Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  “I know things are messed up with my friends right now. I said some things I wish I hadn’t, even though I think they were being unfair and I don’t think I deserved what I got. But, you know, I probably did, because look. Look.” I throw my hands up. “Look at what I do the very first chance I get. Get all drunk and have sex with you. Against my better judgment. Against all judgment.”

  “Rae, you—” He’s still smiling.

  “No, I’m talking.” Thumb to sternum. “You’ve done enough talking.” I jab my finger through the air at his perfect, arrogant face. “I can’t do this. The last time I felt like this, the last time…No.” I shake my head. “I’m not doing this again. All these weeks with the banter and the messaging. It was fun, sure. But at the end of the day, it’s all just going to end, just like it always does. At the end of the day, I’m just going to be that girl sitting in a coffee shop, hearing why all the things we’ve promised each other, all the things we want, you don’t want anymore. I’ve done it a hundred times.”

  “A hundred, really?” He frowns at me, his tone sarcastic.

  “Whatever. I don’t want to be Stephanie all needing you and you’re done with me.”

  He kind of flinches at the sound of her name and glances at his phone, his eyes grave.

  “I’ve experienced it one more time than I care to have, and I’m done. You can’t be coming here all—whatever—with…that.” I gesture wildly toward his entire body because Damn He Fine. “It’s too distracting. I thought I could handle it, I thought we could be friends, but I obviously have no self-control. My friends are right. What kind of a person am I?”

  “It’s not like that. You don’t under—”

  I take a step closer. “I am so sick of people telling me I don’t understand things. This isn’t really about you. It’s about me. And that’s not a line; that’s the truth. I’m sorry. That’s just the way it has to be. If anything proves that, it’s this.”

  He’s quiet a moment, gaze set on me in what looks like pity. I don’t like it. It lights my insides on fire and I glare back, walls flying up all around me.

  “Who hurt you?” he asks. “Tell me—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “I decided a long time ago that I’d never allow myself to care that much again.”

  “Yeah? Well, you can’t plan everything.”

  “You may not be able to plan it, but you can prevent it.”

  Nick opens his mouth and then fastens it shut. Seems to dismiss his rebuttal with the mere shake of his head. He averts his stare and scratches the back of his neck, those lips that made me feel so good last night now frozen into a thin line, his jaw set in a way I’ve never seen before. It pricks at my heart, but just for a second, and I keep up my tough-girl front.

  If I can keep it up for just a few seconds longer, he won’t see me cry.

  “I’m sorry it came to this,” I say. “I shouldn’t have been with you last night—shouldn’t have allowed you to come over. It’s my fault.” My gaze drops to the floor and rests on his belt, still where I’d discarded it in a fit of Oh hell yes when we’d woken up for round four. Or fourteen?

  The sight of it, the memory, makes my eyes well.

  “Valerie and Quinn were right about me, I guess.” My voice cracks, but I retrieve the belt and, with it, my composure.

  I slap the accessory into Nick’s hand. “We’re both grown-ups, Nick, so let’s be grown-ups. Last night…was what it was. And now—”

  “And now?” He sits all the way up, the betrayal in his eyes tearing out my guts, but I can’t let him bewitch me anymore, so I look away.

  “And now you need to get the hell out so I don’t get fired too.”

  * * *

  Chapter 20

  Despite my best efforts, I don’t roll up into school until eight forty-five. It’s like everyone and everything has received a memo: Rae had inappropriate sex last night—make things difficult. Between the way my fingers can’t be bothered to remember how to do hair or makeup, how my keys don’t care to be found and then magically decide to show up in a spot I’ve looked six times, the extra awesome traffic on the side streets, the manner in which Carol and her legion of besmocked little art students clog up the hallway (“Good to see you this morning, Rae!”—kill me, please), and the relentless pounding in my head, I’m ready to burst into tears of surrender at this day. Already.

  I give up, world. You win.

