Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  Asking for a Friend: You tell me. I’m waving it in front of the screen. Can you smell how delish it is?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Oh yes. My phone screen is the scratch ’n’ sniff kind. That smells incredible.

  Asking for a Friend: Amazing, isn’t it, since bananas are a bad idea.

  Ping-Pong Lover: Like, in general a bad idea? And if so, why on earth are you baking banana bread?

  Asking for a Friend: Because even though bananas are a bad idea, banana bread is always a good idea. Which often makes me wonder—how is it possible that one can despise bananas but love banana bread?

  Ping-Pong Lover: One word for you.

  Asking for a Friend: What is that word?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Sugar.

  Asking for a Friend: I disagree. I think the one word should be . . . butter.

  Ping-Pong Lover: Clearly, we disagree on some fundamentals of life. Sugar versus butter. Raiders versus Back to the Future.

  Asking for a Friend: Whoa. Not so fast there, buddy. I have enough love in my heart for both flicks. Don’t you?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Of course I do. I’ll prove it. *clears throat* *recites line* “C’mon. Show a little backbone, will ya?”

  Asking for a Friend: The plane! After Indy escapes from the South American jungle and jumps on the seaplane and the pilot’s pet snake, Reggie, crawls into his lap.

  Ping-Pong Lover: *long slow clap*

  Asking for a Friend: *takes bow*

  Ping-Pong Lover: Not that I’d ever advocate getting a snake for a pet, can we just agree that Reggie is a great name for a pet?

  Asking for a Friend: We can agree on both counts.

  Ping-Pong Lover: Then we should discuss flossing too. You listed it in your top things, and I have to know now—are you secretly spying in my medicine cabinet?

  Asking for a Friend: Maybe I am. Are you a mad flosser too?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Thirty years and zero cavities.

  Asking for a Friend: I see what you did there.

  Ping-Pong Lover: What did I do there?

  Asking for a Friend: You dropped in your age, oh so cleverly. By the way, I’m twenty-eight.

  Ping-Pong Lover: I can see that. It’s on your profile!

  Asking for a Friend: Oops! Ha! I forgot! Also, yes, daily flosser here too. And brusher. Confession: I carry a travel-size tube of toothpaste in my purse.

  Ping-Pong Lover: Of course you do. Because you are clearly a civilized person. I, on the other hand, do not carry a purse—or a murse, for that matter. But I do have toothpaste and floss in my desk drawer.

  Asking for a Friend: Sooooo glad you don’t carry a murse.

  Asking for a Friend: Or a fanny pack.

  Asking for a Friend: Wait. Do you carry a fanny pack?

  Asking for a Friend: Don’t answer. I’m being judgy. I shouldn’t be judgy. Feel free to wear a fanny pack. Wear two if you want.

  Asking for a Friend: But, side note, isn’t fanny pack like the worst name ever?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Damn, woman. You type so fast I couldn’t get a word in edgewise! But don’t worry—no murses or fanny packs on this guy. That’s one of my principles: never wear a murse, use a murse, or advocate for murses.

  Asking for a Friend: Let’s be honest here—we both have super-noble life goals.

  Ping-Pong Lover: The noblest . . . but back to your profile. That’s one helluva take on Betty Boop. I didn’t know she had pink knee-high boots.

  Asking for a Friend: Betty is a fashionista and a pioneer at the same time. I LOVE her. And the image of her holding the cake plate is one of her lesser-known ones, but I love it so much I commissioned an artist on Etsy to make me a necklace just like this. Also, your Dax Powers icon is adorable.

  Ping-Pong Lover: *cringes*

  Asking for a Friend: Why are you cringing?

  Ping-Pong Lover: Isn’t “adorable” the kiss of death for a guy? Like, “He’s as adorable as a baby duck”?

  Asking for a Friend: First, who wouldn’t want to be compared to a duck? Second, if you’re as adorable as a baby duck, count yourself lucky. Third, “adorable” has many meanings. You might think it only means “cute,” but maybe I’m using it synonymously with “appealing,” “attractive,” “delectable,” “dishy,” or “dreamy.”

  Ping-Pong Lover: Do you actually know those synonyms off the top of your head, or did you google them?

