Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  I’m so pleased with myself that I didn’t sleep with James last night (we just watched more episodes of The Bachelor and enjoyed each other’s company with our clothes on—who knew?) that I felt—it feels—way, way different. We even discussed it because I can Talk About Things with James. I asked if we could wait a little while until we got to know each other better, and James was great about it. Said he knew the attraction was there, knew the want was there, and that was good enough for him.

  So maybe my friends are right and I’ve been an idiot this whole time. Maybe I’ve been in the way of my own happiness.

  But as I chip away at my word count, an icy feeling creeps back in because I don’t want my sudden positivity to be about a guy. I don’t want to be one of those women who can’t do anything—who can’t truly succeed—if she’s not in a relationship. I’m not a man-hating feminist, but I’m a Raeist nonetheless. And that’s crap. It’s weak. I’ve come too far on my own to allow some endorphins from a fantastic set of lips to take my accomplishments away from me.

  I’m torn.

  So I opt to keep my feelings in check and not let them go flying off like a Chinese kite without my brain right there to hold the string and tether them to the ground.

  This takes the form of me deciding not to text James, no matter how many syrupy kissy-face emojis I’d love to be sending him right now.

  But we haven’t been apart for even twelve hours yet. #getagrip

  I find myself checking my phone every hundred words or so, but I’m convinced this is the result of habit and nothing more.

  And I resolve to be less hung up on my phone too. I’m killing this whole be-a-better-person thing today!

  The result is that I get a lot of writing done—good for me. And I’m almost ready to venture back out into the querying world again, try to snag an agent and get started on that whole, yanno, lifelong dream of mine thing.

  But after the bulk of Saturday goes by and I’ve had about three cups of coffee too many and James still hasn’t made a textual move, panic sets in and I take a small step back for all womankind.

  I pace the length of my kitchen and think about his kitchen. Where we cooked not twenty-four hours ago. Where he said nice things and soothed me about my friend problems, stroked my hair. Where he did the dishes, where he agreed to be my date to the wedding.

  I go to my phone, which stares blankly back at me with no notifications, no indications of any network problems, nothing. I turn it off and back on—I’m an electronics wizard—and yet nothing.

  My fingers are getting twitchy—and if we’re being honest, so is my face. Rather than text him, however, I think: What’s the opposite of what I want to do?

  Change out of my pajamas?

  Progress!

  Put my phone away?

  Yes!

  And so I get into some workout gear and decide to take Billie for a jaunt.

  “The fresh air will do us both good,” I tell her.

  She just stretches and scampers to the door, tail high and waggy.

  But as we walk—my hair sticking to my temples, my neck—the warmth of the breeze only fans the flame of crazy inside me. I go back over the evening with James. Everything we did, everything we said.

  Was there something I missed? Something I took the wrong way?

  But there’s nothing.

  When we return and he still hasn’t said boo, I decide this is stupid. There was nothing to indicate any issue, and there’s probably a perfectly logical and innocent explanation for James’s silence today. Worrying about when to text and when not to text is like playing a game, and I’m not about that.

  So I just do it.

  It doesn’t mean I’m weak. It doesn’t mean I’m giving up my power. It just means I’m a goddamn adult and I’m sending him a message.

  I settle on: Hope you had a good day!

  Brilliant.

  But when no answer comes for the remainder of the night, I change back into my pj’s. Switch from coffee to wine. It calms the crazy and lulls me back to sanity. Back to what I know, anyway.

  Back to the only things I can count on.

  * * *

  Chapter 18

  Characters are supposed to have motivations. They need to be well rounded. Three-dimensional. “A villain is always the hero of his own story.” You hear that at writing conferences a lot, and whenever someone says it, there are appreciative nods—eyes close in reverence—because it sounds smart. And every time it’s like the first time anyone’s ever said it. And the concept is true.

  But it’s also complete bullshit.

  I repeated that sentiment over and over to myself as I edited the night before. As I added depth to my characters, atmosphere to my scenes.

