Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  You should have been able to cry to him, everyone said. You shouldn’t have had to move out there.

  They had all the answers.

  But that’s what we did. And I could never talk to him for some reason. I don’t know.

  I had always wanted kids, but something about the way we were together made the thought of having kids with him feel like a life sentence. And when I realized that, I knew I had to go. And fulfill my lifelong dream of living in Bridget’s basement for two years while I crawled my way back into teaching.

  Yanno, just like we’d always talked about growing up.

  I reach for both my friends’ hands.

  “What are you doing?” Quinn frowns at me like I’ve cut her in line at a Sam Hunt meet and greet.

  “Just hold my hands, you morons.” I stretch my fingers.

  Squeeze.

  “This is all a bunch of crap, but I love you guys. You know that? I love you. For helping me land this job. And for putting up with my bullshit.”

  We’re quiet a moment, and all of a sudden I realize Quinn’s crying.

  “Nooooo,” I say, swiping some tissues from my purse pack. Her mega-mascara’s going to run and there’ll be no turning back.

  “That’s why I want you up there with me on my special day.” She sniffles and dabs at her eyes.

  “I know.” I pat her arm. “I just don’t—do—weddings. I can’t. I’ll buy you the most obnoxious thing on your registry, though. How’s that?”

  “Yeah, that’s the same.” She tosses the Kleenex ball into a nearby trash can. Score.

  “How are things”—I wince—“going with the wedding planning?”

  She starts nodding. “Pretty good. We have all the major vendors taken care of. The stuff that’s left is mainly about the details—salmon or chicken?”

  “Definitely steak,” I say.

  Valerie gasps. “What? You know how she feels about red meat!” Quinn’s eyes start to well again, and I clap both hands over my mouth. Pop a squat next to her.

  “See? This is precisely why you don’t want me there. Trust me.” I play with Quinn’s braid.

  “Getting a tad offtrack, don’t you think?” Valerie is all checklists and cattle prods right now.

  “Fine.” I pout. “I’ll download fricking Spark.”

  “Yay!”

  Checklists, cattle prods…and annoying little claps.

  They huddle around me, and we wait in silence as the percentage it’s ready crawls across my screen.

  “Oooooh.” A gaggle of girls have somehow materialized and are swarming us with their curiosity.

  I clap my phone to my chest. “Yes, ladies?”

  “Whatcha doooin’?” asks the ratty-haired one from Quinn’s class, whose name I can never remember.

  “Checking our stocks,” I say. “It’s a bear market, and the Dow isn’t looking very encouraging.”

  She squints up at me like I’m speaking Swahili, her green eyes narrow. “Bears?”

  “Exactly.” I blink at her. “Now go play, you guys. Recess is almost over!” I shoo them with my phone, and once they scamper reasonably out of earshot, we’re back to the task at hand.

  “It connects to your Facebook profile, so it automatically takes certain things from there,” Val says.

  I raise my brow at her. “For a married woman, you sure know a lot about this dating app…”

  She swats at my arm, and the pretty lights on my screen entrance us.

  Rae, 34

  “So much for giving myself a fighting chance.”

  “What do you mean?” Quinn looks up. “I found Phil when I was thirty-three…”

  “My competition is chicks in their twenties. You’re right—easy peasy.” I give a snort.

  “You’re old enough that you know what you want,” she protests.

  “Translation: old enough to call them on their shit. Guys don’t like that.”

  “Ty said he did…”

  I nearly spit out my Diet Dr Pepper and just look at her.

  “Okay—bad example.” Valerie gives a passive-aggressive shrug and focuses back on my phone.

  We scroll through my Facebook pictures, since those are apparently the only ones you can add to Spark.

  “Let’s see. Me and Billie…me and Billie…me and the Heat mascot…me and Billie.”

  “You cannot put pictures of you and your dog on there.” Quinn crosses her arms.

  “Just because you’re the devil and you hate animals…”

  “You don’t want to come across as a weirdo,” she says.

