Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  But there he is, in the middle of the beer line, and pretty accurate to his pictures online. Six foot something, band shirt under a short-sleeved button-down. A little more Nordic looking than my usual jam, but still.

  Win.

  It has finally stopped raining. Once I’m properly sampled up and we’ve been reasonably acquainted, we make our way outside to the patio—picnic-style tables nestled beneath a ceiling of white-light strands. If it weren’t for the humidity, it might be pleasant, but my jean jacket and the air all but choke me as we find a quiet spot to talk.

  And we do.

  He’s pretty chatty, though I’m not even sure what all he’s talking about. I try to be interested in his race stories just like I’m sure he’s trying to be interested in my writing stuff.

  We each nod as the other speaks. We drink. We refill the commemorative pint glasses we get to keep.

  “So tell me about your divorce,” he says. Kind of suddenly. And with all the nonchalance of Tell me about your day.

  This topic takes the hops out of my—Who am I kidding? I know nothing about beer. But seriously. I’ve known this guy thirty minutes and I’m not really ready to talk about my divorce with him. Something about the fact that he wants me to talk about it right now claws at my insides.

  Inner she-beast fighting to get out again?

  The bench I’m sitting on is damp, and I can feel it through my dress—the same black dress I’ve taken to calling my first-date uniform because I’ve worn it every time I’ve gone out this week (All hail, Febreze!). I can feel the wetness through the jean jacket I’m now sitting on, the air almost gooey in my lungs, and it hangs around Barrett and me, between us, like a clothesline of dirty laundry he’s apparently wanting to air right here, right now.

  I ease back the lager something or other—bring me a vodka soda any day—and it leaves a skunky taste on my tongue.

  But I think it’s supposed to be that way.

  Regardless, it buys me a second before I launch into the college essay version of my divorce that I’ve gotten so good at rattling off, I’m sure I sound unaffected.

  You know, like a serial killer.

  His response is simply: “We all have our things. Don’t worry about it.” And he smiles.

  And I’m put off by that too. Because fuck this guy. I don’t need his validation and I don’t need his sympathy.

  What I need is a goddamn menu and another skunky beer.

  “You know what I’m looking forward to?” I ask, tone bright.

  “What’s that?” He leans in, pale blue eyes blinking a sluggish, alcohol-addled blink.

  “I can’t wait for when we’re all microchipped, so when meeting people, someone can just go *scan wrist* and save, like, hours of backstory. Because I’m really tired of explaining mine.”

  He laughs, but I’m kinda serious.

  “It’s not so bad.” He touches my arm. And then: “You want to try that wheat beer?”

  * * *

  Well? Nick writes midway through the evening. When I felt my phone vibrate from inside my purse during Barrett’s story about how his company’s monthly quotas work, I had thought maybe it was going to be Quinn and Val, but alas. I was wrong. I had wanted to check it…but I waited like a good girl until I excused myself to the restroom.

  Meh is all I respond, because it’s weird chatting with him about my dates. But then I’m just buzzed enough because there is zero food at this beer-tasting place, and I had run home so quickly after school for Billie, I didn’t have time to eat even a precautionary banana or cereal bar beforehand.

  Me: I think this is like one of those meet-and-greet dates. Never experienced one before. Have you ever done that?

  Nick: I’m not sure what you mean?

  But then I realize I’ve been in the bathroom a scooch too long when the girl who came in after me has come and gone; so instead of answering my new text pal, I head back out into the wild and search for Barrett’s shaggy hair.

  “You ready?” he says when I return to the spot where we’ve been parked for the last hour and a half.

  “Um—yeah?” I swipe my umbrella from the bench and toss it into my purse, my stomach rumbly-tumbly and hoping he’s about to suggest dinner. Not because I’m so interested in him but because I don’t really have an opinion yet and holy hell I’m famished all of a sudden.

  My phone vibrates again, and I put my hand on it. There, there. I don’t know. I’m fuzzy around the edges and in need of grease and carbs. Stat.

