I hit Send before I can tweak and rewrite the message. It’s the truth, as ugly as it might be and as weak as it paints me.
R: Truthfully, I was terrified of sending that message last night. I almost threw up my wine, cheese, and chocolate dinner. I don’t know if that menu makes me sound fancy or pitiful, but at least I kept it down because I was so busy yesterday, it was all I ate. Anyway, we can absolutely try again. And no pressure on the 96% unless you snore. That’s a deal-breaker for me. Only one diesel-powered chainsaw allowed in my bed at a time. PS—how many responses did you get?
I laugh. Out of my flip-flopping back and forth like a fish out of water, which might be a little too close to home considering my lack of a dating life, my overwhelming response is what she keys on to?
Me: Thirty-two! Unless you count the one that was looking for fans for her private page. If so, thirty-one. Are you competitive? Want to compare numbers?
R: Dangerous question, mister.
She makes me laugh again, something I rarely do but have done at least three times this morning from her words on my phone screen. I do not like the idea of men messaging offers to be sugar daddies on BlindDate. That’s not what it’s for, but it’s not against the terms of service and might be exactly what someone is looking for. Still, I make a note to check into that along with the other things I’ve written down for review.
Me: I’ll let you have that win. So, what brought you to BlindDate?
R: Honestly? My friend talked me into it because I’d like to find someone who’s interested in more than surface things. That’s really appealing to me. What about you?
I feel like that might be code for ‘I have a great personality but look like I was hit with the ugly stick a few too many times,’ and a shock of nerves worms through me. But this is exactly why River and I made BlindDate, so people could get to know each other and then meet without letting appearances be the sum total of the first impression. Maybe Rachel’s sense of humor will make her seem like a ten even if she’s more of a six? That’s the theory I sold Elisa, and I do believe it. It’s just interesting to test my dedication to the idea on myself.
M: Well, I guess the same things. I mean, we probably should start with some of the superficial things, of course, but I’m looking for more than that.
I wait nervously, surprised at that. But she quickly replies.
R: Superficial stuff? Okay, I’ll go first . . .
I wait for her to ask for a physical description as the three tiny dots appear, but what comes across is different from what I expect. Which is already an ‘as usual’ situation with Rachel.
R: Are you married? Kids? Not a deal-breaker. Well, the kids aren’t unless you’re a deadbeat dad. But being married is a ‘no-go, do not pass go, do not collect $200, go straight to jail and stew in your affair’ situation.
Me: Tell me how you really feel. LOL, no kids, not married, now or ever. You?
Oh, fuck. I typed LOL back. She’s already rubbing off on me. But for some reason, I smile as I think it. And I make a note to add some info options to the app. We have marital status listed, but some specific questions in the survey would ensure that people with strong preferences one way or another don’t get matched up with someone incompatible.
R: No exes stalking about and no kids. Yet. I love ’em, drooly bits and all, but ideally, I want to be settled before having one. A partner who’s onboard with Team Us, you know?
Me: I like that—Team Us. So, if you’re not changing diapers, what are you doing? Like, what do you do for a living?
R: I work online. I love it and the flexibility it gives me. I can work anywhere, anytime. If an idea strikes, I can sit down on a park bench, log in, and work away. Or if I need to take a day or two off, I can. What about you?
I notice she doesn’t say exactly what she does, which might be a waving red flag to some people, but I can understand her reticence. Especially these days when people can easily be looked up online. And I don’t get the feeling that she’s hiding anything, more that she’s cautious. Plus, I’m reluctant to share my work too.
Me: I’m an executive here in Briar Rose, currently working from my couch because they think I’m a workaholic if I show up at the office on Saturdays.
Might as well rip that Band-Aid off because it’s the truth, and if she’s put off by my work habits, we can stop this before it goes any further.
R: I’m sitting on my couch, laptop beside me to work and phone in my hand to message you. We might be two peas in a pod, after all. Ninety-six percent? I see you.
