Thirty Days: Part One (A SwipeDate Novella Book 1)

by BT Urruela

  “That’s the Plaza, Grace. You’ve stayed there before,” I say, and she looks over at me inquisitively.

  “I have?”

  “Yes, ma’am. You and your husband stayed there for your honeymoon.”

  “My husband?” She puts two frail hands to her chest and shakes her head slowly. “No, I never married.”

  Understanding I’m treading a fine line here, I’m careful with my words. “Long ago, you were. He was a soldier and policeman… and you were a nurse.” Her brow scrunches, her head shaking again from side to side. I don’t often talk about her past with her. It can lead to confusion and, at times, anger. Sometimes I try, nonetheless. Just to see if it triggers something in her.

  “I think you have me mistaken with someone else,” she says in a matter-of-fact tone before her gaze drifts back out to the skyline.

  “Eh, you might be right. I tend to do that,” I say with a light laugh.

  “Well, don’t go confusing me with anyone else, sonny. I’m Grace.”

  “Okay, Grace. I won’t.” I smile, pulling a small stack of hardbacks from the bag, along with a lunch I packed for us.

  I read from Jane Eyre while she lightly picks at the sandwich and chips I brought her. These may be the only times where her undivided attention isn’t mine when reading to her. She’s always so busy, with her eyes following the critters who dart back and forth across the open terrain, and the choppy water as the sun reflects off its surface. She takes long, deep breaths and sighs out in contentment. Jane Eyre is one of those books I’ve read to her so many times I nearly have it memorized, so I often let my eyes go to her, and I soak up the joy she gets from being out here.

  After about an hour, I can tell the breeze is starting to get to her, so I close the book and stow it in my bag along with the remnants of our picnic. Grabbing the blanket from the ground, I shake it out and then wrap it around her shoulders. I glance at my watch, letdown a bit that Bobby didn’t show up like he said he would, but the guy’s busy. How can I blame him?

  As I roll her back through Central Park, the wind picking up and blowing leaves in intricate patterns before they flutter back to the ground, Grandma giggles as a few brush past her face and she waves them away with her thin arms.

  “Oh, I just love the fall,” she says, her head turning, her blue eyes on mine and a smile on her face.

  “Do you want to stay longer, Grace?” I ask, stopping her chair and leaning in.

  “No, no… I’m chilly. But can we come back soon?”

  “We can come back whenever you want,” I say, rolling the wheelchair again.

  She claps her hands together, the smile widening on her face and says, “Oh, goody. I just love the fall.”

  “Hey, buddy, sorry about earlier today. Cassandra and I got caught up at a doctor’s appointment,” Bobby says over the phone as I roll up my joint for the night, the buzz of city life creating an ambience beyond the brick walls in my private garden

  “It’s okay, man. We didn’t spend a lot of time out there. Maybe an hour.”

  “Still, I know I said I’d be there. I feel bad.”

  “No need to. It’s not like she remembers you,” I say with a quiet chuckle.

  “Shut up, dude,” he says firmly, sighing into the phone. “Thursday, maybe?”

  “Up to you, Bobby. I can’t force you.”

  “I knew you were pissed,” he says in an accusatory tone.

  “I’m not pissed, man. It just doesn’t feel like it used to. Not since you met Cassandra.”

  “Don’t put that on me, Gavin. Don’t you fucking dare. I’m not the one who’s changed here.”

  “What the fuck does that mean?” I ask, my voice reaching a level of annoyance I hadn’t intended on.

  “Gavin, you know exactly what I mean. I love you to death. You’re my best friend in this world and you know that. But you’ve changed since Joanne left you. I miss the old you.”

  “The old me?” I ask in a half-yell. “The old me was just as miserable as I am now. I just knew how to hide it better.”

  “That’s not true. You think I couldn’t see through your façade? You think I don’t know what you’ve been through in your life? You were different, Gavin. Maybe you were as sad as you are now, but you cared more.”

  “I cared more? What the fuck does that even mean?”