  “Where did you park?” Barrett asks, a hand at the small of my back, and I can’t tell if it’s affectionate or, like, pushing me the hell out the door.

  I gesture toward my Camry with my phone when we get closer, and he says that’s great because his vehicle is near too.

  Jeep. Totally fits.

  We walk in silence and I’m wondering what it was I did to make this dude want to leave an hour and a half in. Not that I’m all that broken up about it, but still. I thought I was a delight.

  “This is me,” I say, fumbling to retrieve my keys.

  “I had a nice time,” he says, and he leans against my driver’s side door. Kind of familiar for my tastes. Expression unreadable.

  I locate my keys. Yes!

  “I hope we can get together again sometime,” he says, and he wraps his arms around my shoulders. Starts to rub them in firm, confusing strokes with his long, investment banking fingers.

  “Wow, you’re…really gettin’ in there” is all I can say. I don’t even know where it comes from, but I’m so perplexed by the brevity of this date, the haze in his stare, the evenness of his tone—and now this weird back rub?

  My stomach is screeeeeaming at him—Get your mitts off her shoulders and put some food in me!—when he leans in for a kiss.

  “Really?” I ask. And my tone isn’t bitchy. It’s straight-up confused. It’s like I don’t even have control over what I’m saying. Words are just coming out when food should be going in.

  He chuckles, and his sudden forwardness—based on no real chemistry in this ninety-minute whatever-this-was—grates on me.

  “What do you mean?” he asks, a grin tugging at his thin lips

  “I just…wasn’t sure what you were thinking. You’re hard to read, I guess?”

  He somehow takes this as an invitation and kisses me. There’s nothing spectacular about it. Just lips pressing lips. No fireworks, no sparklers—no Fourth of July bang-snap things, even.

  He pulls back, and a lazy smile crawls its way up his face. Creases his eyes at the corners.

  It doesn’t strike me as a real smile. But what do I know? I’ve known this guy ninety minutes.

  “I just—had to do that,” he says.

  It sounds like he’s quoting some terrible movie and suddenly my disdain for him electrifies my whole body. It’s like he’s saying this because it’s what he thinks he’s supposed to say. Like that’s charming.

  Furthermore, it’s friggin’ eight o’clock. If he digs me all that much, he’d want to go somewhere else where we could talk more. Eat. Spend more time. Get to know the wonder that is Rae.

  Again, I don’t care, but, like, what is this guy pulling?

  “Thanks again,” I say before I get into my car.

  But even that pisses me off because what exactly am I thanking him for?

  “Oh, did you pay…?” was his only acknowledgment when he noticed the pint glass in my hand when I first found him. With a dot-dot-dot at the end of that thought and nothing else.

  Damaged, Nick explained once I elaborated on the state of my date, back in the sanctity of my apartment.

  Nick: He’s probably a serial online dater so he doesn’t want to spend the money or the time, and he probably orchestrates these quick dates to see if he’s interested and then tries to get the person into bed.

  Me: He didn’t ask me to go anywhere else, though…

  Not that I gave a shit. But still.

  Nick: Well, it doesn’t sound like you were
too receptive, hon.

  I smile at the memory of my candor.

  Wow, you’re…really gettin’ in there.

  Yeah, I’m the best.

  Me: You think he wanted to sleep with me?

  Nick: …*gives you a look*

  Me: What look is that?

  Nick: Of course he wanted to sleep with you.

  After a few minutes of pondering:

  Me: Dudes be crazy. *soaks self in alcohol*

  Nick: How about soaking yourself in nourishment instead? You eat anything yet?

  Me: PSH. I put in a pizza the second I walked through the door. You don’t have to worry about me, Mom.

  Too late is Nick’s response, and I sit and stare at that message a lot longer than I should.

  And then:

  Me: So a little birdie told me today that your girlfriend is fictitious. True or false?

  I can’t help myself.

