Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  After her call, I guzzle the drink that was waiting for me when I returned from the bathroom—maybe he’s not all bad—and Ty walks me to my Uber.

  Once we get outside, the humidity sits on my skin and the gentle breeze does little to cool me. A stipple of sweat beads at the base of my neck, my hairline.

  “Sorry I had to cut it short. Rain check?” I lie.

  He gives me a quirk of a smile, and just as I realize it but before I can elude it, he launches at me. Full-on. Out of flipping nowhere, his too-big lips sucking the fifty-dollar gloss off mine. All dick and tongue pressing into me—squishing me against the Honda Civic and then sliding his hand up the front of my dress and cupping my now-straight-up-sweaty breast.

  Wha?

  He’s one of those dudes who licks your lips for some reason. Is that supposed to be sexy?

  And then this facial assault ends as quickly as it started. Mental note, Rae: The sex probably would too.

  “I had a nice time tonight,” he says, hands still on me.

  “Ah—yeah.” I pull away and push him back up on the curb. “I can’t wait to thank Valerie.” I smooth my dress once again and give him the double thumbs-up.

  And then I slide into the car and slam the door shut.

  * * *

  Sarah’s all screeches and hugs when I duck inside Posh twenty minutes later. She hands me something cold in a highball glass, like she’s Alfred to my Batman, and gives my shoulders a little rub.

  “You poor thing,” she says with a hint of a pout to her full red lip.

  “I owe you.” I nod and take in all the non-thirty-year-olds writhing around to the beat.

  I’m the oldest one in this joint by eons, and I don’t even care. The AC is cranked, and it’s blowing my dress all kinds of everywhere, but I pretend I’m in a Beyoncé video. Totally likely that’s exactly how I look too.

  Just when I find my rhythm, arms flailing to the music like I’m drowning in the high seas, the tallest bro in the joint makes his way over.

  A smirk from Sarah, the bangles on her wrists glinting off the purple neons as she moves. She shimmies a few feet farther away and offers me an exaggerated wink, like You’re welcome for the privacy.

  I chuckle and shake my head at her in return.

  I let the guy press me anywhere he wants because it’s magic when we’re dancing. The smoke billows at our feet. It smells like Abercrombie and sex on the dance floor. The alcohol is strong enough and the lights are low enough that everyone is the best-looking person I’ve ever seen.

  I’m not thirty-four and he’s (probably?) legal.

  “I’m Harrison,” he purrs deep in my ear, and I press a finger to his gorgeous mouth. Two pillows of perfection.

  “Let’s not ruin this with talking,” I shout over the thrum of the music.

  And he lets out a laugh. Twirls me. I’m dizzy with desire. Dizzy with Harrison.

  I close my eyes and feel his solid body move behind me, sliding down and slithering back up.

  Smile.

  Just another Sunday night.

  * * *

  Billie is beside herself with wiggles when I finally roll in. I don’t want to, but I know she needs to walk, so I pull on some basketball shorts and a tee and I stumble around my apartment complex like the wonderful dog mother I am.

  The moon is big and bright and it spills in pools onto the blacktop. I almost have to shield my eyes—but that’s probably more my liquid dinner than real brightness from the moon.

  I rub my arms as we walk. The late-night breeze finally adds a hint of cool to the September air.

  I wish Jesse and I had gotten to dance.

  We never did.

  Not that we were together all that much, and not that he, yanno, followed through with his divorce, but it still would have been nice to have the memory of dancing with him.

  This stupid thought starts the insta-tears, and I feel like the most subhuman creature on the face of the planet.

  What’s worse than the walk of shame? Snotting all over your apartment complex at three a.m. with a beagle who won’t shit—that’s what.

  “Shit, Billie. Shit!” I stage-whisper and wipe my face on my arms—and immediately start cackling like a crazy person at how ridiculous the scene has to be.

  At least my mom isn’t alive to see this. And Dad’s too distracted by his new plastic surgery princess to come back to Florida.

  That makes me laugh even more.

  “Who wouldn’t want to get with this?” I think. Or maybe I say it aloud? I don’t really know.