  Asking for a Friend: Wash your mouth out with soap! I did not google them. I looked them up in the thesaurus. Also, “dishy” is a great word.

  Ping-Pong Lover: Want to bring back “dishy” into popular vernacular?

  Asking for a Friend: Yes! Let’s make that our new life goal.

  Ping-Pong Lover: That’s quite a delectable life goal.

  Asking for a Friend: Stop being so adorably dishy. :)

  After thirty more minutes like that, I haven’t stopped grinning. This is just the distraction I need to stop thinking about Amy.

  Because so far, Betty Boop is quite dishy indeed.

  And my new life goal for the rest of the weekend is to keep talking to her.

  Amy

  Who knew surrogate dating for a friend would be so fun?

  If I’d known, I would have started this project sooner.

  Hunting for a man for your bestie is like living in a TV commercial. One with a woman blissfully smiling as she’s traipsing through a field of flowers, twirling in circles because her laundry smells so freaking good.

  And hell, my laundry does smell amazeballs as I remove it from the dryer in the basement of my building the next morning. Bringing the towels to my nose, I draw in a deep breath of lilacs.

  “Come to me, O fabulously clean clothes,” I hum around the dry items.

  The lilac detergent does smell fantastic.

  But I woke up with a silly grin and showered with one too.

  I might skip through Manhattan picking daisies and singing to chipmunks. Because . . . tra-la-la.

  Ping-Pong Lover is rocking my mood.

  He has so much potential for Peyton that I chatted with him late into the night and again first thing after I woke up.

  I’m learning so much about him as a possible suitor, plus I’m practicing all my marketing skills during our convos.

  I have to be fascinating when pitching books, and these random yack sessions are a crash course in putting myself out there, since I need to be delivering wit at rapier-sharp levels.

  What more could I ask for?

  Especially when the chats make me laugh too.

  We talked about silly things that are fun to discuss, like how amazing sleep is, how fantastic naps are, and how much better society would be if nap time were mandatory every day.

  I even confessed my deepest secret.

  Asking for a Friend: I’ve been known to snooze at my desk right around three p.m.

  Ping-Pong Lover: You daring scofflaw, you.

  Asking for a Friend: I wish I could say it’s deliberate. It’s totally accidental snoozing.

  Ping-Pong Lover: I’m going to pretend it’s a flagrant disregard for societal conventions and call you a nap gangster.

  Asking for a Friend: Best nickname ever. I will henceforth be known as the Nap Gangster. And I’ll dub you the Mad Flosser.

  So we both changed our names in the chat.

  The Mad Flosser: Let’s make mandated napping a new life goal.

  The Nap Gangster: Yes, and until then, you’ll find me on the other side of the law.

  I’m a good girl, though, so I ignore my phone for the next hour while I dive back into the manuscript I’m working on for my sample editorial letter to submit with the job application due at the end of this week. This is separate from the sample pitch, but it’s critical too, since it’ll show my vision for how I can make a good book even better. After all, that’s what any editor worth her salt and pepper will do.

  I review some of my notes then shut down my machine and leash up Inspector Poirot for a short walk.

  As
we wander through the hood, I have a spring in my step, and nothing knocks it out, not even the bearded guy who smacks into me while hoisting a beanbag onto his shoulder.

  “Sorry! Didn’t see you there,” he says, apologizing fitfully.

  Even though my elbow smarts from the impact, I’m mostly unfazed. “No worries. I’ll live.”

  He laughs then turns up the steps into a building.

  Damn, that laundry detergent is a potent drug.

  Or, really, the Mad Flosser is.

  And as my little pooch embarks on a deep inhalation of a patch of grass, I click open the app and send him a note. Naturally, I have to update him on my morning. How else will I learn if he’s good at discussing everyday life matters with my bestie?

  The Nap Gangster: A beanbag just accosted me on Ninety-Second and Lexington.

  The Mad Flosser: Reason number 111 why we should abolish beanbags. Also, I’m new to New York, but I hear there are fewer beanbag attacks on the Upper West Side. Something to consider?

  The Nap Gangster: But all the locals will tell you there are more futon mishaps over in that neighborhood. So it’s six of one, half a dozen of the other.