  Nick: Damn, blunt! I like it! That rumor is true. I actually just got out of something recently, but I find it’s easier to say you’re attached when working in a school. There are always the Idas, there are always distractions. I find if I say I’m in a relationship, people tend to take me a little more seriously. Not that I think I’m all that whatever or anything, but it’s hard being a guy in a school full of women.

  Me: Oh, I feel so bad for you. How brave of you to get out of bed every day. #pleasehearthesarcasm

  Nick: Fair enough, LOL.

  Me: How come I’m the lucky one who gets the truth?

  Nick: Something tells me you’re different. And I think we could be friends. Didn’t want to lie to you.

  Me: I’m different, all right. Haha.

  * * *

  Chapter 12

  Friday afternoon can’t. Come. Fast. Enough.

  “You guys leaving straight from work?” Sarah asks, and I can hear the hurt seep into her voice that she wasn’t invited to this bachelorette weekend in Miami with the big girls.

  “Yes, ma’am!” I say, crumpling up a paper towel and launching it into my desk trash can. “Two nights of pure unadulterated fun. It’ll be just like college. Except, you know, we’re a hundred years old now. Thanks again for watching Billie for me.” I hand her my spare key. “And just remember—no questionable fluids on my sheets. Or couch.”

  She smacks me. “Billie and I are going to have a snuggle-icious weekend. You’re the one who’s going to have to worry about questionable fluids. Keep your phone on you at all times, please! And probably hand sanitizer.”

  I hug her and pepper the air with kisses—klassin’ it up—and then I’m off to grab my chicas after afternoon car pool.

  “Why are you driving my car? Or, I should say, why am I letting you drive Phil’s car?” Quinn asks as I guide her into the passenger’s side.

  “Because I’m in charge this weekend, ladies. And what I say goes. Make sure you thank Phil for the use of his Porsche Cayenne. I’m sure we’ll fit in quite nicely this weekend. It’s bigger and safer than my car and I’m sure it’ll be just the ticket.” A beat. “And now that we’re done with the safety portion of the weekend, I’m also driving because—hello—I’m here to ensure you have a good time.” I look back at Val. “Both of you.”

  “Can we tell her now?” Valerie’s voice quivers (with excitement? terror?) from the backseat.

  “Tell me what?”

  “What Rae’s got planned for you…”

  “Don’t blame this all on me.” I glare into the rearview mirror. “You personally okayed everything on the itinerary.”

  “There’s an itinerary?” Quinn sounds disappointed.

  “Well—I mean, Valerie was involved,” I say, and we burst into laughter as we make our way down I-95.

  * * *

  An hour later, we arrive in South Beach. The ocean is an endless stretch of teal that makes one wonder why anyone would settle for a pool at all, ever. The beach sprawls—a flawless white. Were it not for the aggressive afternoon sun, the scene might look like a winter landscape, frosty blues and whites painted across a canvas.

  At the sight of it, Quinn squeals when we roll up to the hotel, so I feel pretty good about my life choices.

  “What’s first?” She’s practically licking her lips, doing stiff little claps like if her fingers touch all the way she’ll either break a nail or her hands will explode.

  The excitement in her voice almost makes this price tag worth it. Heh. And when the girls clutch each other and screech at each new amenity, it lights me from within.

  The reflective marble that shines almost liquid in the lobby, the smell breezing its way through as we traipse over to the bellhop station.

  “It’s almost like…cotton candy heaven!” Val says, closing her eyes and taking a dreamy whiff like she’s guest of honor at the damn Wonka Factory.

  “They pump special aromas into the air-conditioning, it said online,” I say, and I feel like Willy Wonka himself as I hand the last of my bags to the bangable bellhop. He’s not orange, but he’s got a golden glaze from the sun, and I’m guessing that’s where the metaphor ends.

  “Here’s hoping there aren’t hallucinogens in it…” I throw the guy a look and he smiles, Mario Lopez dimples popping out to say hello.

  “Here’s hoping there are.” Quinn bites her bottom lip as she unapologetically stares at his ass, and we follow him to the elevator.