  All I know is Billie finally does her thing and I’m carrying a plastic bag of dog poop and my teeth are chattering and I’m glad Jesse’s fat now, but I still wish we’d have gotten to dance.

  After I dump the dump, I’m back to just staggering around the rest of the loop and then we finally reach home.

  I dig my phone out of my purse. Glad I remembered to bring it home this time, I tap an index finger to my temple and nod at my brilliance.

  Two missed calls—one from Valerie, one from Quinn—and one text.

  The Tongue: Tonight was fun. Next time, we’ll have to do dinner.

  I snort, and Billie looks up at me.

  “I wish I could just lick myself like you, girl. You’re my hero,” I say. And I snuggle her tight.

  * * *

  Chapter 2

  I squeal into my primo spot—the one by the Dumpster. More accurately, the first spot I can access when I get stuck in the carpool line, like I do almost every morning.

  The throb of this headache slowed me down some getting ready, but I rallied. Nothing a handful of Tylenol can’t quell.

  I climb out of my Camry and straighten my blazer. The air is as thick as the Spanish teacher’s accent. I heave my bags from the backseat over my shoulder—what in baby Jesus’ name do I have in my purse?—and only maybe flash Dr. Something or Other in the Cadillac SUV as I do so.

  I wave at him—You’re welcome—and click, click, click my way through the Benzes. The BMWs. The Land Rovers and the Porsches. Maybe I’m just imagining it, but I swear I feel parent stares scorch me like the morning sun behind their D&G sunglasses. Through tinted windows, so I can’t quite make out which students are theirs.

  “Morning, Rae!” The lady with the mullet beams.

  What’s her name? Quinn and I have called her Mullet Lady for so long I don’t remember her real name, but it will come to me. I know she does something with the arts program and she has a propensity for white polyester pants. Labor Day rule be damned!

  She’s helping direct traffic, opening car doors for the kids like we’re not only their teachers but their valets as well—and I’m pretty sure she’s just here to make my walk to the building extra annoying.

  I answer with a sarcastic wave, because—balls—no one should be allowed to speak before nine a.m. (eleven a.m.?)

  Regardless, I’m pretty sure she’s only saying it so sweetly because she knows I’m late. I catch the cursory glance at her rhinestone-encrusted watch.

  But then I feel bad.

  Like, maybe she is just being nice and I’m The Actual Worst.

  Or maybe she doesn’t know or care about my tardiness because she has a life and my insecurity is working overtime this morning.

  I suck it up and play the game. “Haven’t had my coffee yet!”

  “Oh, you don’t need it! You’re always a Rae of sunshine!” She lights the whole parking lot with her veneers and I fight the urge to gag.

  “Did you have a nice weekend, Carol?” Carol! #nailedit

  “Oh yes,” she trills. “Not long enough!”

  My stomach curls as I realize I’ve stopped and now I’m helping some little ginger out of her daddy’s Lexus.

  “Watch your step,” I say.

  My God. What’s happening?

  I wiggle some fingers at the dad through the open back window and pat the adorable little tootie on the head. I’ve always had a soft spot for redheads.

  I
have to Adult for a few more minutes—just until I can get away from Carol and to the sanctuary of my classroom to do my thing with the kids and be left alone.

  Away from the judging eyes of others. (Whether they’re really doing it or I’m just perceiving it that way because I’m insane.)

  That’s one of the great things about working with kids. They laugh at my dumb jokes and appreciate my goofy antics in earnest. I don’t have to pretend to be what someone else thinks I should be, nor do I have to work to impress them; they’re already happy and loving and impressed.

  “Ugh—Monday. Am I right?” I toss a hand at another lululemoned mom before shutting her SUV door—and then I sprint up the stairs, leaving Carol in my wake before she recruits me to be a member of the party planning committee.

  I’m just chucking my stuff into my classroom when I hear Deborah’s voice echo from down the hall.

  Giving her spiel at Monday Morning Meeting already. Great.

  “Hey, girl!” Sarah appears in the doorway and I nearly fly out of my heels. She’s got her hair in a ponytail, she’s holding a venti-sized something or other, and I can tell she did what I like to call the Slovenian Shower this morning. (Half Slovenian—I’m allowed.)

