Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  “I was teaching up in Tallahassee, but then my brother got sick in the summer.”

  “Yikes. I’m sorry.”

  He presses his lips into a firm line. “Yeah. He’s fifteen. And my dad’s been gone about five years now—not much of a pension for my mom to work with and take care of Bryce and the bills, so I tried to look for a teaching job closer. Too late in the year for any jobs to be available, though.”

  I want to ask what’s wrong with his brother, but the words trip on my tongue. I’ve paused just a second too long, and Nick seems to sense this because he bails me out.

  “Leukemia. He relapsed from when he was really little. So I couldn’t justify living four hours away when my family’s here and they need me, you know?”

  “That’s awful, Nick. And how sweet of you.”

  I squelch the urge to reach out and touch his arm again—what is with me today? I just sit and digest all of this.

  He’s quiet until I ask, “Why Wesson?” and then he cracks the smile I haven’t seen in a few miles.

  “Easy. It’s near my mom’s place and it’s the most expensive private school around. I figured it must pay its teachers pretty well too.”

  I snort.

  “Trouble is, they had no openings either, so that’s how I got on the sub list.”

  “So you generally teach history, you said?”

  “When there are positions available, yes. But I’ve had to be creative to make money so far. Have to help Ma with all the medical bills.” He pauses a minute. “I did a little modeling in college—shut up—and, well…” He clears his throat. “I hooked back up with my agent when I got here. He’s the one who suggested this stripping gig.” He shakes his head and half a smile splits the side of his face I’m now staring at. “I only do it here and there,” he says, “and the money happens to be pretty stellar. So I’m kinda stuck at the moment.” A beat. “I’m not just some dirty stripper.”

  His tone is light, but it’s edged with a hint of something I can’t put my finger on.

  “And here I thought you were just trying to follow in Channing Tatum’s footsteps.” I wink at him from across the front seat, and he laughs. “You don’t have to explain to me,” I say. And I feel bad he’s defending himself.

  “I know.” He meets my gaze at a red light and a wave runs through me. This pull I haven’t experienced…since I can remember. This flutter I can’t suppress.

  But it’s back to chauffeur duty before I can acknowledge it or make it worse.

  We sit in silence for a while, and an ease lays over me instead of the weird, stiff tension of the usual awkward silence when I’m with a guy I don’t know particularly well. I get lost in thinking about it for a few exits. How it feels so natural. And it’s fun. Nick’s so easy to talk to. And even though I don’t happen to believe guys and girls can be actual, real, non-friends-with-bennies friends, I start to think…maybe they can.

  Before I realize it, the ride is almost over.

  “What time is it?” Valerie asks as she stretches her newly awakened self in the backseat.

  “Almost two,” Nick answers. “Where should I drop you ladies?”

  “Why don’t you just take us both to my place? I can drive Val home.”

  With Valerie awake, Nick’s and my banter comes to a close, and it dawns on me that I haven’t answered James about tonight yet, so I whip out my phone and his message is still sitting there, with its arms crossed. Tapping a toe.

  Me: So sorry—YES. Had a crazy morning/afternoon. Nothing the cops couldn’t handle—heh. I’m only kind of kidding. What time and where should we meet?

  James’s reply with the details is swift and I’m still getting the fireflies lighting up my chest for him, so apparently I don’t need to worry about this stupid attraction to Nick—but I notice I’m shielding my phone from the driver’s side as I type.

  Nick must notice too. He clears his throat. “Big date tonight?”

  The question is like a bug zapper to the fireflies; they’re dead in an instant.

  “Yet to be determined,” I say, forcing a playful hitch to my tone.

  But my heart breaks a little with the admission.

  The rest of the trip is all business—I direct Nick to my apartment complex, turn for turn. When I get out of the car and he’s helped us out with the bags, the two of us linger a moment while Valerie’s on her phone with Mike. Nick leaning against the back hatch, arms crossed; me up on the sidewalk and staring at my toes as I line them up with the grooves in the pavement.