  I slide past Ida without somehow inciting a conversation about my mascara smudges, the not-at-all-conspicuous body to my hair, without any quips—and then fear clamps down on my heart.

  Who’s covering for me in my hour of need?

  I don’t even stop by the lounge for a caffeine injection because the curiosity has the better of me. Something’s cray.

  Well, I know it’s not Nick…

  My mind betrays me and I drift to thoughts of him, all lounging in my bed this morning before I shut him up and threw him out. His calm demeanor to my, well, insanity. His yang to my yin.

  But then I think better about letting myself remember his yang, because that’s in part how I got myself into this mess to begin with!

  When I reach my classroom, I grip the doorknob and brace myself for the inundation of joy, the deluge of loud, the cascade of love that my kids will blindly bestow upon me, even though I don’t deserve it.

  I take a deep breath. Twist.

  And I see Deborah, in all her pantsuit glory, perched at the front of the room with a Dr. Seuss book in hand.

  She cuts her stare to me above the tome, the tiny chain on her glasses giving a slight rustle, and I think I might actually be bleeding right there on the industrial carpet.

  “Miss Wallace!” My class delights in my presence just like I knew they would, and I have to chew at the inside of my cheek to keep from crying—either because I don’t deserve this adoration…or because the sight of my principal stepping in for me makes me pee my pencil skirt.

  “Now, class…” It’s all Deborah has to say in her boom of a voice to calm them down. “Good morning, Miss Wallace,” she says, and the kids echo. “Everything all right?”

  My eyes itch and begin to blur over. “I—”

  It’s all I can muster.

  “Why don’t you get yourself some coffee. We’ve got a few more pages to go here, and you look like you could use a couple of minutes to get yourself situated.”

  “A—are you sure?”

  “It’s no problem at all, Miss Wallace.” Her expression softens, and I realize the terrifying thing her mouth is doing to warm her visage is actually just…her smile.

  Poor Deborah.

  When I come back a few minutes later—spontaneous urination situation no longer a threat—she’s got the kids working quietly in partners, drawing their own Dr. Seuss characters.

  “You’re like a miracle worker. Thank you,” I say to her, hanging my cardigan around the back of my rolling chair.

  “My pleasure, Rae. We’ve all been there.” She offers me a squeeze of the shoulder and I watch her slip away like a mob boss in the night.

  I’m a little in awe of all she’s done here. And how effortlessly. Did that really just happen? #NBD

  In her absence, I contemplate what she said when she was leaving as the class finishes their assignment: We’ve all been there. We have? She’s been here? And then, before I know it, the caffeine is doing its thing and it’s All Systems Go for the rest of the morning.

  During specials time, Sarah looks in on me since I’ve decided to keep a low profile today—and maybe for the rest of my life.

  “What happened?” she asks as soon as she steps through the door. “Someone said you had car trouble, but unless you spent the night hanging on to the underside of a semi-truck—”

  Something about seeing her, about the worry on her face, makes all the Scotch tape I’ve used, all the rubber bands, all the paper clips holding me together, break away. Come undone. I can’t pretend anymore. Can’t hold my tears back for one
more second.

  She must sense the tsunami that’s about to take over my face because she drops all her papers on a nearby desk and rushes over.

  “Tell me,” she says.

  And I do. Every last detail.

  She listens with starry-eyed attention, her downturned mouth popping open when I get to the worst (or best) parts, depending on how you’re looking at it. Once I finish my tale of woe or whoa—it’s really a toss-up at this point—we sit in contemplative silence on the top of the back table. Her absently rubbing at my arm, me staring at the fringe on my ankle boots until my eyes cross.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  I clear my throat. “I don’t know,” I say. “Change schools? Move to Mumbai and start that beagle farm?”

  She titters into her dainty hands.

  Still got it in the sarcasm department, I guess.

  But it’s all I can say because that’s all I’ve got. I don’t really know what I’m going to do.

  “And you think the friendship is—”

  “Irreparable.” I shrug. “Without repair.”