  But one of the things authors never say, one of the things editors don’t tend to touch on, is that sometimes you never learn someone’s motivations. In life, sometimes a DB is just a DB. Sure, he may have his reasons for doing whatever his DB thing is and he may have justified it to himself and that might make him three-dimensional or a richer character—it might humanize him—but the thing we don’t like to say is that sometimes we never learn his side of things.

  So we make up a narrative for him. We say he’s a liar or maladjusted or a jerk, to make ourselves feel better. We say he’s immature, afraid of commitment, selfish—you name it—because we don’t know the reason he ghosts, as the kids call it nowadays.

  Something you said or something you did or some way you are scares him off. Turns him off. Cools his affections toward you.

  Or, really, maybe it has nothing to do with you at all—maybe his dick just points in someone else’s direction and he forgets to be a decent human being, but what does it matter? You just met.

  So move on.

  Forget.

  Swipe, swipe, swipe.

  I think all this Sunday morning when James still hasn’t answered me, and now my memories of last Sunday, of Tuesday, of Friday, our bantery messages from the week, are too painful, too annoying, to stomach thinking about or looking at anymore.

  I don’t want it to take anything from me. It shouldn’t—I’m not sixteen years old. But self-loathing swirls in my veins because it does. It does because I gave a shit for, like, four seconds.

  And when you’ve let your guard down over and over, when you’ve had hope, when you’ve had hope squashed, when you’ve loved with abandon, trusted without question, and been wrong—time and time again? Allowing yourself to go back there—even for four lousy seconds—only to be wrong again? It’s torture. It’s an eternity.

  “So what are you going to do?” Sarah asks on the other end of the line when I finally break down and decide to call someone.

  I pick at the remnants of the touch-up manicure I gave myself before James came over Friday night.

  “A year ago, I would have sent as many scathing texts as I could, just to tell him what a prick he was. But now?” I chuckle. “I’m too exhausted.”

  “Are you going to tell Valerie and Quinn?”

  I let out a deep exhale. The question of the hour.

  “I don’t want to tell the girls yet because the one thing that’s been holding us together since last weekend has been my pink cloud of optimism about that stupid guy. And now that it’s gone? I’m not sure how they’re going to react to my Rae despair. Plus, I can’t very well be gloomy right before Wedding Week, can I?”

  “Hmm—probably not. Well, let me know if you want to go out tonight. A bunch of us are heading up to Blake’s Tavern.”

  My overactive mind is already picking out which skirt to wear, and so I know what my answer has to be.

  “Thanks, but no thanks. I have more work to do.”

  * * *

  Come nine p.m., I’m regretting that decision, but I suppose drinking alone is safer than the alternative. How much trouble can I get into at home? Too much, I realize, as I’m checking Spark and can see that James unmatched me because his profile is gone and all our messages we sent before we
exchanged numbers and started texting are also gone. Kaput.

  This gets my proverbial goat in that I didn’t even get the satisfaction of unmatching him first. One more little jab he was able to get in before I could. I delete his texts and block his number, but what good does that do? He’s not going to message me anymore anyway and doesn’t even know I’ve done it.

  *shakes a fist at the sky*

  And then some doofy guy’s profile pops up and he grins up at me, like some roly-poly clown—

  Swipe Left or Swipe Right?

  I laugh. Like I’m really going to subject myself to this torture again. The wedding’s almost here. I’ll go alone.

  But before I toss my phone aside for the night, Nick texts. His first reply since I lied to him the other night.

  Nick: I figured you were busy, but I just thought I’d check.

  I chew my bottom lip as guilt kneads my insides.

  It’s time to let all that avoiding business go.

  The Spark experiment didn’t work—my life experiment didn’t work—and I decide I’m done looking for love. It sure as hell isn’t looking for me.

  Beagles are way better snugglers than boys anyway.

  But maybe it would be good to have a guy’s perspective on all this.

  So I start to type back.

  Me: Real talk? You were right—I was avoiding you a little. The new guy didn’t work out, and so dodging all those of the male persuasion seemed like a good idea.

