As much as I would hope she’d side with me or at least commiserate with me, or tell him that was a jerk thing to say and He Barely Knows Me, it’s tricky with people’s significant others because…well…there’s always the chance that they won’t side with you. Years of friendship be damned.
And I don’t think I could take learning she’s not Team Rae about this. Not tonight. So I just stew silently and keep planning the weekend.
“The Magic Mike experience?” she repeats, nearly spitting out her vino when I say it, a sparkle in her eye.
“To be clear, we’re not talking about your Mike.” I indicate the upstairs with my glass.
“Why ever not?” She feigns a wounded look, those doe eyes blinking in mock astonishment, fingertips of her free hand perched over her heart. “Obviously, every day’s the Magic Mike experience for me!”
We both crack up, and then I say, “Focus! There’s no room for discussion of marital bliss right now; this is a GD wedding.” I spend the remainder of the evening cackling my way through every last idea while Valerie just blushes—but never once does she suppress a half grin.
* * *
Curled up on the couch with my phone and shiraz this time, I twirl my fingers through Billie’s fur. Soft strokes and the sweet, fruity sips help to dull the ache I’ve felt since Valerie’s kitchen.
Maybe Mike’s right. Maybe Val too. Maybe they’re in their kitchen right now, talking about how picky I am and how I threw everything away to bring a different guy home every night. Because that’s what I did. That’s exactly what I did.
Right?
My glass is drained before I even know it, and I bring the device to life. Check my teeth with the camera function, and they gleam a beautiful shade of purple.
And then I swipe.
I swipe and I swipe Right on lots of guys I ordinarily wouldn’t because maybe everyone is right about me.
But I don’t want them to be. I’d have the house, the marriage, the babies—but I just don’t want to do it with the wrong person.
I wanted Daniel to be right. But he wasn’t.
And as sad as that made me and as hard as it was to let that go—to go out with people who are not as good as he was—yeah. That hurts.
But two (or one thousand twenty-two, as it were) wrongs don’t make a right.
I have to stop this worrying about what Mike thinks. He doesn’t know me; he doesn’t know his own wife.
Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe. Like a bloodthirsty banshee ravenous for her next kill.
Swipe, swipe, swipe, swipe.
Matching just about every other one, but who has time to message?
And then Spark tells me:
You’re all out of matches.
#sadface
I wipe sweat from my forehead.
“Well, I guess that’s good for a night’s work,” I say to Billie, who just huffs in response and turns so her ass is in my face.
And I can’t help but agree with her.
* * *
Chapter 10
I skedaddle into the main office to check my mailbox—nothing—and Ida stops me with a look.
“So what’s this I hear about a date tonight?” she drawls, all cat-eye frames and boobs pointed my way from her spot at the front desk.
“Geezus—lower your voice. I’m going to kill Quinn and Valerie,” I whisper, giving the lobby a look-see for any other respectable humans who might somehow use this information for blackmail.
“What’s his name?” The lilt to her voice scoops through the air, with no mind to my request for discretion.
“Andrew. He’s a dentist. Forty. And he used to be fat.”
She chokes on her coffee. “Was that his tagline?”
“Ha-ha, no. But I’m taking this as a good thing. Because look.” I fish my phone out of my pocket and show her the screenshots I’ve saved of my first Spark date.
“Gurl” is all she says.
“I know!” I take a second and admire the strong jaw. The purposeful scruff that adorns it. The way he fills out an Under Armour polo.
Then—ahem—I’m back.
“Ordinarily, I’d steer clear of someone this pretty because we really haven’t messaged that much. He just…wanted to meet.”
“How do you know he used to be fat, then?”
“Facebook,” I say with a wink. “But I think the fact that he used to be fat means…maybe he’s not so full of himself that all he cares about is how he looks. Like maybe he’s humble, from former not-so-perfection. I don’t know.” I flip through the pics again.
Dayum. I hope so.