  “Um—obvi. But let’s compromise. One picture of me and Billie. Deal?”

  She begins to shake her head, and I glance from her to Valerie.

  “Look, ladies, if he doesn’t like dogs then I’m not going to like him anyway, so we might as well be forthcoming about the fact that I have an animal.”

  “Fine. Deal.” Quinn glances at her fingernails and rolls those copper eyes of hers.

  “Should I put in there that she sleeps in bed with me?”

  “No!” Like they’d rehearsed it.

  We sit awhile in quiet, save for the tapping of the screen and the occasional ding of an e-mail coming through on one of our phones. We’re searching through my pictures, and it’s like a museum of bad decisions, bad haircuts, bad eyebrow waxes, times before I discovered eyebrow waxes…

  Although I had cropped out the guys, deleted pics of old boyfriends, of Daniel, etcetera, I still remember who I was with the night I wore that sleek, fuchsia, off-the-shoulder number. Likewise, I recall just who got me those flowers on the mantel in the background of that shot of Billie begging for a pizza slice.

  Just before I’m at the point of slitting my wrists with a piece of the wood-chip ground cover, Valerie pipes up.

  “We have to do something about the rest of your photos. These are—really sad, Rae-Rae!” She cackles, and it’s so late in the day, it’s contagious to all three of us.

  “What’s so funny out here?” Ida saunters up to the picnic table, bringing with her a light, citrusy scent of body spray and a bag full of Hershey’s Kisses.

  “Nothing.” I straighten up. Give a sarcastic throat clearing. “We’re doing a lot of serious work this afternoon.”

  She glances at me over her glasses. “Right. And I’m Mother Teresa.”

  The cleavage show she’s putting on says otherwise, and we all crack up.

  “Did you like my little gift to you today?”

  “You deserve a raise, my friend.” I wink.

  “Too bad he’s got a girl. Mm-mm-mm.” She shakes her head and shiny waves cascade to her waist.

  “Why, Teresa of Calcutta—I never thought I’d hear you say that.” I clap a hand to my chest.

  “I’m fifty—I’m not dead!”

  Another burst of laughter. The kids are staring.

  “He’s pretty hot for her too,” she continues. “Showing me all these pictures on his MyFace or whatever it’s called.”

  “That’s…nice.” I reach for a Kiss. “You sure you don’t have anything stronger in there?” I make like I’m about to put my head in the bag.

  Quinn and Valerie fill her in on the torture they’re subjecting me to, and after she stops making fun of me, we do another round of Kisses.

  “Thirty-four, divorced, and no kids…” Ida taps a finger against her lips like she’s trying to figure it all out. And then, almost jazz hands. “You’re like a unicorn.”

  “Yep—that one dying in the woods in the first Harry Potter film. Given the choice between me and someone brand-new? Whose name is, like, Brandi—”

  “I think they’re all forms of Katelyn now,” Ida corrects. “My advice? Stay single. You can watch whatever you want, eat whatever you want—”

  She leans low, and I have a new respect for guys. Not looking at her boobs is like avoiding a solar eclipse. No wonder so many don’t even try not to do it.

  “Do whomever you want—” She says it behind her hand,
like it’s a secret.

  “Why, Mrs. Papadopolous—I do declare—”

  Ida yanks her hands back like Just sayin’. “By the way, I’m taking Graham Mitchell for dismissal,” she adds, and she’s gone as quickly as she came.

  I look at them with a shit-eating grin. “See? Now it’s two to two.”

  Valerie: “Ida doesn’t get a vote.”

  I concede and we pore over the rest of my Facebook photos, then choose a few acceptable ones from this decade.

  “You need to take some more,” Quinn says. “That’s your homework for tonight.”

  I flip her off behind my phone so the kids don’t see—even the ones who can’t seem to peel their gazes from whatever it is we’re ever doing—and she snaps a quick pic of me.

  “Yes! Can I pleeeease use that one?”