  The Nap Gangster: Also, welcome to the city.

  The Mad Flosser: Thank you. Now I’ve learned another insider tip: whatever side of the park you’re on, you are in peril from a piece of Peter Pan furniture.

  As my dog pees, I laugh over the Mad Flosser’s last note, ticking off another item on the suitor checklist: good on his feet.

  The Nap Gangster: Neither beanbags nor futons should be allowed in the home of anyone over twenty-five.

  The Mad Flosser: Beanbags are basically boneless sofas.

  The Nap Gangster: It’s weird, then, that my elbow still smarts from the impact.

  The Mad Flosser: My point exactly. They are deceptively dangerous to denizens of the city.

  The Nap Gangster: Alliteration will get you everywhere.

  I stare at my note. That’s kind of flirty. Did I just say that? I study each word again. Yup, seems I did. But isn’t it useful for this project to learn how he handles flirting? Of course it is. That’s just good intel to keep in mind when assessing promising mates.

  I glance down at my dog. “Hey, Shameless Whore, meet Shameless Flirt. But it’s all for a good cause, right?”

  He wiggles his butt.

  “Why, yes. Thank you for agreeing.”

  Trouble is, the Mad Flosser doesn’t reply for the next block. Or the next one.

  Have I gone too far?

  We’ve been flirty already, haven’t we? Sort of like how I am with Linc?

  An image of my off-limits coworker flashes into my mind. His carved cheekbones, full lips, and hot-nerd glasses. His voice, low and smoky. His smile, and those damn unexpected dimples.

  I’m quite flirty with him too, but he doesn’t seem to mind. He seems to like it.

  I hope I haven’t overstepped with this Boyfriend Material prospect for my friend.

  When I reach the front stoop of my building, a notification pops up.

  The Mad Flosser: I hear that “everywhere” is an excellent destination.

  I grin as I unlock the front door and bound up the steps to my floor. Everywhere! Yes, everywhere! He gets it—the man knows how to flirt.

  Major points for the Mad Flosser.

  I’m beaming, too, when his next note lands on my screen.

  The Mad Flosser: Also, in honor of those pink boots on your Betty Boop avatar, and how “adorable” they are, I’m changing your name to Betty Boop.

  The Nap Gangster: In honor of how adorably dashing your avatar is, you’re now officially becoming Dax Powers.

  Dax Powers: How dishy.

  Betty Boop: How dishy indeed.

  For some reason, the new names delight me more, probably because his avatar reminds me of Linc.

  I didn’t see the similarities at first, but now I do as I study the cartoon. Linc without glasses, and maybe with his hair unkempt, bears a striking resemblance to this illustrated bad boy.

  Plus, Dax Powers is the ultimate book girl’s wet dream—all rough and tumble on the outside, and on the inside, he’s the town’s sexy librarian. I’d be at that library daily.

  I’d be racking up late fines on every single paperback. I’d sidle up to the counter, acting all contrite as I hand him an overdue book. “Oh, Linc, it seems I owe twenty cents on this Judith Krantz. Do you want to spank me for returning it late?”

  Yup. Linc can be my librarian anytime.

  Sexy, witty, wordsmithy Linc. Linc, who isn’t into sports and loves books, and has a certain easy charm about him. He’s perfect for . . .

  Well, wouldn’t the office hot tamale be a great type of guy for Peyton to date?

  Except the second that thought bubble falls from the sky, I crush it with my bare hands. If I can’t date Linc, no one can.

  Besides, I don’t want to date right now anyway. I’m zooming down Work Street and Work Street only.

  That’s why when I pack up the banana bread in Tupperware and head to the animal rescue for my volunteer time, I send a message to Dax Powers as I walk.

  Since I won’t be dating him, he won’t be distracting me from work matters.

  In fact, I’m more focused, because I need to be on my game when we chat—engaging, interesting, selling, selling, selling—which often starts by listening.

  I fire off a question asking about him.

  Betty Boop: Tell me more about your prowess at the Ping-Pong table. Are we talking amateur, professional, or world-class Ping-Ponger? Also, is that a word? “Ponger”? *goes to dictionary right now*

  Dax Powers: The way Urban Dictionary tells it, “ponger” refers to either a smelly person or a dude who’d rather hang out with his beer-pong buddies than members of the female persuasion.