  “Glad to see you recovered!” She hip-checks me and snaps her fingers above her head, doing the same white-girl dance we did at that club.

  I wince. “Today’s gonna be a ‘Miss Wallace has a migraine’ kind of day. ‘No lights, no talking. Just draw pictures of your favorite woodland creatures while I try not to puke in my desk drawers.’”

  I wish. But I like my job.

  That, and six-year-olds can keep their mouths closed about as well as blow-up dolls, so although my stomach’s already gurgling, it’ll be reading, writing, ’rithmetic, and…hopefully not retching for me.

  “Wasn’t it worth it? That guy was seriously hot.”

  Her golden hair and twenty-six-year-old outlook on life are too bright for me, but alas, I must take off my Breakfast at Tiffany’s shades and face it all.

  We pass the third-grade hall, the water fountain, and the entire length of the library before I can bring myself to speak again.

  “I mean, not really,” I say as we make our way to the conference room. “I could do without being a party trick. ‘How old do you think she is?’ What is with that? Stop it.”

  She bonks me on the shoulder. “Oh, come on. No one thinks you’re actually thirty-four. You can hang, girl!”

  She stresses actually too much for my liking, and I stifle a snarl. Or maybe that’s just because the entire place smells like Expo markers and glass cleaner.

  “They may not think it, but it doesn’t make it not true. Just—I can’t do this shit anymore,” I say a little too loudly as we cross the threshold, and now the entire faculty’s staring, mouths agape.

  Please. Like they never heard the word shit before.

  I offer an awkward laugh at our principal. “Just your run-of-the-mill Lethal Weapon paraphrasing to start out the week—right, Deborah?” Sarcastic arm swing. “No?” I clear my throat.

  “Good morning, ladies. We’re just wrapping up,” Deborah says, cutting her stare over her glasses like a disapproving father.

  And, if we’re keeping score, she’s kinda dressed like one too.

  Clusters of women, all shapes and sizes, sit like lumps of Play-Doh around child-sized tables. Marj Raynor’s ass all but engulfs a miniature plastic chair, and I’m mesmerized by this sheer feat of craftsmanship that prevents the whole thing from pancaking to the industrial carpeting.

  There are only two males among us—Hot Sub Guy, who started showing up last week, and Cliff Jones, Wesson Academy’s own computer teacher and tech dude extraordinaire. He’s slumped behind a newspaper and looking super chipper for a fifty-six-year-old who still lives with his mother.

  “How are things going with the first-grade play?” Deborah points to me.

  “Still looking for some volunteers to help with the set, since the parents I e-mailed backed out, but I’m not worried. I’m so on it.”

  Psh. Of course I’m on it. I wrote the damn thing.

  I salute, which not only seems appropriate but also elicits some halfhearted chuckles from the room. Hot Sub Guy even offers a grin.

  Valerie and Quinn crack smiles and shake their heads from the table by the Keurig. Even if I did forget about Thursday’s rehearsal, I know the two of them didn’t. They’ve been bailing me out of jams since high school.

  When Deborah lets us go and the rest of the embittered old wives club file out, perfume clouds lingering in their memory, I clomp over to my friends like that big brown ogre Muppet and give them sorority-girl air smooches. Sarah’s beat me to the Keurig and already is making a second cup, so I’m huffing at the available pods and trying to decide which roast will be the most potent and get me closest to resembling a human.

  “So…how’d it go?” Quinn’s voice is all singsong, her cascades of dark hair swept back in a long braid like she’s Katniss fricking Everdeen.

  I bang on the coffeemaker as if that’ll speed Sarah along.

  “Looks like she was out pretty late. I knew you’d like Ty!” Valerie’s beside herself with excitement and she gives a bunch of annoying little claps like I’m a child taking her first steps.

  Sarah’s done, so I nudge her out of the way. Hearing The Tongue’s name reminds me these two have a lot of nerve, and I round on them.

  “We’re not friends anymore.” I rebuke them over the sound of my delicious cup a-brewing.

  Valerie gives a rapid blink, her doe eyes glassy, and I lean on the counter. Pop my hip.