“Or maybe it means he’s super into himself now. Because of present perfection,” comes a deep male rumble from the recesses of the mail room.
I recognize the swagger of that voice—and freeze. “How long have you been in there?”
“Let me see this guy,” Nick says, taking it upon himself to pluck the phone from my fingers. He makes a bunch of grunty sounds like Hmmm, maybe, and I’m grasping for the thing back and he’s holding it up and out of my reach and I’m sweaty with panic.
“Now, children,” Ida says with a chuckle, and we both snap to attention.
He tosses my phone to me, and I fumble but do catch it.
He puts up his palms. “Whoa, I didn’t realize you were such an athlete. Nice catch, ‘Rae’ Lewis.”
“Yeah, you’re lucky I caught it, or you’d be buying me a new one, Nick…Jonas,” I say to his back. That crisp blue dress shirt struts away.
Palm to forehead, and Ida cracks up, a loud chortle echoing its way up to the rafters.
“Hey, wasn’t Ray Lewis a murderer?” I spit.
“Charges were dismissed,” he tosses over his shoulder.
He’s barely out the double doors, and I spill to Ida that I saw him on Spark.
“Gurl” is all she says again. It’s all she needs to say.
“I know—how humiliating is that? So he has to have seen me and swiped Left then because we never matched up, and I thought he had a girlfriend, and dear God. Can you just fire him?”
“Sorry, honey. That’s above my pay grade. Besides, he’s real nice to look at. You will just have to deal.”
With that, the phone starts to ring, and Ida moves an acrylicked hand to get it.
“Have fun with Used-to-Be-Fat-Andrew tonight,” she adds with a wink.
* * *
My hands are shaky as I grip the shot glass. I get to the joint fifteen minutes ahead of time so I can decompress some before Used-to-Be-Fat-Andrew arrives.
I swing my bare legs off the barstool and flick through my messages until I reach my group text with Quinn and Val.
Me: Remind me never to do this again without talking
to the dude more.
A few seconds later,
Quinn: You’ll be FINE. You don’t have that much time to be pen pals. The wedding is four weeks away!
“Don’t remind me,” I say to the bartender. A girl.
“Pardon me?” she asks, diamond stud in her nose winking in the track lighting.
I smooth on a smile, the Fireball whiskey working its magic already. “Nothing. I’m ready to close out.”
I recognize Used-to-Be-Fat-Andrew, DDS, right away as he strides into the place at exactly eight o’clock. He’s wearing a gray sport coat, dark jeans, and some sort of man boots. He looks more lumberjack than dentist, really.
I’m not complaining.
“Very punctual” is my opening line as I glide off the barstool and slide my hand into his. “Should we do the awkward first-meeting hug?”
Blue eyes sparkle down at me as he grips my hand and takes in my dress.
“Absolutely,” he says with a wide grin, and he wraps his other arm around me.
Swoon. I can smell his Man Soap, and I’m giddy as it swirls in my nose.
“You must be Rae.”
“Your table is ready,” the hostess says with a smirk I want to slap off her twenty-year-old face, but whatever. I’m o
n a date with this and she’s working tonight. Rae 1, Hostess 0.
As we await the appetizers, he sips a Bud Light draft. I get it. He used to be fat. He’s quiet and fidgets, and I thank baby Jesus that I had the brilliant idea of getting things started early with the alcohol because it’s helped me not fidget. And not avoid eye contact like he’s doing.
But his nervousness is kinda cute.
“So on a scale from one to ten, how much of a deal breaker is it if I don’t floss as much as I should?”
He lets out one strong Ha—a Shaquille O’Neal of a Ha, really—and leans back in his chair, one ankle resting on a tree trunk of a knee. His open jacket reveals sweat marks under his arms as he takes another sip of beer.
Supes adorbs. I probably shouldn’t enjoy making men sweat this much, but I am who I am.
I lower my voice a tick. “Is that cliché to ask?”