  Nick: It’s true enough.

  Me: But that’s stupid. And I’m sorry. Friends?

  Friends.

  The cursor blinks at me after the word. Hangs there for a second like Am I Actually Capable of This, but I decide I am. I have to be, for my sanity.

  So I hit SEND.

  Apparently Nick didn’t need much to warm up to me again because we message the rest of the night, and I feel that same calm I felt in the car. A burden lifted.

  He has all sorts of Opinions on why James ghosted, the number one being because I didn’t sleep with him.

  Me: Then why’d he act like he was fine with it? Why’d he agree to go to the wedding with me?

  Nick: My guess is because he probably thought he could get you to change your mind with his sweetness. But when you didn’t…Dun, dun, DUNNN.

  Me: Ugh. Are all of you like this?

  Nick: Ouch. No. *rubs at the sting*

  “Yeah, right,” I say to my screen but write back a simple Haha.

  * * *

  Monday Nick subs for third grade, and I first learn this when an adorably oblivious student runs into and subsequently knocks down one of my bookshelves with his ginormous backpack.

  My phone buzzes a nanosecond after the crash.

  Nick: Everything all right in there?

  Me: ?

  Nick: Yanno, you’re not supposed to be drinking on the job.

  Me: Har har.

  Nick: But seriously—you need me to come over? I’m in Jenkins’s room.

  I hear two bangs on the other side of the cinder block, like he’s beat his elbow against the wall, and my heart leaps into my throat. I don’t know why.

  Or, rather, I do. I allow myself to get lost in inappropriate memories of what he looked like shirtless—and, just as quickly, shake it off. Why am I like this?

  We’re fine, I write back, and I feel the trace of a smile. Just a lesson in awareness that Robbie learned the hard way.

  I push it down to the best of my ability, but there’s something sort of thrilling about knowing Nick’s right there, so close, the rest of the day. Every time my phone vibrates in my pocket as I’m reviewing murmur diphthongs (which he, too, thought was hilarious), as I’m starting the unit on solids, liquids, and gases, a piece of me is over there. Through the wall. And a piece of him is over here. In my pocket.

  I know I’m not alone.

  * * *

  Lunch is another story.

  I’m sitting in the lounge between Sarah and Quinn. Valerie is more interested in her Caesar salad than the conversation—or, lack thereof, really. Nick is on the other side of Sarah and chomping away on a highly illegal peanut butter and jelly.

  I can hear the wet, squirgly sounds of everyone around me chewing and my misophonia sets my nerves into a tizzy. Quinn’s banana, splergh, splergh, splergh. Each muffled crunch of Val’s pear.

  And the room is warm. Too warm. Blanketed in tension. Everyone is somewhat on edge, it seems, except for Sarah; and I suppose that’s because she’s the only one of us here who doesn’t know about Nick’s other part-time job.

  My head starts to pound at the gross noises I’m trying not to hear and as I think of all the webs of secrecy and deception running through the five of us. Connecting us all in some ways but also keeping us at a distance. I wonder what secrets Val and Quinn have kept from me, and this is the first time I’ve thought this, in all these years. How naïve—oblivious—am I?

  The poison of self-doubt, of loyalty and where theirs lies, leaks its way through my system, and I’m just about to burst when Sarah breaks the silence.

  “You’re not supposed to have that here, you know,” she says to Nick, amusement tickling her tone and wrinkling her nose.

  “This?” He considers the half a sandwich in his hand. “Why not?”

  “Because we’re a peanut-free school,” Valerie answers. “Tons of the kids have peanut allergies, and so that’s a thing now, after the last incident we had a few years ago. No one’s told you?”

  He grimaces with what looks like genuine concern. “Yikes. Think I’m going to be in trouble? I honestly didn’t know.”

  “Something tells me you don’t mind walking on the wild side,” I offer and ensnare him with an eyebrow.

  “Guilty.” He meets my gaze like I’m the only one in the room, and heat blooms in my cheeks, beneath my blouse, everywhere.