  “Yes, I know what the word means,” she snaps, nose crinkling like Billie does when I try to take more blanket. “But you guys have been friends forever. I just can’t see—”

  “Maybe I’ll give it a few days. I don’t know. Right now, the only thing I do know is I’ve got a wide-open schedule because I’ve offended just about everyone—and the kids are coming back here in a few minutes.”

  *head in hands*

  She resets her lips from frown to smirk and glances up at me through wispy bangs. “Well, if it’s any consolation, I still think you’re fabulous.”

  “Thanks, love.” I scoff. It’s comforting, but it’s not Everything Is Fine Now comforting. Everything is still all kinds of messed up.

  She rises from the edge of the table and begins to gather her things by the doorway. “Not to mention—you’re my fricking hero. I mean, Hot Sub Guy?” She puffs out her cheeks and explodes her hands by her temples like she can’t even deal.

  I muster a half chuckle and I appreciate the sentiment behind what she’s saying, but it only stings my already stung insides. So I force a small smile, thank her for listening, and ready myself for the afternoon block.

  * * *

  For the rest of the day, the rest of the week, everything haunts me.

  I’ve alienated pretty much everyone I care about, I’m out of the wedding…Mumbai is looking better and better.

  Billie’s sick of walking around the damn apartment complex in record time, so I start dramatically looking up airfares as a way to silence my thoughts—and I realize that the only way I can really get away from them, get away from me, is to rewrite my query. Finish the manuscript. I can’t know if this one is going to fail unless I put it out there, as Nick said, and I can’t know that until I actually query.

  Also, writing will shift my focus to someone else’s story, so I tap, tap, tap at the keys some more until my fingers are numb, and I hammer out something that’s as close to what I came up with in my query before as it possibly can be:

  First-year resident Eden Summers always ends up on top. She was the valedictorian of her high school class, she graduated magna cum laude in her premed program, and she landed herself a spot in one of the most prestigious medical schools in the country.

  Travis Oakley likes being on top too. That’s why he and the rest of his male nurse pals have a contest at The Angels of LA to see who can bang as many hot, young doctors that grace the halls of their hospital—and, so far, he’s been at the forefront.

  But when the two cross paths during a simple procedure gone wrong, the cocky Travis bails Eden out and he forgets all about the bet. With the recent death of her father and an increasingly impossible schedule, Eden’s off her game, and Travis is all too willing to be of service to her. He knows just the way for her to blow off some steam…

  A hot night out becomes a steamy night in, but will this evening of passion get the pair closer to their goals—or barred from their jobs at the hospital?

  Complete at 80,000 words, Playing Doctor is about one woman’s quest to swallow her pride in order to have it all: sanity, success, and multiple orgasms. It will appeal to fans of Mitsy Gardner’s Prescription for Love and Ava Leon’s Between the Sheets.

  * * *

  For the next few evenings, I stick my nose in books about craft. Scrawl chicken scratches on legal pad upon legal pad until I know just where I’m going with the plot. Until it all makes sense. Until my characters all have justifiable reasons for their actions, right and wrong. Until the atmosphere is rich, until all the plot holes are filled. The cracks smoothed over. The rough patches sanded.

  And it helps.

  Whenever I emerge from my laptop Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, I can feel all my holes are starting to fill too.

  Stop. #YKWIM

  I’ve done such a good job of just avoiding other humans that there are fewer and fewer chinks in my armor. The imperfections are being polished, one by one. All but the chasm in my chest that I’ve avoided because I’m not even sure how to fix it.

  Or if I even can.

  And then I allow myself to wonder how my two best friends are doing. How Nick is.

  I remember his words. The look on his face when he said: Who hurt you? Tell me.

  Quinn and Valerie are probably slightly more affected, as my absence in the wedding is likely causing some undue stress—at least part of me selfishly likes to think so—in terms of printing programs, rearranging some of the seating, at the very least, right?

  But I also know how Valerie lives for the swoop-in-and-save. She probably made up a binder called “What to Do in the Event Quinn Kicks Rae Out of Her Wedding” years ago and is thanking her lucky stars that I stayed a disappointment so she can finally put it to good use.