  “You showed it more. You had more zest for life.”

  “Zest for life?” I say, laughing. “What the fuck has happened to you, Bobby? You sound like a fucking tampon commercial.”

  “Fuck you, Gavin,” he says, in probably the most patient tone ‘fuck you’ has ever been uttered. “I’m trying to help you here.”

  “Fuck me? Fuck you, Bobby. Fuck you for forgetting about me. Fuck you for letting me go through this shit alone. Fuck you for not being a friend,” I yell before I realize the line clicked off halfway through. I throw my phone down on the little side table beside me, my blood pressure rising, but in the midst of my annoyance, I realize I’m the one at fault here. Bobby has been a friend. He has been there, oftentimes when others weren’t. Immediately, I feel burgeoning regret like a ticking time bomb in my chest. It’s hard not to realize when you’re pushing everyone in your life away. Just as hard as it is to put a stop to it.

  Waking up around midday, the only thing I can think of is how off-base I was with Bobby last night. Sometimes I have these emotions that conquer and control me to a point I can’t do anything about them. I want to, I want to keep my mouth shut, but sometimes I just can’t. It’s a terrible little habit I have and probably a good reason why I have such a limited group of friends these days. I don’t mean to shut people out, but it feels so often like other people just can’t understand what I’ve been through… or what I’m going through. Of course, some of them can. Of course, relatively speaking, I’m a lucky motherfucker. I am a white man from the United States after all. But it’s hard when you’re so caught up in your own little world. When your life and past is so overwhelming you can hardly make sense of it, it’s hard to realize there are other people out there suffering too. And people who care.

  I don’t want to go on my date today. It’s actually the last thing in the world I want to do, but I don’t believe in standing people up, and I don’t believe in not living up to my end of a bet. If I’m going to win my twenty-five thousand… it’s going to be legitimate.

  Buttoning up my pea coat and lumbering out into the New York cold, I make my way down the street to hail a cab. Today is the museum, which is not a choice of mine, nor would it ever be. I don’t hate museums per se, there’s just about a hundred other things I’d rather do. A natural history museum is one thing. The MET is a whole other beast entirely. It’s not that I hate art, or the MET, or anything like that. I don’t. I’ve been there many times, and enjoyed the times I have gone. As an artist myself, I can appreciate the differences in taste. But this day and age, something can be considered art without regard to how much work is put into it. As an author striving through first, second, and third round drafts, and through editing nightmares, it’s hard to see an “artist” pull something from the dump and call it art. I live in New York. I’ve seen it. And I’ve seen those pieces go for millions.

  As the cab pulls up to the curb, I pay him and climb out to see, though I’m late, there’s no sign of her outside the MET. I take a seat at the bottom of the massive staircase where she asked me to meet her. I sit for a while, my ass growing cold from the stone, and I fuck around with the app, which feels a bit odd as I wait for Sami, 24, from Brooklyn to show. She told me she’d be wearing a red shirt with blue jeans and dark brown, almost black hair held up by a hair tie.

  I sit for a few minutes, my foot bobbing relentlessly from nervousness. My gaze drifts from the cars barreling down the road to the thick clouds choking out the sky and signifying an oncoming storm. Just as I’m about to leave, I notice someone who resembles Sami, wearing what she had said she would, hurriedly walking down the sidewalk, having just exited
a cab. She shakes her head, putting a palm to her forehead.

  “I’m so sorry,” she says, as she approaches.

  “Completely okay,” I reply, still seated as she makes her approach. She’s got free-flowing charcoal black hair that reaches past her shoulder blades, a mesmerizing blue to her eyes that catches the little bit of sunlight, and an infectious smile that beams as I stand from the bench, so much that it catches me off guard.

  “I can’t even tell you,” she says, shaking her head and collecting her hair up into a ponytail with a hair tie. “It’s been a crazy day.”