  Betty Boop: And I ask again—are you a ponger?

  Dax Powers: Let’s see. Does this sound like ponger behavior? I’m at the local laundromat, watching my clothes tumble in the dryer and reading Where’d You Go, Bernadette (since I didn’t read it when it came out, and I figure I should read it before I watch the movie).

  Betty Boop: Because books are always better than their movies?

  Dax Powers: Always. Without fail. The movie is never better. Except for Fight Club.

  Betty Boop: The Princess Bride too. I swear, when you read the book, all you can think is, “Are you sure that’s where all those fantastically colorful characters came from?”

  Dax Powers: Ah, you got me there. I’ve never read that book. Once you experience Mandy Patinkin’s Inigo Montoya, you’ve reached one of life’s true pinnacles, and it’s better to quit while ahead.

  Betty Boop: Advice that would have been helpful before I subjected myself to the book, Dax.

  Dax Powers: The only cure is to watch the movie over and over until it pushes the book entirely from your brain, leaving only fond memories of Wallace Shawn shouting “Inconceivable!” and then this . . .

  Dax Powers: *inserts gif of Mandy Patinkin as Inigo Montoya*

  Betty Boop: Yes, I can watch those five seconds of “You keep using that word. I do not think it means what you think it means” over and over and over.

  Dax Powers: It washes all the bad memories away.

  Betty Boop: *plays gif again* *falls under gentle spell of The Princess Bride in cinematic form*

  Dax Powers: And see, isn’t the thoughtful sending of that gif proof that I’m not a ponger?

  Betty Boop: Yes. Also, reading and cleaning make excellent supporting evidence too. Major points for you, Dax! I feel I should mention that I did my laundry this morning too. Just so you don’t think I’m a slovenly banana bread maker and gif consumer. Plus, I walked my dog. (That’s when the boneless bag attacked me.)

  Dax Powers: I want to ask what your dog’s name is, but it might be weird if I know Fido’s name before yours, and since we’re still in the forty-eight-hour window, plus the nickname window, I’m going to exercise restraint.
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  Betty Boop: Grrr. That only makes me want to tell you more. But I will behave too. Except to say he’s named after a literary character.

  Dax Powers: Of course he is.

  Betty Boop: He’s also dashingly handsome. But enough about Christian Grey, my teacup Chihuahua.

  Dax Powers: I literally just cackled at the laundromat. Well played.

  Betty Boop: Thank you. Also, I’d say how cool it is that we both did laundry, but I’m being nonchalant about our matching Sunday morning laundry habits.

  Dax Powers: And I’m totally nonchalant about our matching taste in books made into movies. Also, did you know that before gifs, humans had to communicate in actual sentences?

  As I stop at a light, I consider the last few notes. Hmm. Seems I might have overstepped with the dog comment. Peyton doesn’t have one. But I did say I was asking for a friend when I started this profile, so I’ll tell him the screener is the one with the dog, just in case it’s not clear. But I don’t need to clarify it quite yet, because I’m having too much fun. Holy smokes—I’m having a blast as I work on selling myself. This rat-a-tat-tat pace makes excellent target practice for work and assessment. Onward!

  Betty Boop: Sentences? No! How does that even work?

  Dax Powers: No idea. It is mystifying to me too. To answer your original query, Ping-Pong players are called . . . wait for it . . . Ping-Pong players.

  Betty Boop: Oh. That’s disappointing. I was hoping for a much more exciting title.

  Dax Powers: You could call me Ping-Pong champion, since I did win the last tournament I played in. I know, I know. Try to contain your excitement.

  Betty Boop: My excitement is uncontainable! I do think that’s cool. Especially since I’ve never played, beyond picking up a paddle in a game room now and then.

  Betty Boop: Oh and yes, as I reread that last part, I see it does sound vaguely naughty.

  Dax Powers: Just vaguely, Betty? When you combine game room and paddle, you could get some interesting results. Plus, there’s the Christian Grey reference . . .

  Dax Powers: Wait. I totally didn’t just talk about BDSM in this chat. I swear I didn’t.