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.
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.
Betty Boop: And yet it looks like you did.
Dax Powers: Shoot, I’m sorry.
Betty Boop: I’m not offended. I feel like if you were trying to pick up a woman for BDSM play, you’d be on a different app.
Dax Powers: Whew. Thank you. Which also reminds me that I need to switch over to my Paddle Me Please app and keep up the convo there with Ms. Bend Me Over the Chair.
Betty Boop: No worries. I’ll be on Spank Me Tonight, so I guess we’ll miss each other.
Dax Powers: Good luck. I hear all the pongers hang out on Spank Me Tonight.
Betty Boop: Oh damn, you are good!
Dax Powers: Thank you. I am indeed quite good. *inserts devil emoticon*
Betty Boop: And a little cocky too?
Dax Powers: Just a little. But you know what it’s like when you’re champion of a nerd sport, Miss Badminton Champion.
Betty Boop: Hey, you’re assuming I’m a nerd.
Dax Powers: Am I wrong, Miss Badminton Champion? *smirks*
I gulp, nearly dropping my phone in the drain as I cross the street. Shitballs on fire. How do I reply to this? I glance around as if I can locate the answer on the sidewalk.
Am I Peyton? Or me? Do I remind him I’m asking for a friend? It was in the profile though. The description closed with “asking for a friend,” for Pete’s sake.
It must be obvious.
Okay, fine, maybe he thinks I meant it to be tongue-in-cheek.
Someone could certainly read it as tongue-in-cheek.
Because the entire saying is tongue-in-cheek, and no one is ever asking for a friend—they’re asking for themselves.
Ugh.
So I was only honest on a technicality.
My stomach swoops, and a teeny bit of guilt weaves through me.
Who am I kidding? This is a massive, crushing tsunami of guilt.
Ping-Pong Lover Mad Flosser Dax Powers is a darling. Chatting with him is better than drinking a vanilla latte.
And I can’t lie. I won’t lie to this potential suitor.
As I walk along the park, making my way toward Little Friends, I return to the chat, drawing a deep breath.
Betty Boop: Moment of truth. I don’t play badminton. My friend does. Hence that’s why I said “asking for a friend” in my profile.
Dax Powers: Wink, wink. Got it. We’ll table badminton for another time. But thanks for the moment of truth. Here’s mine: I’m having a blast chatting with you.
And there goes my stomach again—swooping up, sweeping down. Not with guilt this time, but with tingles, butterflies, and everything good in the world.
Dax Powers is too much fun, too clever, too everything.
Guilt wiggles through me again because he doesn’t seem to have fully grasped that I’m not who he thinks I am, but I swat it away.
Because I am me.
If he’s having a blast talking to me, I must be doing something right.
That’s why I’m here. To practice confidence.
And maybe confidence comes with honesty.
So I decide to give him some more of that too.
Betty Boop: Another moment of truth: I’m having a blast too.
Betty Boop: But I do need to sign off. I have a volunteer thing, and I’m going to share the sugar-butter goodness with the other volunteers.
Dax Powers: I’m sure they’ll agree that sugar and butter are both good ideas. Certainly enough to outweigh the badness of bananas. Catch you later, Betty. I’m off to the park to go for a run. You know, so I can continue to crush it in Ping-Pong.
Betty Boop: Crusher! That’s what we’ll call you. A crusher!
Dax Powers: Works for me. Also, stop distracting me. Go. Do good. Volunteer.
Betty Boop: You were distracting me.
Dax Powers: Bye, Betty.
Betty Boop: Bye, Dax.
This time, I do end the chat. I sign out of the app, tuck my phone in my pocket, and map out the rest of my afternoon.
Even though I feel the slightest bit wrong, I remind myself that I was honest, I was up-front, and I’ll try harder again later. But tonight, I’ll talk to Peyton and tell her my plan. I can let her know how well it’s going.
I should prime her, after all, that I’m reeling in a big catch.
Because Dax Powers seems like one helluva catch indeed.
With my plan settled, I head inside and say hello to the woman who runs the place then join some of the other volunteers in the back room, where we sort donations.
“Hey, Madison!” I call out when I see the woman who wants to “talk shop” today.
She swivels around from where she’s stacking blankets and smiles. She looks fantastic in a V-neck tee that says “My dog was right about you.”
“Hey, Amy,” she says.
Before she can say another word, I point excitedly at her shirt.
“I must know where you procured the world’s most perfect T-shirt.”
She plucks at the hem. “Would you believe it? Duane Reade.”
“Stop. There is no way Duane Reade could peddle that.”
“That’s the God’s honest truth.”
“I know where I’m going when my shift is over.” I place the bread on a nearby table and sort through donations of leashes and dog beds for a few minutes, placing them into separate piles.
Madison clears her throat. “Hey, Amy.”
Her tone is completely different. It’s an I’ve got to tell you something voice, not a let’s talk shop voice. But what on earth would she need to tell me in that tone?