  But rather than wallow in my self-pity anymore, I decide, now that my manuscript is as ready as it can be, I need to research literary agents to query, so I throw myself into that next step.

  As I scour the Internet, scroll through agency websites, I ask myself, Who will take a chance on me? and the thought tastes bitter in the back of my throat.

  People have given me a lot of chances already, haven’t they? And what have I done with them?

  So I vow to be different.

  Think differently. See differently. Act differently.

  React differently.

  And stop blaming everyone else.

  I keep typing. Face it all. Head-on.

  * * *

  I’m stretched out in the booth, sloshing around the remnants of my coffee, now cold, in my mug.

  Jesse’s been quiet. Distant. Since we sat down. He avoids eye contact and gazes at his omelet like it’s his last friend in the world.

  “What is it?” I finally ask, my chest tight with worry.

  And he looks up.

  What I see is a shield in front of his dark stare. His eyes are no longer a warm chocolate, no longer inviting, no longer blazing into mine like they were last night. They’re a black hole. A void. A chilling unknown.

  Ingrid flits over, as if on cue.

  “Can I get a warm-up?” I ask her.

  “Aaaabzuhlootly,” she says, and the aroma of the French roast takes over as she fills my cup.

  I attempt to crack a smile at Jesse, to bring him back to a place of intimacy. Familiarity. Our inside joke. But his face remains stone.

  “No more for me.” He clamps his palm over his mug and doesn’t even look up at her, the ring on his third finger clinking against the porcelain.

  I grip my own mug, steaming. But it does nothing to warm my cold, naked fingers. I take a sip, but still it doesn’t warm me; it only burns my tongue.

  “What’s the matter?” I blurt when she’s gone.

  A deep exhale.

  That’s it.

  I can tell in a gust of air, a breath. It’s over.

  The silence buzzes in my ears, reaches every possib
le recess of my brain before I can make sense of what he’s saying, without a word.

  I open my mouth to say What Exactly I Don’t Know, but he steals the words from me and speaks now, his voice low.

  “My dad left for some woman when I was little, and I never saw him again. I’m not going to do that to Jonah. I can’t.”

  “‘Some woman’?”

  “You know what I mean.” He glances away, his eyes glass.

  “I don’t think I do, actually. Where is this coming from—out of nowhere—over breakfast?”

  He clears his throat and stares into his cottage fries.

  “I wasn’t under the impression I was just ‘some woman’ to you. And look. I know divorce is not sunshine and lollipops, but it doesn’t have to mean abandoning your child. I never wanted that. Of course not. I know that’s not the kind of man you are. You know how I feel about Jonah. But do you honestly think he doesn’t know what kind of a fucked-up marriage you have? That staying in that kind of environment is best for him? He’s smart. Growing up like that isn’t going to make his life better. I can attest to it. My sister and I lived it.”

  “I know.” He reaches for my hand, ever trying to squelch my emotions, his eyes now swimming. “I thought I could…” He dabs the corners of his mouth with his napkin.

  He’s fidgeting. He does this when he’s uncomfortable. When he can’t control a situation. When he can’t have his way.

  “It was an amazing few months—”

  “An amazing few months? We made plans. What was all that, some bullshit fantasy? Lies?” My voice is raised, and he all but writhes in his seat. “Some plot you were trying to work out in your head for one of your manuscripts? This is real. Isn’t it?”

  A beat. Then: “Yes.”

  And in this moment, I feel the full impact that there is nothing worse than someone who agrees with you but still cannot be convinced.

  “I know it’s fucked up,” he says. “And I know all we said, but—you can find someone else. I don’t want you to—” He grasps at my hand with both of his, pain in his eyes. “If you could wait for me—till Jonah—” Moisture begins to fall. “But I know that’s not fair. He’s four years old.” He closes his eyes and shakes his head. Says again: “You can find someone else.”