either surpassed, met, or disappointed.
2. Shake off initial impression and try to have an open mind, talk about inconsequential things like movies and the weather.
3. Don’t get hopes up if things are going well.
4. Never commit to seeing each other again in order to avoid appearing overeager.
5. Wait three days, then text. If text is not returned, forget him and move on.
I’d only sent a text to four guys over the last two years. Three had returned my message. None had lasted longer than the third date and no one had ever felt right.
“I guess . . .” I cleared my throat, glancing over Derek’s shoulder to the busy café behind him, as I attempted to parse my thoughts.
As a woman in your mid-thirties was a strange way to frame the question. What did my age have to do with anything?
“So, you would say that you don’t know what you want?” He sounded curious.
My gaze cut back to his. “Yes, I know what I want.”
“But you don’t want to tell me?”
“I don’t mind telling you.” I studied him for a moment, gathered a deep breath, and told the truth. “I’m looking for the right person.”
I’m looking for my perfect match.
Derek’s expression didn’t change, he continued to gaze at me with a patient, watchful expression. But when I didn’t continue, his eyebrows jumped on his forehead.
“And?”
“And that’s it. I’m looking for the right person.”
“Ah, okay. And what traits will this right person have? Starting with the most important.”
What?
“I—”
“And if you could rank each attribute on a ten point scale of importance—where ten is the most important—that would be very helpful.”
Now I openly frowned at him. “You want me to rank personality traits on a ten point scale, starting with what I find most important?”
“Not just personality traits, physical attributes as well. Or, if you like, you can start with your love dialect.”
“My love dialect?”
“Correct. What form of affection is most meaningful to you, and so forth.”
We stared at each other. He continued to regard me placidly, with a friendly albeit detached smile. Meanwhile, I was plotting my escape, polite social discourse be damned.
Usually I didn’t agree to meeting face-to-face unless I’d spoken on the phone with the person first, made sure we had some level of chemistry. But I’d made an exception for Derek, because he was supposed to be my perfect match.
But clearly the system didn’t take into account the degree to which a person is a loon.
Says the sweating woman who had astronomical—and therefore annihilated—hopes. Look in the mirror, looney bird.
I was just about to make an excuse when he announced, “We should engage in small talk. How was your day?”
“Pardon me?”
Nuts. He’s completely nuts.
“Or if you don’t wish to discuss your day, we could talk about hobbies,” he offered cordially, gesturing to my lap. “Do you read for work or for pleasure?”
Distracted by his rapid and bizarre subject change, I responded unthinkingly, “I usually read for fun.” I’m sure the look I was giving him was one of complete bewilderment.
“Really? Do kidnapping and sexual torture sound like fun to you?”
My mouth fell open and I reared back in my seat.
This guy wasn’t a loon, he was completely insane.
“What are you suggesting?”
“One hundred and twenty days of Sodom.” He tilted his chin toward my lap.
I flinched, a short, aggrieved, disbelieving laugh bursting from my lips. “Oh my God.” Then to the table I said, “You’re completely crazy.”
Derek frowned at me, as though I confused him, his eyes bouncing between me and the table. “What?”
“You’re completely crazy,” I repeated, reaching behind me for my coat.
“I’m crazy?”
If he hadn’t just suggested four months of sodomy I might have thought the concerned wrinkle between his eyebrows was adorable. But, given the fact that sexual torture wasn’t far from his mind, I decided the wrinkle wasn’t adorable. It was distressing.
“Yes. You’re nuts. Don’t email me. Don’t call me. Pretend we never met.”
I was no longer sweating as I pulled on my jacket and grabbed my things. This was an odd quirk about my personality: put me in an innocuous situation where I need to be normal and I’m bouncing off the walls. But send me into a dangerous or emergency situation and I’m cool and focused.
Derek—or whatever his name was—started to stand so I held out my hand.
“Don’t. Don’t stand up. Don’t even look at me. And don’t think about following me either, or I’ll call the police.”
Without another glance at the lunatic, I wove through the tables and out the door, anger, indignation, and frustration spurring my movements.
Wow.
WOW.
Wow.
The first thing I was going to do upon arriving home was report that freak to Partners.com.