“Yes?”
She tucks a pink blanket onto a shelf. “The reason I said I wanted to talk shop last night is that I wanted to let you know I’m applying for the editorial post at your company.”
My stomach drops to my knees. To the floor. No, to the fucking magma center of the Earth.
Madison Turnbell, kick-ass editor at Athena Publishing, wants my job? Well, the job I’m gunning for.
“You are?” I rasp, my voice pocked with gravel.
“Yes. I assume you’re applying for it too?”
I nod, because speaking is too hard.
“I’m just not happy at Athena, and I hear great things about Bailey & Brooks, so I wanted to throw my hat in the ring.”
I already have to compete with the company’s golden child in Antonia, and now I have to compete with the industry’s badass-chick editor?
“You don’t mind, do you?” she asks.
I swallow the vinegar in my throat. “Go for it,” I say. “Want some banana bread?”
“Sure,” she says, sounding as awkward as I feel as I thrust the baked goodness at her.
She takes a slice, smiling.
I take one too, hoping either the sugar or the butter softens the gut punch.
I message Peyton when I leave Little Friends.
Amy: You around? I have stuff to tell you. Good stuff, I promise.
Peyton: Ooh, my favorite kind of stuff. I’m heading to Tristan’s restaurant with my mom, but let’s talk later?
Amy: It’s a date.
Peyton: If it’s a date, why don’t you take me out for dessert? Dr. Insomnia’s tonight?
Amy: Twist my arm, why don’t you?
As I head to the pickle shop, I avoid the Boyfriend Material app. I’m not in the mood to be “on” after learning Madison tossed her hat in the fray.
But I also don’t believe in being a Debbie Downer.
And when I get in a funk, the most surefire way out of it is to focus on someone else. That’s what I’m thinking when I pick up pickles for my sister—some peaches too, since she’s craved those every day of her life. Then I pop over to the apartment she shares with her husband.
Vaughn is out, so I get to dote on my very large sister, whose belly is so touchable right now.
“You’re the cutest pregnant woman ever,” I tell her as I rub her belly.
“I bet you say that to all the pregnant women you see,” she teases, and I hand her the food gifts.
“Bless you,” she says, setting her free hand to her heart. “Your Scrabble will now be safe because of peaches and pickles.”
She waddles into the kitchen, grabs a cutting board, and slices a peach. As she hands me a section, she asks what’s going on at work. I tell her the news about Madison, ending with “But that just means I have to try harder.”
The peaches-and-pickle visit is doing double-encouragement duty.
“Exactly. Don’t let it get you down,” she tells me. “There will always be other talented people vying with you. You can’t control what they do. You can only control what you do. And all you can do is be your best. You know what you do better than anyone?”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“You’re funny. You’re clever. You make people laugh. That’s your secret weapon. So don’t worry about Madison. I’m sure she is great at some things, just as I know you are the queen of others. Don’t forget—comparison is the thief of joy.”
“I love you. And thank you.” And because I’m a little stinker, I have no choice but to say, “And I won’t compare your belly to a house.”
She narrows her eyes and manages to give me a noogie, which I thoroughly deserve.
We hang out for a little while longer, then I say goodbye.
On my way home, my phone pings with an email. It’s from Tiffany, and she wants to know if I can stop by her office on Tuesday so she can give me pointers for my pitch next week.
Hell, yes!
I reply with I’d love to, as a smile hijacks my face.
I should text Josh or Quinn and tell them about this.
But the next person I think of is Linc. He’s the one I want to share this news with.
And that’s both a good idea and a bad idea.
Inside my apartment, I flop down next to Inspector Poirot, groaning.
What have I gotten myself into?
“What would you do if you liked two guys at once? Especially if you’ve earmarked one for your best friend?”
He licks his hindquarters.
“You’re so not helpful, Christian Grey.”
12
Linc
It’s official. I’ve been in New York for a little over two weeks, and I can find anything. Today I made it to the West Village to meet a college buddy for lunch, then walked to Bryant Park in Midtown, and after that, I ventured to the East Fifties to run some errands.
I tell my sister, Lisa, about my accomplishment as we walk to Tristan’s for dinner on Sunday night. “I don’t need a map or GPS. I can find anything in the city.”
She pats my head affectionately. “Linc, I hate to break it to you, but that is not an accomplishment.”
“I beg to differ. Finding your way around a new city is not easy.”
“If you were anyplace but New York, I’d ag
ree,” she says, gesturing to a street sign as we cross the avenue. “But this city is literally a grid. It’s child’s play finding your way around here.”
“Do you let Katherine find her way around New York?” I ask.
“My daughter is one. Obviously not.”
“I rest my case,” I say as we reach the restaurant and I hold the door open for her.
Inside, we head to the bar, where I nod hey to Tristan. He’s chatting with a woman, and Lisa nudges me. “The redhead is pretty,” she whispers.
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