  I feel an energy between us. Like there’s more to be said, but I don’t have any idea what else to say. And, furthermore, I know I shouldn’t.

  James.

  Breathe.

  James.

  I glance back up at Nick and he doesn’t say anything either—just flashes that smile—so I offer a sheepish one in return and thank him for the ride.

  Val and I are pretty quiet on the way back to her house too, and I’m not sure if she’s making like Fight Club and we’re just never going to talk about it…or this is supposed to be an understanding between the two of us like What Happened in South Beach Stays in South Beach…or if she and I will have some heart-to-hearts coming up because HOW CAN A PERSON HOLD THAT MUCH INSIDE?

  But I can’t bring myself to broach the topic of Mike or Sex with Stripper Sylvester or What This Means because it’s all uncharted territory for us, and I don’t want to drive her away.

  So I just drive her home.

  Before I’ve even backed out of Valerie’s driveway, my phone buzzes, and I’m wondering if she’s forgotten something. I glance in the back to see what’s there, but there’s nothing.

  Nick: Have fun tonight. =P

  It cracks me up, but it pins me down as well.

  Couldn’t leave well enough alone, could he?

  Me: Do you always have to get the last word?

  Nick: Of course, little darlin’. ;)

  * * *

  Chapter 15

  Sarah seems to have taken great care of Billie; she’s just how I left her—alive, chubby, and starving for love. Sarah’s not here when I get in, but she’s left a note for me, saying she hung around until one thirty and what a sweetie pie Billie is.

  Duh.

  I spend a long while making over said sweetie pie, who’s as wiggly as a puppy at the sight of me, and then I decide to take her on a walk to get some of that excited energy out since I’m leaving to meet James this evening.

  And, really, I just need to process the weekend.

  I’ve texted Quinn about seventy times, asking about the status of the car, and she’s yet to respond, so there isn’t much to do but be alone with my thoughts and plod on, picking up beagle poop along the way. As one does.

  * * *

  James has suggested this new, swanky Italian place I’ve been dying to try. It’s got a twenties vibe with its art deco décor, and they’ve been billing it as a wine bar, so count me in.

  But my hands are a bit shaky as I straighten my hair. Smooth on my eye shadow.

  I’ve really mixed it up this time—no first-date uniform tonight. I’ve chosen to wear a burgundy wrap dress that’s more than a few shades darker than the rosé I’ve ordered but just as delicious. It hugs and hides where it’s supposed to, and it’s fun and flowy like I hope the conversation will be.

  I twist on the leather barstool, and the wine is sweet on my tongue. I can’t believe I’m drinking after last night, but I’m nervous this time—excited about this guy; I’m not doing it because I’m trying to numb myself to anything.

  I need this to go well. I hope it does go well.

  It’s the first time since we started this little experiment that I’ve felt this way, and now that I feel I’ve somehow let the girls down, I’ve got to really try on this date. Plus, I might actually like this James Spark. I picked him, following my own rules and everything, after all.

  And I’ve got to stop being lured by Nick. Why does he have to be so damn alluri
ng?

  I swirl the wine in the stemless glass and think about our conversation in the car this afternoon. #dree #mee

  I take another slow sip.

  Not dreamy. Stop it.

  I ease back the rest of the rosé and dab my lips on a black cocktail napkin.

  “That psyched to meet me, eh?” says a guy’s voice, and warm fingertips graze my elbow.

  I jump at the sight of him. James, 38. In the flesh.

  Hummina, hummina.

  He’s got thick, wavy hair—dark, just like in his pictures. A crisp button-down filled out with what looks to be as solid a frame as his profile indicated.

  That’s as far as I get because he’s asked me something. At least I think he has, because he’s looking at me, eyes all big, like he’s expecting me to answer.

  “Should I scram?” He hitches both thumbs back toward the door, and I laugh.