The second thing I was going to do was delete my profile. I’d been with David, my ex, for six years and we’d met at work. I’d missed out on the early years of internet dating, but clearly it wasn’t for me.
I’d had some terrible first dates since breaking up with David, but this one took the cake. It took all the cakes. In less than twenty minutes, my perfect match had irrevocably propelled himself to the top of my worst date list.
Thanks, dating algorithms, for pairing me with a psycho.
I moved to retrieve my cell from my purse, intent on calling my friend Sandra immediately. I couldn’t wait until knit night to tell someone about this fiasco. But then my attention snagged on the spine of my book—the book I’d purchased in a rush so as to not seem prosaic for Derek—and I stopped short, gaping at the title and author.
It read, 120 Days of Sodom, by the Marquis de Sade.
*End Sneak Peek*: Dating-ish is available on Amazon:
Amazon US: http://amzn.to/2lZjNlx
Amazon UK: http://amzn.to/2mxOFuN
Sneak Peek: Beard in Mind, Winston Brothers series #4 (Coming August 1st 2017!)
Chapter 1
“Your assumptions are your windows on the world. Scrub them off every once in a while, or the light won't come in.”
― Isaac Asimov
*Beau*
People—all people—are blinded by their own expectations.
I know this.
Folks with the highest degree of entitlement and inflated sense of self are the easiest to con, the easiest to exploit. My daddy didn’t teach me much worth knowing, but he did teach me that. And yet, despite knowing this, I adopt the mantle of a blind man from time to time.
Take today, for example.
Sure, I could’ve blamed my horse’s ass assumptions on being tired. I’d been driving three hours, up and out at the crack of dawn. I hadn’t slept much the previous night, though I didn’t regret the cause of my sleeplessness. But lack of sleep wasn’t the reason for my stupidity. My own foolish expectations were at root.
“I owe you one.”
I heard the clink of glasses from the other side of the call, which told me Hank was at the Pink Pony, cleaning up from the night prior.
“You owe me shit.” I lifted my eyebrows and rubbed one eye to cure my drowsiness. Maybe I shouldn’t have been driving and talking over the speaker of my cell phone, but I knew these roads well enough. I could’ve probably navigated them blindfolded.
“No, I do.” The glass clinking ceased and his tone adopted a solemn note. “You know I wouldn’t trust anyone but
you, and I really owe you one.”
Hank Weller, my best friend since elementary school and owner of the local strip club, had always been overly conscientious about owing favors. And I’d just done him a favor. He’d wanted a 1956 XK140 matching numbers Jaguar in Nashville. I’d picked it up and transported his new ride back to Green Valley.
It hadn’t been a big deal to me. He was my best friend outside of my twin brother, it gave me an excuse to see a lady I’d been hankering to see, and I liked doing good things for good people. No biggie.
“Let me catch all the big fish on Wednesday and we’ll call it even.” I said this around a silent yawn, my eyes watering.
“I’ll do more than that. As a small token of my appreciation, I left something for you to find when you get to the shop.”
That had me sitting up straight.
“What did you do?”
“You’ll see.”
I heard the grin in his voice. The man never could hide a grin, even when we were kids and even when his telltale grin made for a heap of trouble.
“Is it something that’s going to piss off Cletus?”
Cletus was my older brother, part-owner in the Winston Brothers auto shop, and the third in our family of seven kids. Technically, I was number five. The way my momma told it, I’d arrived with a smile on my face just a few seconds prior to my identical twin Duane. He made his grumpy presence known with an irritated wail.
Usually, I wouldn’t mind Hank pissing off Cletus. Usually, I wouldn’t mind anyone—anyone other than me—pissing off Cletus. My brother was at his most entertaining when pissed off. But I didn’t want him pissed off this morning. Not until after I had a nap and maybe something to eat. Come to think on it, I couldn’t remember the last time I ate . . .
“It shouldn’t piss off Cletus, not directly.”
Not directly.
What the hell did that mean?
A rustling sounded on the other end, like he’d switched the phone from his hand to his shoulder and it scraped against his jaw. “But, listen, you’ll know when you see her.”