Mr. Right-Swipe

by Ricki Schultz

  We laugh and laugh and laugh.

  “It’s always a leap of faith—life is a leap of faith. And I know I go through my spurts of pushing people away and being so cynical, but why do you think I keep trying? Why do I keep making these stupid mistakes? Because somewhere, deep down in my chestal area, I must have hope. And you do too.” I jab a finger toward her. “So don’t throw it away over something as dumb as fear, or the Property Brothers. Life is scary. Be scarier.”

  “That’s part of what I’m afraid of. What if I’m too Lifetime Movie Network to his HGTV?”

  “Another reason he wants to be with you. What can I say? Dudes be cray.”

  By the time we’ve blown out the candle and polished off a frozen pizza, I know Quinn and I are good. We’re messed up as all hell, but we’re good.

  When I pull up to her apartment, I have one question left.

  “So are you doing this or what, Q?”

  A smile blooms on her lips. “Yes. But not without you there. Saturday, and always. I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too.”

  We share a tight smile—no need to start the waterworks again—and then she turns to go. Flips back around, hand to door handle.

  “Do you really think Phil loves me? That he’s good enough?” Her eyes sparkle with all the hopefulness in the world.

  “As far as I’m concerned, no man will ever be good enough for Valerie or you. These poor schmucks never had a prayer.”

  We laugh and hug until Phil appears outside and asks us if Quinn is leaving him for me.

  * * *

  Chapter 23

  On my drive home, for the rest of the evening, during my walk with Billie, as I sit out back and watch the fireflies dance against a dark sky, it’s like a weight has lifted. Draining day, but what I’ve learned about my friends—and about myself—fills me with what feels like enough fuel to keep me awake until the wedding. It’s like I’ve been asleep for I don’t know how long and now I’ve emerged energized. Without the curtain of grogginess I’ve grown so accustomed to hanging over my eyes.

  And I’m not a complete moron; I realize I need to take my own advice in terms of going for things. Believe the things I told Quinn, for myself.

  My phone buzzes.

  Quinn: Have you called him yet?

  I grin at the phone.

  Me: Not yet.

  Just talking about Nick, saying his name, telling my friends about him, about us, has kicked up a current of pixie dust beneath my skin. But I don’t know quite how to broach that subject with him. How to make things right. I tried, but he didn’t answer my e-mail.

  But then I think about how weird that probably was, sending him a scene with no context. My I’m Sorry in the subject line. I’m sorry can be ambiguous, really. I’m sorry for what? I’m sorry things have to be this way? I’m sorry I let you put your penis in me?

  None of these are what I had meant by the message, of course, but how’s Nick supposed to know that from two little words and some break-up scene?

  So as I turn out the light on my nightstand and set my alarm for work, I hammer out another quick message.

  I meant I’m sorry about how I treated you. I’m sorry about the things I said. You didn’t deserve that, and I’d like the chance to make things right.

  I don’t expect an answer, which is good because one doesn’t come. But I replay our night together. The way Nick makes me feel—and not just when he’s sexing me into oblivion. I exhaust all the possibilities. How I can make things right.

  And just before I drift off completely, I’ve got it. I fall asleep, at peace and feeling optimistic, with a smile on my face and a beagle at my feet.

  * * *

  I tap my thumb against the steering wheel, the scrape of the windshield wipers grating on my ears.

  I left the house early for once and this is the thanks I get? Do I have to hit every frickin’ red light?

  But I finally reach Wesson, and it’s nearly deserted on the grounds. The rush doesn’t really begin until much closer to eight, I guess. I hop my way around the puddles, and once I step into the main building, I wipe my boots. Give my umbrella a shake, droplets stippling the hardwood floor.

  When I stride up to Ida’s desk, she stops mid nail-file sesh and looks me up and down, over the rims of her glasses.

  “What are you all dressed up for?” She gestures at my getup with her emery board.

  “What do you mean?” I chuckle and smooth the excess moisture from my trench coat. “Is Deborah here yet?”