“You’re funny. No.” He smiles back. “And that depends…What are we talking here? Every ten years?”
I run my tongue over my front teeth and scrunch my face at him. “Not that long!”
“Good!”
For the next hour and a half, we cover all the basics—he recently bought out his father’s practice, born and raised in Florida, blahblahblah. I’m doing the witty banter thing and he’s receptive to it, but he’s not lobbing too much my way by the time entrées are set out in front of us.
And then we get onto past relationships—in particular, our most recent ones and What Happened There. When it’s his turn, his light, kind of doofy but charming demeanor changes.
He stares out into middle space, his eyes glassy, the candle in the center of the table reflecting in them as he speaks.
“She was…younger than me.”
“Like, how young?” I ask. #inquiringmindswanttoknow
“Twenty-five.”
“You’re really slumming it with me, then.” I snort.
I wish I hadn’t said it—why do I always do that—but I can’t help it.
“I was with her for five years. On and off the last two.”
“Were you engaged?”
He shrugs. “No.”
“Live together?”
“No.”
I laugh, a little uncomfortable. Red flags start to wave over his used-to-be-fat head. “How come?”
He looks right at me, intense. Like he’s having a fight with her right here. Like he’s looking at me and I’m her. Shiver me timbers! I rub at my arms and say nothing. Just let him answer.
“I wasn’t sure she was the one. You know?”
“I suppose, yeah. But after five years? How come you were on and off for two?”
He leans in, large forearms peeking out of rolled sleeves now, giant hands I can’t picture fitting into mouths gesturing wildly as he speaks. “The breakup just never really stuck for long. Like we’d be broken up and then she’d call me and we’d get together for lunch because we missed each other, and before you knew it, we were back together. Just like that.” He snaps his fingers, I guess for effect.
I get it. Trust me, buddy.
I signal for the server—Another, please?—and sit back as Andrew describes this toxic relationship I’ve seen, experienced, a million times. His face is so full of hope when he details the good things about her—and then it flashes something sinister when he talks about their problems. Petty junior high shit that I can’t believe a forty-year-old guy would put up with. Or do.
But then again, she’s in her twenties.
And he used to be fat.
He doesn’t know I know this. About my Facebook research. But I feel for him. Poor fat Andrew from the stories he tells.
After a…while, I decide this guy’s way too emotionally invested in these stories. He’s being like I am when I relive something—but I’m a writer with a memory that’s way too long. I haven’t seen anything like this in another person before. For a writer, sure.
But still.
He’s not a writer. And it’s probably not good.
Third drink comfortably tingling its way up my legs, I’m done with this ex story. Hell, I have an ex-husband and I don’t have half as much to say as this guy does about that relationship.
“So tell me”—I might have cut him off, but I’m beyond caring at this point—“when did this end, officially?”
He wraps his hand around his glass. “Two months ago.”
I press my lips into a line. Oh.
“How do you know it’s over? That this is the time the breakup ‘stuck’? Five years is a long time.”
I squint like I’m trying to make sense of it all. It’s a valid question.
“Because.” He scoots his chair in and smiles. His face relaxes, a whisper of a wrinkle or two smoothing across his forehead, and he grabs his fork. “The last time I tried to contact her and get together, she said no.”
Any remaining pixie dust I had swirling around in my heart for him fizzles, and I just focus on my fettuccine.
* * *
He’s not ready. He’s nowhere near ready, I text the girls when I get home.
Although he did say he hoped we got together again and he did give me a peck on the cheek, I knew I wouldn’t be seeing him again. Nor did I want to.
Quinn: Aw, why not??
Me: He’s not over his ex. Poor thing thinks he is, but he’s definitely not.
Valerie: Okay, okay but…DB?
I laugh at her persistence.
Me: Too early to tell. But I suppose I couldn’t quite characterize him as a douche bag based on this date, no.