  “So when are you seeing James again?” Quinn cuts right through our stare with her pointed comment, and guilt pricks in my chest like I’m Billie and I peed on the rug or something.

  “You still haven’t told them?” Sarah scoffs, her mouth forming a perfect O of what looks like astonishment.

  “Told us what?” Quinn wants to know. But just then Ida struts her way in, mail and folders and chocolate in tow.

  “Well, if it isn’t my favorite coworkers,” she says with a wide, red grin. “I just wanted to come by and give you all kisses. One for you.” She drops a Hershey’s Kiss in front of me. “One for you, you, and you.” She follows suit with Valerie, Quinn, and Sarah. “And an extra one for you,” she says with a wink, plopping two in front of Nick, who flashes a grin at the candy.

  “How’s that girlfriend of yours?” Ida asks, and he nearly chokes on the last bite of sandwich he’s shoveled in.

  She claps a hand on his back and he stands, still clearing his throat. Gives his chest a little beating with a strong fist.

  “Oh, she’s—good.” His voice is scratchy. He reaches for his soda.

  I stifle a laugh.

  “Don’t hurt yourself, kid,” she says to him, a hand on his shoulder. “And don’t worry about me. I’m only playing.”

  “Right.” He gives her half a frown.

  “So what am I interrupting?” she asks and pops a squat next to him.

  No one says anything.

  “Oh, come on.” She tsks.

  “Actually,” Sarah offers, “Rae was just about to tell her be-fris that her latest squeeze was more of a squish.”

  “Huh?” Ida scrunches her face, contour makeup obscuring most of her natural features.

  “Damn.” Nick shields his crotch area like Sarah’s comment has something to do with hitting him in the crown jewels, and I just shake my head at all of them.

  “What do you mean?” Valerie asks.

  “You slept with him,” Quinn says.

  I exhale in disgust. “No.” And I proceed to tell them how the exact opposite is probably why he disappeared. “In fact, I’m done with all men. Period.”
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  “Yeah, right.” Quinn laughs.

  “I’m serious,” I say. “I’m too old, and I’m too tired. I’m good with it.”

  Val: “But what if Mister Right comes a—”

  “There’s no such thing. And, honestly, this realization has given me peace. It’s time for me to focus on me. Better myself. Not better myself for someone else.”

  When I’m done, Ida clicks her tongue. “I’m so sorry, love.” Then she turns her attention to Nick. “It was so great to finally meet your little woman,” she says. “I ran into the two of them at Starbucks the other night. Such a cute couple.”

  His features take on a deep red. He doesn’t even look at her—he looks at me. “It was just coffee,” he says, talking with his hands. “And anyway—”

  A laugh bubbles its way from the depths of my gut, because of course. Of course he was lying about the girlfriend.

  I shrug. “No skin off anything of mine, hombre.”

  But I don’t want to hear any more. It’s not my business, and even though we’ve established we’re just friends and I’ve talked to him about my dating situations, the thought of him out in the world with a girlfriend I thought he was done with twists like a sword.

  He’s saying words and I’m nodding along with the rest, but I can’t help it: The rage monsoon descends upon me. And I’m trying not to laser off his face with my stare.

  How? How can he discuss this all so freely in front of me? The way he flirts? The amount we’ve talked?

  Yes, we’re friends, but it pisses me right the fuck off because how dare this dude make me Feel Things when he isn’t available. How dare he lie?

  And how could I allow myself to be so trusting and so stupid?

  Again?

  I’ve reduced the saltines that accompanied my chili to dust in their packaging by the time the conversation is over. When there are about five minutes left before the end of lunch, Sarah, Ida, and Nick leave before the girls and I do.

  “Hey—I’m sorry about James,” Quinn says with a tentative touch to my forearm.

  “I am too. What an idiot. Why didn’t you tell us?” Valerie’s right there with the comfort too, and it feels like we’ve been transported back in time a few weeks before things were so weird between us. Before the secrets. Before the resentment.