  “What’s the occasion that has you beautiful ladies joining us this weekend?” A. C. Slater presses the button for the second floor. I had wanted to get an ocean walkout, but Mike wouldn’t agree to the upgrade, so Valerie and I had to settle on an ocean view.

  First-world problems.

  “This girl right here is getting married in three weeks,” I say, tousling the ends of her wavy hair, “so we’re spending some girl time together.”

  His smile deepens. “Well, let us know if you need anything. I’m Armando.” He holds open the elevator door with a sun-kissed arm, and we all file out.

  “Will do.” I hand him a fiver and give a quirk of an eyebrow.

  “A suite?” Quinn gasps when we reach it, and tears well in her copper eyes as she takes it all in—the marshmallowy king beds, the sparkling glass shower, the size of the private veranda.

  “Nothing but the best for my girls this weekend.” I drape a lazy arm around each of them.

  “Okay, but you sound like a madam,” Val says.

  “Will you lighten the hell up?” I ask, producing a flask from the wicker purse I scored just for the occasion.

  And—uh—the flask too.

  I offer it to her. “Do you trust me?”

  “Famous last words,” she says, yanking the thing from my fingertips. “Not ominous at all.”

  * * *

  Much to my utter delight, we are sprawled out in cabanas near the pool not thirty minutes later. Okay, I get the allure of this particular pool—endless frothy waterfalls that soothe like bathwater when we dip our feet.

  “Oh, Sven.” Quinn wiggles her fingers at the Thor-looking cabana boy. “We’re ready to order when you are.”

  “Is that his name?” I’m already feeling my sips from the flask so I can’t remember if he actually told us that or if Q’s just decided he looks like a Sven.

  Side note: I’ve never really had a thing for dudes in banana hammocks, but I’m starting to understand the appeal as Sven strolls his way over in a deep green one.

  “Does it matter what his name is?” She rearranges her enormous, floppy sun hat and looks at me over her equally giant shades.

  “Shh!”

  We all laugh and laugh and laugh.

  Quinn—my Quinn—is back. And I can’t wait to spend this weekend with her.

  I turn to Valerie, who looks amazing swathed in a classic black swimsuit with the sides cut out. Gold hoops at each hip. “You are rocking the hell out of that monokini, girl. Where did you get it?”

  “Preach!” Quinn toasts her with the piña colada Sven has just set before her. “Especially for hav
ing birthed all those babies. How many again?”

  “Oh my God. You’re drunk already.” Valerie snorts, but it’s loud enough that I can tell she is well on her way too, and this is already the best weekend ever.

  “What’s on tap for this evening?” Quinn takes a swig through the straw.

  “Maybe Armando.” I immediately lose it over Sarah’s joke from the other day.

  And then I straighten up. Take a glorious swig of my daiquiri. Its strawberry goodness electrifies my taste buds and sends a chill right through me as it goes down.

  So smooth.

  “We have to stop being such vultures,” I say, feeling a pang of guilt for lusting after every piece of man candy strewn about the lovely candy dish that is this pool.

  “Why?” Valerie yanks back, and I love her for this. “When have they ever stopped?”

  I give a conceding shrug and answer Quinn’s question. “Tonight, Valerie and I thought we’d pamper ourselves. Grab some dinner and get massages and pedis at the hotel spa. It’s open twenty-four seven, baby.”

  “That all sounds like a dream, but—eww!” Quinn grimaces. “Who’s getting a pedicure at four a.m.?”

  I squish my face at the pretty pink umbrella in my drink. “That’s…probably not what people are getting at that time.”

  “Yeah, they’re probably getting handies.” Val snorts again, and we all crack up.

  * * *

  I stay under the sheen of a light, continual buzz that leaves everything just a little fuzzy around the edges. And gleaming. Like an Instagram filter.

  “So Barrett? He’s a no-go?” Valerie drags out her words and then emits a long groan of pleasure, which, to be quite honest, has been making Quinn and me a tad uncomfortable for the last forty minutes because they sound like sex noises. We keep sneaking each other the ol’ wide eyes and then trying not to laugh.