Guess my overachiever status doesn’t bother her. I’m glad because I find I’m enjoying the back-and-forth banter and don’t want it to end. We keep chatting, and soon, time means nothing to me. For the first time in years, I’m having a conversation with someone and I’m not thinking about the hundred other things on my agenda. I’m totally focused on Rachel, smiling when she says something funny or quirky, my eyebrows rising when she says something insightful.
I had faith in the AI before, but it was in a nondescript, intangible way. Now, it’s real and almost magical. I’m going to owe the psychologists and coders a big thank you, maybe even a cookie basket and a raise. Having long ago forgotten about my laptop, I doodle ‘cookie’ on my notepad over and over with one hand. In the other, I hold my phone so I can see Rachel’s messages immediately as they come across.
R: Okay, so basics aside, I’ve got some important questions for you. These are the real make-it-or-break-it deals, so think carefully about your answers. You ready?
Me: I don’t think so, but hit me.
R: What’s your stance on the great hot dog dilemma? Sandwich or not?
M: IMHO, not. You don’t put chili or ketchup on a sandwich. But I’m willing to reach out to my sandwich-believing brethren and enjoy a good hotdog for the deliciousness it is.
R: Disagree. By your standard, chili burgers or cheeseburgers with ketchup aren’t sandwiches, but they most definitely are. Agree to disagree, as long as we can eat them all. Calzones?
M: Pies, like a Hostess fruit pie when we were kids. But I can see the sandwich angle if it’s the right size. What’s your stance on tacos?
R: Tacos are that line in the sand for me. ‘Sand’ like sandwiches . . . get it? LOL But for real, if you don’t like tacos, then I’m going to have to wish you a good day and recommend that you seek professional culinary and psychological help. Whether they’re classified as sandwiches or not doesn’t matter as long as they get in my belly.
I laugh. This girl is amazing.
M: You seem a little food obsessed. Should I be worried? LOL But I’ll agree that tacos are outside the lines of any classification scale. Soft chicken tacos, some good nachos, and churros for dessert? That’s a meal that’ll leave me warm and happy inside and out.
R: Maybe we can make that happen sometime?
I double-blink, realizing what she’s asking. She’s delicately tippy-toeing into a ‘can we meet’ scenario. Nerves and excitement shoot through me in equal measure, which is surprising given that not too long ago, I wasn’t even thinking of dating. Still, even with work and BlindDate plans looming, I type out the truth.
M: I think I’d like that.
I’m tempted to ask about her looks, to steer this conversation toward a real meet-up, but part of me wants to wait a bit since that’s the whole idea River and I built BlindDate on—depth over superficiality. Though now that it’s real, it’s harder to stick to than I thought it’d be. I make a note of that for possible app improvement too as my mind wanders . . .
Is she cute and curled up on a couch with a kitten, or a gamer babe texting me between rounds of Call of Duty? Or maybe she’s shy, the computer geek who’s a Sys Admin who works out of her house?
None of them seem quite right, but before I can ask a question tha
t’d give me a better visual, Rachel messages me.
R: Oopsie! My alarm reminded me that I have to be somewhere at noon, and if I’m not out the door in ten minutes, I’ll be late. I’m not even dressed yet!
M: Not dressed?
R: Not like that. I’m still in my pajamas. I’ll let you imagine that until we talk again, though I’ll give you a hint. My PJs involve knee socks. Suuuper sexy, right?
Two images fight for prominence in my mind. In one, Rachel is adorable in knee socks and a long shirt that hits the tops of her thighs. In the other, she’s got on wool socks pulled up high, baggy flannel pants, and an oversized T-shirt. Both imaginary Rachels quirk a brow at me, saying, ‘Whatcha think?’
M: I think I have a new fascination with knee socks. Can we talk later tonight?
It’s the first time I’m putting it on the line. She messaged me first and then she gave me a second chance when I auto-replied. I only hope I’ve done enough to earn another conversation with her because this one has been the highlight of my day. Hell, who am I kidding? It’s been the highlight of my week, or maybe month.
R: Talk to you tonight, Mark.
M: Have a good day.