  “Who says scram? And, no. I mean, I just—”

  “Relax.” James chuckles and gives me a friendly little hug. “I needed some liquid courage too. Believe me. But thank God.” He takes a step backward and gives me a once-over. “I don’t mean to be a total ass, but I was pretty sure you’d be—”

  I blink at him and throw on a sarcastic smile. “Sure you want to finish that sentence?”

  “Yes.” He offers a firm nod. “I was just going to say, I was pretty sure you’d be a catfish.”

  “Me?” I clap a palm to my chest, and I already feel the lilt skate into my voice before the words even come out. “Oh, I’m more piranha than catfish, honey.”

  “Is that right?” He looks amused, light brown eyes alight in the glow coming from the crystal chandelier.

  He takes the seat next to me, orders me another glass of wine, himself a scotch.

  “Is it ‘Liquor before wine, feeling fine’?”

  He scrunches his face to reveal a cleft in his chin, which he probably hates because everyone with one of those seems to hate them.

  But not me. Nonononooo. I’m a huge fan.

  “I can never remember,” he says. “‘Beer before liquor, never sicker’? Something before beer is ‘in the clear’…wine, ‘feeling fine.’”

  I hold up my glass. “I’m feeling pretty fine at the moment. And, yeah, I wish we’d have thought about those helpful little sayings this weekend.” I laugh.

  “Tied one on, did we?” His gaze is molten and his smile is infectious.

  We finish our drinks at the bar while I give him the yada-yada version of everything, and I’m doing that thing where I’m kind of handsy, but he doesn’t seem to mind. His forearm. His knee. His biceps. It all seems fair game.

  “I’m surprised you made it out alive,” he adds when I’m done with my spiel.

  I think of Quinn and the car and a pang of guilt hits me right in the feels, but I spare him that little shit show for now.

  He tells the bartender to add everything to our dinner tab—I love him already. But, for reals, for some reason it doesn’t feel like he’s doing it to impress me or to show how much money he makes. It feels like he’s…doing it to be nice.

  Where I’d ordinarily be suspicious of a move like that—what is this game he’s spinning, doing it to be nice?—I realize I’m kind of mad as we make our way to a very intimate table near a fountain teeming with gorgeous koi.

  And I’m kind of an idiot.

  Because it’s not a dick move. He really is just nice.

  #weird

  They dim the lights, I guess for the dinner hour, and I make the same crappy joke I always make when that happens: “Oh—everyone just got better-looking.” But the floating candle centerpiece provides a soft, dreamy glow and my corny comment doesn’t seem to faze him.

  Once we’re seated and we’ve heard the specials, I narrow my gaze across the table at this guy, whoever he is, wherever he’s been all my life, my fresh French tips popping against the white linen tablecloth.

  After a moment, he laughs. “What?”

  “We’ll see, pal.” I smile through my squint. “We’ll see.”

  He simply shakes his head.

  Throughout dinner, he’s the perfect mix of sarcastic and genuine, flirtatious and respectful, witty but not pretentious; I’m Goldilocksing the hell out of this date, and he seems to be juuuuust right. My phone buzzes twice and I don’t even bat an eye—I’m so engrossed in James’s stories about how he got into house flipping, how he and his brother handle the business, etcetera, that I don’t even check to see who it is.

  Until he excuses himself to the restroom, that is, and then I remember—oh yeah—I do wonder if Quinn and Phil made it back to town and if Valerie’s drowning in self-loathing.

  But when I see the texts are from Nick, I clear the notifications without reading them, and now I feel guilty that he’s messaging me when I’m with James, instead of the other way around like it was this afternoon.

  And that makes me feel good, actually. Like I’m finally doing something right. That I’m kinda into this guy and now I don’t want to do anything to mess it up. Not even reply to Hot Sub Guy.

  I can’t help a smile when James returns, his gaze lingering on me the whole way back.

  “Looks like there’s a nice moon out,” he says, glancing toward the picture windows. “You want to take a stroll through the square?”

  And I do. I genuinely do.

  “That sounds…absolutely perfect.” I tuck the phone back into its pocket and offer a shy smile.