  “No fuck-you fingers. That’s a rule.” Valerie scribbles that down.

  “Just fuck-me bangs?” I flip them down over one eye and open my mouth all Marilyn Monroe. Touching my face and neck like even I can’t keep my hands off me, so how could anyone?

  “You look pretty, Miss Wallace!” Sophia shouts from the four-square area (and promptly gets hit in the butt with the ball).

  “Thanks!” I laugh.

  “Muuuuch better,” Quinn says. She snaps another shot when I’m not looking, and I wave her off. “What? Candids are great!” She takes a few more.

  And before I know it, Valerie’s blowing the whistle, and I’m saved by the bell.

  * * *

  Chapter 4

  The thick breeze beats against my face, my ponytail, as Billie trots beside me, keeping up with my pace. My chest pounds as I pad along—more slowly than usual, but I’m making the effort nonetheless.

  This used to be the time I called my mother and caught up on events of the day. When she’d tell me about the latest on General Hospital, who was sleeping with whom, what killed-off characters returned from the dead that week.

  But now it’s quiet reflection time. Part of my routine. Get home, shovel in something that takes five minutes of prep, and take Billie for a jaunt. Nod at the other folks with their dogs. Yank Billie away from discarded fast-food bags and posts male dogs have peed on.

  And then a flash of Daniel saying I’m a decent runner.

  Ha. Yeah, right.

  I smile like I always do at those kinds of flashes. A pang hits me in my side—or maybe that’s just a stitch from being out of shape.

  At any rate, I complete the rest of the loop at a walk; and by the time my girl and I get back to my place, I’m ready to derail it all with a glass of wine or six.

  “Those tests can wait until tomorrow to be graded, right?” I say to Billie and indicate my teacher bag, barfing up papers and slumped over on itself like a drunken hobo.

  She just looks at me with those big brown eyes and gives a giant yawn. Goes back under her blanket. Nothing changes.

  Tonight, however, instead of sprawling out on the sectional and binge-watching some Game of Thrones, I fire up the Spark app and take a gander at what we’ve got on my profile so far.

  It doesn’t look half bad, really. I know it’s totally stupid to think, but at least I look decent. That’s all that matters with these things, anyway. I doubt any guy’s going to read what I’ve written regardless—especially if he doesn’t like what he sees.

  I fiddle my way through the settings a minute and then go into my “discovery preferences.”

  “This is where I can find someone tailor-made for me. Oh boy!” I use my best little-girl-from-a-fifties-movie voice and swing an arm. Billie just snores.

  People within fifteen miles. Ages thirty-five to forty-one.

  Men seeking women.

  Swoonsville.

  I ease back some grocery store pinot grigio while it toggles, and suddenly: There’s a dude.

  Bill, 37

  Longish ratty hair. Icehouse beer in hand.

  I get real close to the screen and close one eye. Try to picture running into “Bill” at a bar—and I instantly know I’d ask for the check and file past him without making eye contact.

  He’s got that To Catch a Predator quality down pat. Which, I guess, would keep me safe because of said thirty-fourness, but still. I don’t like him. I don’t like his stupid face.

  Before I realize what I’ve done, my thumb has pressed the red X at the bottom of the screen, and then? The most glorious thing happens.

  A graphic stamps across his forehead. It says—in red letters, no less: NOPE.

  All caps.

  And just like that, Bill and his Icehouse are gone.

  My breath catches.

  I think I’m in love!

  I feel like I’ve just taken a hit of something. My heart rate quickens. My chest is light. I’m a little woozy—and I’ve only had a sip of wine, so it’s not that. It’s from this superpower I now have.

  I sit up and fumble through my home screens to my texting app.

  Me: You mean I can just hit this red X and that ensures I’ll never even have to talk to these people?

  I grip the phone and stare at it like it’s the fricking Holy Grail.

  *cue the angel choir*

  Laaaaaaa!

  Valerie: YES! You can only talk to someone if you’ve both swiped Right!