  “Well, I hope we can maybe make it a little better for you,” I respond with a smile, greeting her with a hug and noticing instantly the incredible smell permeating from her. I pull away and wait for her to continue up the steps. “You ready?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  We continue up the lengthy steps to the front door, and she nods politely as I hold it open for her.

  “Thanks for agreeing to this. I’ve always wanted to go, but haven’t had the chance yet,” she says, removing her long red scarf and jacket. I reach my hands out to take it from her and she tilts her head. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  She hands them over and nods. “Such a gentleman. Thank you.”

  “I certainly try,” I say with a smirk, removing my own coat and folding both of them over my arm. “So, you haven’t been here yet? You must not be local,” I say, grinning, as we work our way through the massive main corridor.

  “Nope! Is anyone local here anymore?” she asks with a soft smile. “I was born and raised in Oneonta. I went to school up there and moved down here for my Master’s.”

  “Oh nice. Where did you go?”

  “NYU. It was amazing. I really fell in love with the city after that,” she says, a lovely little smirk taking up her naturally beautiful face.

  I look to her, wide-eyed, with an approving nod. “I went to NYU too… for writing. Your profile said you’re a teacher, right?”

  “Yeah, special education at P.S. 122 in the South Bronx. This is actually my first year on the job. Two months in…” Her voice trails and she seems lost in thought. She laughs it off and slowly shakes her head. “It’s been interesting.”

  “I can only imagine. You must have the patience of a saint. And in the South Bronx?” I look at her skeptically, knowing full well only the most competent and determined of educators can make it out of there in one piece.

  “I thought I could handle it all. I really did,” she says, hesitating for a moment before she continues. “Looking back, I may have been a bit naïve.” Her bottom lip slips between her teeth.

  “In regards to the career field, or the location?”

  “A little of both,” she replies with a bit of guilt in her eyes. “I took the job there because I thought it’s where I could do the most good. I’m just not sure I have what it takes to get through to them… to really make a difference.”

  “Oh, you’re just being hard on yourself, I’m sure. Two months in isn’t long… and you seem like a strong woman.”

  “I am. Or I like to think so, at least.” She giggles lightly and shrugs. “But it’s just more than I ever thought it would be. We’ll see how it all goes,” she adds as we cross over into modern and contemporary art, which I’m more than happy to talk my way through.

  “How do you like the city otherwise? I mean, I know you said you fell in love with it. What made you fall in love?”

  “Being a small-town girl, this is just so unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. My parents aren’t too well off, so we didn’t ever do vacations or travel much. Coming to school down here was my first big world experience and I… I don’t know… I just loved every bit of it. The sights. The sounds. The history. It’s just so diverse. I wish I had more time to see it all.”

  “Do you ever miss it back home?”

  “I do miss the country living from time to time, but it’s close enough to visit, and I’m home pretty much every other weekend. My parents are my solace. Sleeping in my old bed again and eating Mom’s incredible cooking… it’s perfect,” she says with a big nod and adorable grin planted on her face. She passes me a nervous look. “I think the toughest part has just been meeting people.”

  “Which explains the SwipeDate thing, I take it?”

  “Exactly.”

  As we continue forward, and she takes a moment to peruse the art lining the walls, I can’t help but check her out. Like Megan, she’s got a body that drives me crazy. Her round, supple ass pushes the limits of her skinny jeans. She has curves in all the right places, and a lovely face with just a touch of make-up.

  “I’ve been on a handful of dates so far, and I don’t know what in the hell to think,” I say, following close behind her as she leads us into Greek and Roman art, with dicks aplenty. “People just seem to be so superficial these days.”

  She shoots her head back, eyes wide, and nodding. “Yes! I’ve been saying that forever. It’s crazy how different people can be online than they are in person.”

  “In a way, it’s not really any surprise… people do that in general… wear a façade, I mean. It seems only logical when they have the added ambiguity of the internet, the façade will thicken. It’s sad really. I try my best to put the true me out there always.”

  “What’s the point in not being your true self?” she adds, smiling and turning back to the artwork.

  “Who knows? Maybe people are just so desperate to be in a relationship they’re willing to do just about anything.”