  “Well, I—I mean, he’s Mike’s golfing buddy. Thirty-nine, single. Perfect. I don’t understand what you—”

  I swear, she’s about to burst a blood vessel somewhere underneath those side bangs.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. “Love, just because someone’s a certain age and single…does not a perfect boyfriend make.”

  With one scoff, her tone goes from walking on eggshells to launching missiles at me. “What was wrong with him?” She crosses her arms.

  “Where do you want me to start?” I tick things off on my fingers. “He walks in there and spots me.” I slip some husk into my delivery. “‘I’m Ty, by the way.’ By the way? That’s how you start an interaction? And he was wearing high-tops’ like a ten-year-old.”

  “So?” Quinn curls her perfect Kylie Jenner upper lip at me, but her bitch glare is full-on Kim K.

  “He has a cat. A cat, Valerie.” I shudder.

  A laugh bursts out of Sarah, now over by the mini muffins. “A guy who has a pussy—well, need I say more?” She tosses me a muffin and we high-five, and my very dear, very thirty-four-year-old high school best friends just scowl at her.

  “Ew—I hate that word.” Quinn grimaces, her half-Dominican features so silken she almost doesn’t look offended.

  “Me too,” Sarah concurs, “but what do you want me to call it?”

  “Nothing. I want you to call it nothing. I don’t want you—or anyone—to talk about that ever.” Valerie can’t even bring herself to open her eyes when she’s answering the question. She’s all hair and shakes. A walking Garnier Fructis commercial.

  “And he’s a terrible kisser. Just awful.” I grimace back into my mug.

  “You kissed him?”

  I might as well have told Valerie I’d set his gross cat on fire.

  “Okay, now you sound like you’re in seventh grade.” I chuckle. “Let me rephrase. When he attacked my face, I wanted to throw up. He licked my lips. Who does that?”

  “A weirdo.” Sarah gives a soulful mmm-hmmm that she can’t quite pull off, being whiter than the Coffee-Mate she hands me.

  “Yes—thank you!” I punctuate the point, a conductor’s wave of a red stirrer.

  “But he’s what you told me you’re looking for.” Valerie’s long fingers are outstretched like even they are at their wits’ end with me and my Expectations.
“He’s never been married—”

  “Thirty-nine and never married? There’s a reason, Val. There’s always a reason. And I’m okay with the divorced thing. Hi—remember that time I was married? Just as long as I can see his papers, if I so choose.”

  “What are you, the gestapo?” She laughs in Quinn’s direction, but Q knows better than to return the merriment.

  I threaten her with an eyebrow. She lets the moment pass.

  “What did you do, then?” Quinn gets us back on track, her copper stare twinkling up at me. “Get all wasted and screw him?”

  “Um. Hello—no.” I blow air from the side of my mouth. Clap a palm to my chest. “What do you think this is, a month ago? Geez.” I hitch a thumb at her like Get a load of this and glance at the other two. “I did what any mature woman would do. I texted Sarah, and she called with a ‘lady emergency.’”

  “What the hell is a ‘lady emergency’?” Quinn spits fire.

  I wave it off. “Whatever he needs it to be to feel good about himself. Look, I was very polite. I left him forty bucks—”

  “—and then she met me out dancing and spent the rest of the night pinned against the wall by some insanely hot British dude.”

  “Love of my life,” I deadpan. “Look, I’m sorry. But no more fix-ups. Your idea of the ideal man for me is not my idea of the ideal man for me.”

  “Your idea of the ideal man for you is Jason Segel.”

  I yank back. “Your point is…?”

  Quinn gestures skyward and shakes her head. “Ay dios mio.”

  “It’s not so crazy. We’re both writers…” I talk with my hands.

  “He’s a movie star and he writes children’s books. You don’t even have an agent yet.”

  “Et tu, Q-te?” I rub at the invisible stab wound. Curl a lip. “I’m almost there with this latest manuscript. It’s not so far-fetched that we’d bump into each other at a conference or something…”

  They all just blink at me. Sarah’s the only one with a smile in her blue eyes.

  Valerie sinks her head into her hands and Quinn’s one-and-a-half-carat rock winks in the overhead lights as she gives Val’s back a light scratch.