  “She is…Why?” She narrows her gaze, all but shining a light in my face.

  “I have something I want to talk to her about; that’s all.”

  “Are you quitting or something? Trying to get a promotion?”

  “Geez, woman. Would you just ask her if she’s got a minute?” I give an eye roll.

  “Okay…but I don’t like people keeping things from me.”

  I laugh and sneak a piece of courage chocolate from her candy dish—here’s hoping it will give me just the boost I need.

  Deborah’s office is a lot bigger than I remember, cushy parlor chairs and a settee situated in one corner, her oppressive-looking cherry desk catty-corner to them.

  “Rae.” Deborah’s tone is poised. Graceful. Like the grand sweep of a ballerina’s arm.

  And all the nerve I’ve mustered since the parking lot threatens to fade, but I focus on Nick. His brother.

  I gulp back a gag. “Deborah, hi, yes. Thank you for meeting with me. And thanks again for bailing me out last week—”

  “No problem at all.” She dismisses it with a wave of a hand. “And how is your car doing?”

  “It was my tire. Flat,” I lie. “It’s all better now.” My heartbeat quickens, and I’m pretty sure she can hear it across the room. “Much.”

  Words, Rae. You need words.

  “Wonderful to hear. Shall we?” She stands and motions toward the seating area.

  “Well, I have sort of an unusual request, but I hope you’ll hear me out.”

  She just stares, stony expression on her square-jawed face.

  I clear my throat and continue. “This is about a former employee. Nick Greene?”

  “Ah yes.” She gives a curt nod. A frown. “I really liked him, but it turned out there had been some incidents or something. Are you one of the ones he made feel uncomfortable?”

  “No—” I almost shout it. Straighten my coat. “No. My apologies. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. I know my friend Valerie came to you, but it turns out she made that story up. And I’m not trying to get Val in trouble—she was just trying to protect me—but she didn’t have her facts straight. And, anyway, I would really appreciate it if you could maybe…give him a second chance. He’s a friend and a really good guy—he’s trying to pay for his kid brother’s medical bills, and I know we’ve got that long-term sub gig coming up with Carrie leaving, and…”

  Something like amusement? incredulity? cracks half her face. “You just have it all worked out, now don’t you?”

  “Oh no, no.” I wave my hands out in front of me like I’m an umpire. “That’s not—I mean—I just—”

  Very articulate.

  “Well, I appreciate the sentiment and I’m awfully sorry to hear about his brother, but the long-term science position has already been filled. I sent the paperwork to HR this morning. I’m sorry.” She frowns again, the sides of her mouth deflated like my imaginary tire. “And while I feel for you—I really do—and I think it’s sweet you’re trying to help out your friend, Valerie seemed quite upset when she approached me. I just don’t think having Mr. Greene around would be good. I realize it’s he said, she said at this point, but I’m sure he will find other opportunities. He’s a good teacher and a likable guy. A real find.”

  Bullet to the heart.

  “Yes, he is,” I say. And I thank her for her time.

  To make matters worse, Nick writes back just before lunch, and it’s just about as Final as thi
ngs can be:

  That can’t have been easy to share, so thank you for opening up about it. And thanks for the apology. I hope you’re able to move past all that someday, and I wish you all the luck in the world.

  I tell all the girls about our meeting when they get in, about the e-mail, and although their support provides me some solace, Nick and his absence—and the fact that I can’t do anything about any of it—haunts me all day. All evening. At the play performance, where I’m forced to stare at the set pieces he built and remember him joking around with the kids as he did it. Where I’m forced to put on a happy face for the students, for the parents, for Deborah, as they all rejoice in an adorable job well done.

  “I’m so sorry,” Valerie says, her blue eyes shining.

  “I know. Can’t win ’em all.”