It’s late, but I’ve already walked Billie and I’m not altogether unwound from the evening, so I sink into my garden tub in hopes it will loosen my muscles, slow my thoughts. The water is hot enough to turn my submerged parts pink. Hot enough to hurt. And it does. But, damn, it also feels so good.
* * *
The images glaze over with the fog of film noir.
That crappy little karaoke bar packed with writers from the conference. Famous writers. Not-so-famous writers. Writers whose work will never be published. All of us alike. All of us tipsy. Clustered around rickety high-top tables and sloshing our craft beers on the splintered wood.
That travel writer from Sacramento, the one who knows how good-looking he is, grabs the mic like he’s David Lee Roth. Soft lights misting down his slicked blond hair. He looks ethereal. Otherworldly hot.
But he sounds like a bag of cats being swung over someone’s head.
I crack half a smile at the irony.
He keeps jerking his thumb up to the sound guy, like More volume, why won’t this guy give me more volume? His voice juuuust a note or two sharp of the melody. Either he doesn’t know or he doesn’t care. I have to respect both.
His audience pretends to like the arrogant, terrible rendition of Def Leppard’s “Pour Some Sugar on Me,” so he just keeps smiling. Singing. Eyes closed as if he’s Joe freaking Elliott himself.
After a few painful minutes, I peace out for a smoke. It’s a chilly September and I’m in chilly Boston, so I hike up the collar of my short trench coat and sip my drink. Rest the pint glass against my cheek as I listen to the sounds of passersby and conflicting muted music from adjacent bars.
“Got a light?” comes a voice to my right.
I cut my stare his way and narrow my gaze. “Hold this.” I hand him my beer and snatch the cigarette from his tanned fingers, a grin tugging at my mouth.
“So that was pretty rude,” he says.
“What was?”
“You left in the middle of my song.”
“You noticed that, didja?” I take a deep drag to light the cig and present it back. “A peace offering.”
“I did notice.”
“Sorry. I hate eighties music.”
The tinge of a frown colors his features, and he scrunches his brow. “You hate men?”
“I’m married,” I answer, a chuckle escaping as I exhale, interrupting a smooth stream of smoke.
I’m technicall
y married.
Daniel and I are three months into our separation, three months away from divorce. I’m three months into sleeping on Bridget’s futon.
But this guy doesn’t need to know any of that.
“And I like to think I don’t hate anybody,” I continue, struggling to stifle the lilt in my tone. “Your singing, on the other hand…”
“That bad, huh?”
He clutches at his heart and I take that opportunity to sneak a peek at his third finger. He’s married too.
“Yep,” I answer, steady stream of smoke this time, and he doesn’t bother holding back his laughter.
“See what I mean? Rude.”
“What’s rude is disturbing someone while she’s smoking, making assumptions, and not even disclosing your name.”
“Hmm. Noted.” His smile deepens, and he takes a step closer, his shoes crunching on the damp pavement. “Jesse,” he says. “And I’m sorry.”
I face forward, still leaning a shoulder against the sandstone. Looking out over the street and the cloud of smoke I emit, I repeat the name.
“Very good. And you are?” Another step in.
The air buzzes between us, as electric as the bug zapper flickering a bright purple over the scene.
I look up at him through my eyelashes. What a smug fricking dude.
But I can’t help but let his stare draw me in. He knows what he’s doing. He knows exactly.
I don’t.
“I’m Rae,” I say. “I’m a writer too.”
* * *
I emerge from the tub feeling relaxed and sleepy. Until I see I have three missed Spark notifications—one message from Used-to-Be-Fat-Andrew, which I ignore; one match, with Nick, 35; and one message from him as well.
Nick, 35
Apparently we matched while I was taking my bath and apparently he’s messaged me. And apparently OMFG!
Him: Okay, instead of Rae Lewis, how about Mike Rae? Although that’s kind of obscure. Rae Rice? Your skillz were nothing short of impressive today.
Mr. Right-Swipe Page 9