R: (Smile emoji, sunshine emoji)
Rachel logs off, and I plug my phone in to charge. Standing up, I feel the smile on my face, realizing I’ve been talking to Rachel for nearly three hours. I stretch my arms overheard but stop, having to adjust myself.
Wow. I never thought talking about calzones and tacos would have me half-hard in my pants, but I am. Maybe it’s the thought of Rachel in her pajamas . . . that must be it.
“Knee socks,” I murmur to myself. “Who knew?”
I feel another twitch in my jeans. If I’m not careful, I’m going to be pitching a tent while I make lunch. All over someone I haven’t even met yet. Thanks, BlindDate! I think, giving myself a pat on the back for a job well done as I pull out some chicken and greens to make a salad.
Chapter 5
Riley
One of the things I love most about being ‘Riley Sunshine’ is that I have the chance and the time to help out. I can ‘spread the Sunshine’, as I like to put it. Sometimes, I volunteer at an animal shelter, which makes Raffy so jealous when I get home that he’ll literally turn his back on me, and I have to apologize by squeezing shots of canned whipped cream straight into his mouth. Sometimes, I go to the hospital where I get to play games with the kids in the children’s ward.
But one of my favorite ways to spread the Sunshine is to spend the afternoon with Arielle at work.
How the tall caramel-skinned sass machine, who spent her time at the Briar Rose Mall telling off customers and somehow not getting fired, became a healthcare provider is still beyond me. Back in the day, she was the sort who had very little patience for foolishness and more than once threw it right back at a customer if they came in with a ‘the customer is always right’ attitude.
But now, she spends all day dealing with people at the end of their lives. And no matter how many times they snip and snap at her, lashing out in pain or boredom or from dementia, rarely, if ever, does she snap back. Oh, she still has plenty of sass, but it’s the kind of funny bite that has her patients taking their medications, getting out bed for physical therapy, and eating two more nibbles of dinner before digging into their pudding. All without argument.
She’s like a people whisperer.
I’m both sorry and thankful to admit that she’s used that feisty ‘oh, no, you didn’t’ tone with me too, keeping my sweetness and naivete protected, even from myself.
But her talent with people is one of the reasons I like to volunteer at the retirement center and nursing home where Arielle works. I get to see her in action and spend time with residents doing what I can to help them feel appreciated, respected, and loved.
Which is what I’m doing now, with Viktor. He’s in his seventies and has lived here since his wife died five years ago. His children felt like their homes weren’t safe for his limited mobility since he uses a cane, but I think they were mostly unprepared to handle his unlimited mind. Because, though he likes to feign being a daft old guy, he’s sharp as a tack and beats me every time we play checkers, swearing it’s the game that keeps him mentally sharper than the ‘Jell-O pudding heads sitting around watching Ellen all damn day.’ I’d say he’s on to something because he’s already on his way to beating me . . . again.
“When are you going to let me teach you chess?” Viktor complains as he slides a piece. “You keep coming in and are a pretty decent checkers player now, but you refuse to learn chess. Why’s that, missy?” I don’t miss the sly back pat as he takes credit for making me a better player.
“Sorry, Viktor, but I know you’d just mop the board with me. My ego can’t take it,” I tease back, moving. I actually do know the basics of chess, but I’ve seen Viktor hustle people. He draws them in, looking to all the world like a slightly befuddled old man with a cloud of white hair around his head, big glasses, and a sunburned nose regardless of the time of year. Ten minutes later . . . you owe him money and your brownie on Friday at dinner. And brownies in here are like honey buns in prison. Pure gold.
“You still pouting over last week?” Viktor asks, sliding another piece into position. He thinks I don’t notice that he’s setting me up for a triple jump, but I see it. I’ve just got to figure out how to stop him while he’s distracting me from studying the board. “I told you, when my gout gets flaring up, I’m going to sit down.”
I chuckle, shaking my head as I counter with my own move that stops his play. This time. “Viktor, you plunked your stool walker or whatever it is they call that contraption right in the middle of the hallway. On a blind corner.” His cane is one of those fancy ones that has a fold-up stool attached to it so he can sit when he needs to and lean on it as he walks. It’s a mobility aid, but he manages to make it seem like the ultimate in swagger when he struts around with the cane and then plops down to sit like a king surveying his domain, one leg crossed over the other and managing to not fall from the precarious balancing act.