  * * *

  The rest of the Wedding Week flies by in a whirlwind of nail appointments, bridal luncheons, and trips to the airport to pick up various relatives. By the time the rehearsal dinner’s over, I’m ready to welcome Phil into the family with open arms, because if he’s able to put up with Quinn this week, he’ll be able to put up with her forever. #sickness #health

  The morning of, Valerie, the blushing bride, and I huddle around the mirror in the bride’s room at Saint Gregory’s with tissues, various hair spray choices, and the whole MAC section at Sephora strewn across the counter.

  “This is it, Q. You ready?” I meet her gaze in the reflection while Valerie fools with Quinn’s cathedral veil for the ninety-seventh time.

  “Oh, don’t try to freak her out,” she says, securing it with the last of the bobby pins.

  “She’s not.” Quinn floats to a stance like an angel. “I’m ready,” she says to me. “But are you? After all, you’re the one we have to worry about having a panic attack. How’s your chest doing?”

  “Fantastic,” I say, cupping my boobs and giving them a yank. “Haven’t had any complaints so far.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I do, and I’m fine. Now let’s get you out there and get you hitched. What’s His Name is waiting.”

  She smiles through a glare.

  “Kidding.” I make a crisscross over my heart. “I’m very happy you’re marrying What’s His Name.”

  And it’s true. I’m fine. I’m better than fine.

  “Mrs. What’s His Name!” I get in one last joke before the show.

  As I walk down the aisle, I don’t feel pins and needles in my arms, don’t feel as though my heart is about to explode from my chest, and the only reason my vision blurs, the only reason my throat goes raw, is because I’m overwhelmed with happiness for my friend.

  Colored light from the stained-glass windows beams brilliant onto the polished stone floor behind Quinn as she makes her way toward Valerie and me, toward the altar. Prisms backlight her in blues, reds, greens, violets. She’s a goddess in silver, her gown giving off celestial winks with every step, with every movement.

  I glance at Phil. Tears glint in his eyes, his lips slightly parted in what looks like what I imagine we’re all feeling: awe.

  Aww!

  He’s a good dude. He loves her.

  And then I find Mike in the congregation, a twin on each hip, Jakey fastened to one leg. His expression is soft, patient, as he helps Amanda work the camera on his phone. And then he steals a peek at Valerie—they share a smile—and my heart swells three sizes with contentment.

  They’re going to be okay.

  I’m just about to turn my attention back to Quinn when a sudden feeling floods me—

  I’m being watched. I scan the crowd, uncles and cousins, people I’ve seen over the years, faces familiar and not so much, for whoever is breaking with wedding etiquette and noticing a bridesmaid while the bride makes her procession.

  Nothing.

  No one.

  And then: lightning strike.

  One set of eyes snags my attention, and our connection is instant. Unwavering.

  My pulse quickens at the recognition of that hypnotic stare that had me so rapt in every room, on every surface, until we were both unable to move any longer.

  My cheeks burn white-hot. Intense. I’m certain I’m flushed from head to toe. That every person in attendance can see every last one of my thoughts, exposed. Projected onto the back wall of the chapel, playing out in scenes as plain as the crucifix that hangs there.

  My mouth twitches into what I hope resembles a smile, but Nick gives me little to go on with his expression.

  But he’s here.

  Somehow.

  How?

  Why?

  I nearly forget to take Quinn’s bouquet when I’m supposed to, so distracted am I by his presence. His relentless eye contact. It reaches into my core and pulls out everything I am. He won’t let me get away with anything, not even this. And that’s probably why there’s no use in denying my feelings for him any longer.

  It’s also why it’s all I can do to keep myself from abandoning my post and running into his arms.

  After the ceremony, I lose track of him. The photographer arranges all of us in the wedding party in various poses of fabricated candidness, and just like that, Nick’s disappeared. My chest aches in his absence. Calls out.

  “Look at the camera, sweetie.” I can hear the eye roll in the photographer’s drone.

  And as the flash blinds me, crops of purple dots obscuring my vision, I begin to think maybe I imagined Nick’s presence.