  Me: You may have created a monster…

  Quinn: You’re not supposed to be Sparking! You’re supposed to be taking more pictures. And we are supposed to have a say in your choices!

  Me: Too late—I’m addicted.

  Quinn: And swipe, don’t hit buttons, Grandma!

  Me: Dude—whatever. As long as it says NOPE across his face, I’m happy.

  Valerie: You better be pressing the green heart for LIKE on some too! (Swiping Right!)

  Me: I’m sorry—I can’t talk right now. I’ve got selfies to take.

  I send them a douchealicious one. Duck lips. Peace sign. Sultry squint.

  Quinn: Remember—we’re not trying to hook Kanye here…

  Me: Speak for yourself. Good night!

  As I plow through the guys who fit my Very Specific Criteria, I begin to notice most of their profiles aren’t as complete as mine. With this app, you can write as much or as little as you want, and most seem to write little.

  I, on the other hand, put that I’m divorced and included a few details about myself because, on the off chance that some poor schlub and I do both happen to swipe Right and can, therefore, communicate, if we so choose (God, I love the passivity of it all. It’s so noncommittal!), I want him to know straightaway that I’m divorced. So if he’s one of those shrunken-ball CrossFit trainers who scares easily and he judges me based on marital status, he can feel free to weed himself out of the equation before I even have to.

  It’s bad enough having to say it—but being judged for it as well?

  I’m gulping down wine. Voracious for more faces! Gym selfies! Dudes holding fish! Guys jumping out of airplanes! That’s-My-Sister-with-Me shots! Those-Aren’t-My-Kids-I-Just-Love-My-Niece-and-Nephew pics!

  I’m losing the feeling in my thumbs, yet I’ve never felt more alive!

  I’m giddy for Gamble Profiles, wherein the main pic is of four guys

  and one is really attractive

  and two you probably wouldn’t kick out of bed for eating crackers

  and one looks like Roddy McDowall’s character in Planet of the Apes…

  and then you click it so you can see more photos!

  And the next two are of the same four guys!

  You still can’t tell who is the holder of all your Spark dreams, but you really, reallllly want to know because by now you feel like you know these guys playing cornhole, doing some choreographed line dance at a wedding, tailgating at a Jaguars game—because you’ve been through so much together!

  Until you finally get to the last photo…

  and there’s Cornelius, all on his own, with a golden retriever.

  Because, of course, that’s the one whose profile it was. Get of
f my screen, you damn dirty ape!

  NOPE.

  I’m drunk with power—and good ol’ pinot greezh.

  I wake up on my couch. Sweaty. Dried drool at one corner of my mouth, and still holding my wineglass in one hand, my phone in the other.

  #klassy

  I wake the screen. Eleven thirty. Not too shabby.

  You’re out of matches, says Spark.

  “Tell me about it,” I say. And then I nod out of respect, like We had a good run tonight, Sparky.

  On the way to my bedroom, my phone buzzes in my hoodie pocket.

  The Tongue: Hey

  I almost fall down the stairs, I snort so loud. I consider ignoring the Lip Licker for a moment and toss back a few preemptive Advil that I keep on my nightstand, as per my custom. But then I think better of it because Valerie and Mike are our mutual friends and because I hate being text snubbed.

  And I’d like to think I’m not that much of a jerk.

  I decide I’ll make like Scarlett O’Hara and deal with his obliviousness tomorrow, so I send a quick message back.

  Me: Zzzzzzz

  That oughta hold him for now.

  * * *

  The waitress is taking our order. Ingrid. The one who says absolutely so hilariously that trying to get her to say it has become a thing whenever we come to this hotel for brunch. The most times we got her to do it in one visit was twenty-one.

  Poor sweet thing, she has no idea.

  “Would you like more coffee?” She looks at us over her bifocals.

  “That would be great.” Jesse offers that molten smile of his.

  She gives a firm nod—purses her lips in concentration—like he’s given her the quest of a lifetime and it’s up to her to change the world.

  Give me French roast or give me death!