“My gout don’t know it’s a blind corner. You’re the one who fell on her tuchus,” Viktor replies matter-of-factly, and I laugh. He’s ornery, he gives zero fucks . . . there’s a reason I like him. “If you hadn’t had on those heavy boots, your legs wouldn’t’ve been splayed up to the heavens. Ahh!” He throws his voice high, mimicking the sound I made when I fell, and spreads his arms up wide in a V the way my legs were. Thankfully, I’d had on jeans that day or Viktor would’ve gotten more than a close-up of the soles of my boots. “Damn shame you like those ugly things.” He leans to the side, glaring at my Docs like they personally offended him.
“Be nice or I’ll let Riley introduce you to one up close and personal,” Arielle warns with an evil smile, coming up to the table to stand beside Viktor. She places her arm around him, resting her palm on his shoulder. It’s affectionate, but I know she’s also checking his breathing to see if he’s struggling or breathing too slow or fast. “How’s he treating you, Riley?”
“Let’s see . . . grumpy, snarky, a good dose of leering thrown in for good measure . . . all in all, a good day with Viktor,” I joke good-naturedly.
Viktor laughs but mumbles under his breath, “I don’t leer.”
“What? You do too!” I might as well be arguing with a brick wall for all the good it’ll do me, and I really don’t mind Viktor’s flirty ways because he’s as harmless as can be. He’s lonely and sweet and makes all the female residents feel like they’ve still got it going on despite the fact that they’re no longer young and beautiful the way they once were.
“I only leer because you two are like a candy shop, look but don’t touch!” Viktor whines, fighting to hide his smile. “Just one little touch, that’s all!” He wiggles his fingers toward Arielle but stays far enough back that we all know he’s not really going to touch her. He’s just messing with her because this is what they do for fun. And sport.
“You tou
ch, and you’ll wake up tomorrow with mittens duct taped to your hands,” Arielle mock threatens. “Then what are you going to do? Besides, Riley here needs someone her own age.”
“Arielle!” I protest as Viktor guffaws loud enough to wake Mrs. Johnson in the corner.
“Sorry, Mrs. Johnson. Jeopardy’s not on for another hour,” Arielle tells the frowning woman who nods her chin once and drifts back off to sleep. As though the interaction never happened, Arielle turns back to Viktor and me. “What? It’s true, and you know it,” Arielle says, grabbing a chair and sitting down. Looking at Viktor, she confides, “Riley hasn’t had a date in so long, Mrs. Johnson could still remember it!”
Viktor frowns. “That’s a long time, missy. Mrs. Johnson don’t remember much past the Reagan days.”
“I wasn’t even alive during the Reagan days!” I hiss.
Viktor cocks his bushy white brows at me, offering, “You know, Riley, I might not be as young as I once was, but if you want, I’ll be your boyfriend. You too, Arielle. I know your dance card isn’t full because you hang out with us old folks all the time. When was the last time you took a day off?”
“Oh, please, Viktor, you know I can’t leave you for even a day.” He starts to preen, but she finishes with, “You don’t behave for any of the other staff.” Viktor smirks, and I suspect that’s the absolute truth. Arielle’s willing to play along with Viktor, though, and teases, “What could you do for us? Seriously.”
“You know, I wasn’t always the epitome of a silver fox you see seated before you today,” Viktor says, leaning back in his chair to puff out his bony chest. His flannel plaid shirt still hangs loosely on his thin frame. “Back in my prime in the eighties, I’d have been able to leave you both more than satisfied on my waterbed! It was all about the motion of the ocean.” He mimes a wave with his gnarled hand.
Arielle taps me on the shoulder to make sure I’m paying attention as she delivers her big blow. “Wow, Viktor!” she says with fake wide, innocent eyes, “I didn’t know they had water beds back in the eighteen eighties!”
The Blind Date Page 5