  I whisper, “Did you guys invite—”

  “Stop talking, baby girl. They don’t want a picture of your tonsils, now do they?”

  Flash, flash. Flash, flash, flash.

  “How about one of my nostrils flared?” I say between gritted teeth.

  But I slather on a smile. Gaze in the direction of the camera and Satan—I mean, the photographer—and hold my tongue until we’re sequestered in the limo, a bottle of bubbly making its way through the groomsmen.

  “Which one of you invited him?” I’m practically foaming at the mouth.

  “Invited who? Is one of your exes one of our guests? Hard to keep track of them all,” Quinn teases, a smirk tugging at her lips.

  “It was bound to happen,” Valerie agrees with a shrug, and she clinks her champagne flute against Quinn’s.

  “You know who,” I say.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Quinn lays her fingertips to her chest, her brand-new wedding band glittering my way.

  I round on Valerie. “Were you in on this too?”

  She blinks, her eyes big with faux sincerity. “I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.”

  When I remember to check my phone, there’s an e-mail.

  Yes!

  But it’s not from him. It’s from one of the literary agents from my first batch of queries sent off.

  I clench my stomach and think.

  Should I wait until later to read it? Do I really need to ruin the day with a rejection?

  But I take a deep breath. Toss back the champagne left in my flute.

  And tap the screen.

  Dear Rae,

  I really enjoyed your pitch for PLAYING DOCTOR, and I would love for you to send me the first fifty pages. Looking forward to reading!

  Best,

  Whitney White

  Two of the best sentences I’ve ever read.

  “What is it?” Phil’s voice booms from the other side of the limo bus.

  There’s hooting and hollering as I explain, even though none of these people has any idea what I’m talking about, but I’m lit from within and happy to have folks around to celebrate this first big step with me.

  It’s not a guarantee; it’s not a rejection.

  But it’s a chance.

  And it’s actually mine.

  * * *

  When we arrive at the country club, clusters of wedding peeps are nothing but obstacles to me. I give each group the once-over—the buttoned-up-looking guys already halfway through their beers, who I gather Phil must work
with based on their Great Gatsby haircuts and the volume of their laughter; Mama Morales, draped in an aggressive floral pattern, and her group of plump sisters, each of whom looks more like her than the rest; Quinn’s statuesque cousins and their husbands cleaning house at the hors d’oeuvres table, mini eggrolls and bacon-wrapped water chestnuts piled high on their plates.

  But no Nick.

  And I’m starting to think I hallucinated it. Hallucinated him. Like my mind manifested him as a sign that I’ve finally gone mad once and for all. I don’t see him during cocktail hour, during my speech. I don’t catch a glimpse of him while I mainline the poached salmon like a pro. Nothing.

  Once I’ve made myself comfortably numb—the young bartender and I have an understanding: Keep bringing martinis and President Grant is all yours—I settle in at the head table like the used plates that have yet to be cleared. Even though Quinn and Phil opted not to have a bridal party dance, they’re knee-deep in this one.

  “All married couples, come out on the dance floor,” the DJ calls.

  The lights are low as hundreds of collective years of marital bliss sway in slow circles to “Unchained Melody”—and I decide maybe it’s time for me to stop by the ladies’ room. But my phone buzzes and scares the bejesus out of me, so I stay in my linen-covered seat and bring it to life.

  Another e-mail.

  I gasp when I see it. Just the sight of his name takes my breath away.

  First of all, you don’t need to be cleaning up my messes for me. Deborah called me the other day and told me what you said, but it wasn’t your fault. You didn’t need to go and do that, but, anyway, thank you.

  Because she also told me about a job that hasn’t even been posted yet. A principal pal of hers over at Saint Robert’s is about to let someone go midyear. Sounds like the teacher’s on the sauce or something. I don’t know. Anyway, Deborah is setting me up with an interview there for that long-term position. And get this—it’s in their history department. She said it could very well turn into a full-time gig at the end of this year.