  * * *

  “And?” Sarah salivates into her Rambler bottle as we weave our way in and out of student tables in the cafeteria.

  “I never kiss and tell.” I wink and do a cheesy and dramatic leg kick like I’m Katharine Hepburn or Grace Kelly or, yanno, someone totally fabulous and demure and totally the opposite of me.

  She huffs. “Since when? Pick up that grape, Thomas!”

  “Nothing happened,” I admit.

  “Nothing?”

  “Well, not nothing. We kissed for a while in this gazebo.”

  She stops and looks at me through her bangs. “Are you making this up?”

  “No!”

  “Who are you, freaking Liesl von Trapp?”

  We’re still laughing when Valerie and Quinn pass us with their trays, but their sullen expressions zap all the merriment right off our faces.

  “How was your date?” Quinn asks, her tone sharp.

  I’m surprised she remembers.

  “It was okay,” I say with a dismissive hand. “What happened with Phil and the car? I was worried about you. Why didn’t you write me back?”

  “I’m sorry.” Her eyes start to well. “It was just a really draining day. I know it wasn’t your fault.”

  “Do you?” Now my tone’s the one tinged with Bitch.

  “Yes. But of course Phil is upset—”

  “He has every right to be, sure.”

  There’s a stiff moment of silence and I can’t help but think I could use a stiff drink.

  Am I becoming an alcoholic?

  #probs

  “Listen,” I offer at last, stirring some honey into my voice this time. “Let’s have dinner one night this week, okay? Can we do that? Catch up on what all we need to do for the wedding—three weeks!” I squeal. “Since we didn’t talk wedding stuff at all this weekend. Don’t we need to, like, do final fittings of our dresses and stuff?”

  This elicits a smile from her, and the mood has already lightened tenfold. “Yes, I was just going to say. Thursday. Can you both be there?” Quinn looks from me to Valerie, who looks pretty much the same but I know isn’t the same.

  “Yes,” she answers, blue eyes wide and shining.

  “And I do want to hear about your date. Do you think maybe this one might be your date for the—”

  “Shh! Don’t jinx it!” I laugh and then bring my voice to just above a whisper. “But, yes. He just might be.”

  Sarah groans from over by the table washer station. “Oh, puke. When are you seeing him again?”

/>   “Tonight, actually. He sent me a ‘Good morning’ message before work and then asked if I was available this evening. So…he’s coming over to meet Billie and then we’re going to grab some dinner. Maybe watch some TV or a movie or something. I’m nervous.”

  “Netflix and chill?”

  “Not the ‘chill’ part.” I narrow my gaze at her.

  “If you say so…but it sounds like you haven’t ‘chilled’ in a while.” She giggles. “When’s the last second date you’ve had?” she asks.

  And it takes me a minute of head scratching before I can figure it out.

  “Nineteen…seventy-two?” I finally say.

  Might as well have been.

  * * *

  I’m relieved not to see Nick at all today. I checked his messages when I got home from my evening with James, and although they didn’t say too much of anything—just asked how the date was going and then joked about not divulging news of my stage debut over the weekend—I felt guilty. So I didn’t answer.

  And part of me felt guilty for not answering, but that’s ridonkulous.

  I still haven’t answered.

  Even as I sit at my desk while the kids are at recess and I stare at my manuscript and the words just won’t come.

  I catch myself glancing at the door every now and then, and I smack my hands to my blotter.

  He’s not here. And stop it.

  My phone buzzes, and I freeze.

  But it’s a Spark message from James, thank baby Jesus.

  James: Looking forward to seeing you tonight!

  Swoony swoooons!

  And, just like that, the words start to flow and I knock out a quick eight hundred of them before my break is over and I have to begin a new science unit.

  * * *

  While I pluck and primp in preparation for tonight with James, I think again about Sarah’s question. When was the last time I had a second date with someone?

  It was about six months ago, with this firefighter I saw a few times. I remember just how uncomfortable I was as we searched my Netflix queue for something to watch. I was actually sweating like I was taking the damn bar exam or something.