  “That’s just sad,” she says, shaking her head. “Are you not a relationship guy?”

  My thoughts immediately roam to Joanne, the girl of my dreams, the one that got away, and I’m overcome with an intense feeling of anxiety in the center of my chest.

  “It’s not that I’m against them,” I manage to say as her curious eyes land on mine. “I’m just a bit wary. I’ve been hurt and stuff in the past.”

  “That’s understandable,” she says, nodding, and motioning toward a bench. “You want to sit for a few?”

  “Sure.” She takes a seat and I follow suit, setting our jackets between us.

  “Haven’t we all been there?” she asks with a little smile and a warmth in her eyes. “My last boyfriend was quite the gem. But I know I can’t compare every other guy to him. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  “I don’t think it’s that I compare everyone to her…” I say, my voice trailing as the lie crosses my mind. “It’s just that I’m careful. You never really know the true side to someone.”

  She shakes her head slowly. “I sure hope that’s not true. We’d be a world of liars.” She giggles and I flash a weak smile.

  “No, you’re right. Forgive me if I’m being morose. I’m not trying to be. I’m just bad with my words.”

  She laughs, cupping a hand to her mouth. “Aren’t you a writer?” she asks, dropping her hand but a wide smile remains.

  “Let me rephrase that,” I say, smiling back. “When I’m speaking, my words come out all wrong. Writing is actually about fifty percent editing. I’d die if anyone ever got their hands on my first drafts,” I laugh, thinking about the often confusing and clunky prose in my first compositions. My editor just loves me.

  “It can’t be that bad,” she says, her eyes catching a passing older couple, hand in hand, and she nods toward them with a beaming smile. They return the nod as they pass through to the next corridor.

  “You’d be surprised,” I mutter, drawing her eyes back to me.

  “I want to read your book. Where can I find it?” she asks, her eyes lighting up a bit.

  “Well, you can find both in most Barnes and Nobles.”

  “You’ll have to text me the names of them after this.”

  “Will do. Do you like romance? That’s what I write,” I say, and I catch a look of doubt.

  “Romance, huh?”

  “No, really,” I insist, my skin getting hot and my pulse picking up;
I hate talking about my work. I’m proud of it… I am. I just don’t even know if a writer is what I am anymore. “The second one is a bit darker… more suspenseful… which is probably why it bombed,” I add, followed by a nervous laugh.

  “That’s impressive. I do like romance, actually. Harper Sloan, Renee Carlino, and Felicia Lynn are my favorites, but I’m into Stephen King and stuff like that too. I grew up a reader,” she says, and I’m at ease a bit. Regardless of what she thinks of my book, she’s a reader, a true reader, so she’ll be able to at least see I had a story to tell. They aren’t perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but they have heart. That, I know beyond anything else in this world.

  “I’ve heard of those three. They’re huge in my industry. I’ve loved what I’ve read so far. As for Stephen King…” I scoff and shake my head with a grin. “Let’s just say, if I met him, I’m not so sure I’d be able to speak. And he’s literally the only one I can say that about. On Writing is like my Bible. ”

  “Oh my God, that book is incredible! One of my all-time favorites. The story about how he got the call from his agent telling him Carrie sold for four hundred thousand dollars before the time of cellphones, and he had to wait to tell his wife… who just so happened to pull the rough manuscript out of the trash bin.” She clutches at her heart, her head shaking slowly and I’m just soaking it all in as she describes my favorite scene from On Writing. “Ugh, it just hit me right here. Yet another thing we have in common, I guess,” she says with a smile. “I noticed you mentioned 80’s movies on your profile as well…” She lets her words linger for a moment and I can’t help but be impressed that she took the time to read my profile. Many don’t. “John Hughes is pretty much a national hero in my eyes.”

  I laugh, nodding my head in eager approval. “I can second that completely. The Breakfast Club was my angsty, teenage escape. They’re not Hughes films, but Heathers and True Romance are two of my other favorites.”