The Blind Date

by Landish, Lauren

  I hear the click-clack of Riley’s heels and turn around, hoping to find her strutting in wearing only those pink heels. But she’s dressed once again, her curves covered in her dress.

  “Hey, uhm . . . look, I don’t want to leave you high and dry, but . . .” Riley stutters, and I shake my head in understanding. Tonight was magical. Tonight was hotter than I ever would’ve expected. And I pride myself on expecting every possibility and planning accordingly.

  But sometimes, a magic spell can be broken. At least temporarily.

  “I’ll be okay,” I tell her, and Riley smiles. “So . . . home?”

  “Yeah,” she says. She comes up to me, taking my hand. “Noah, about tonight. I don’t regret anything.”

  “I don’t either. Except maybe that burger later,” I tease, patting my stomach. “Come on, I’ll take you home.”

  “I’d like that.”

  I grab a fresh shirt, and after checking that River is really gone, we make our way back to my SUV. The drive to her neighborhood is quiet, but it’s not a bad quiet. In fact, Riley keeps looking over at me with soft smiles and our hands have been interlocked the whole trip.

  When we pull up to her apartment, I offer to walk her up, but she shakes her head.

  “If you walk me up, I’m going to invite you in,” she says honestly.

  “Would that be a bad thing?” I ask slowly.

  “Tonight’s been wonderful, but . . .”

  “That’s all you have to say. Next time?” I offer, and her smile grows.

  “Next time,” she agrees.

  I lean across the console, cursing its existence again, and tilting her chin with my thumb and index finger, I kiss her gently and softly.

  She pulls back, her eyes telling me that next time will be soon. Very soon.

  “Let me get the door for you,” I say, wanting one more chance to hold her.

  But she shakes her head and lays a staying hand on my arm. “No. If you get out, I’m going to kiss you again. And I’m going to invite you up. I’m not strong enough to stop us tonight, so I need you to stay here. Let me walk away this time and enjoy our first date for what it’s already been.”

  Her eyes scan mine, then travel down to my lips, and she licks her own. I don’t think she even knows she’s done it. And her chest is rising and falling rapidly, nearly panting.

  She’s asking me to stick to her plan. That I can understand.

  I nod. Cupping her cheek, I pull her forward and lay one more kiss to her forehead, not trusting myself to take her lips again. “Goodnight, Sunshine.”

  With one more bright smile, she gets out and walks toward the building. She looks back once and waves, but then she’s gone and the date is over.

  But Riley and I are just starting.

  Chapter 13

  Riley

  “Rowf!”

  I look down at Raffy, who’s nudging my leg and then sitting back to tilt his head at me.

  “What’s up, Raffy? Let me finish this last batch, okay?” I tell him, and his tail wags.

  Loretta dropped Raffy back off this morning, and I think she must’ve fed him more food and treats in the one night than he usually gets in a week. He’s been a demanding diva all day, and it’s barely after noon.

  I look at the clock. Crap, it’s after noon, which means it’s past time for our normal stroll. Actually, we’re about a half-hour late, and I swear Raffy can tell time. Daylight savings changes are hell on him.

  “Okay, buddy, give me a second,” I assure him. “Sorry.”

  Raffy trots over to the door, and I take a last glance at what I’m doing. There’s a lot of my work that’s right here on my laptop. Either I’m touching up photos or editing videos, skills I proudly taught myself, or communicating with advertisers and potential sponsors.

  But my favorite part of my computer work is the least directly profitable and the most rewarding. It’s responding to the people who comment and reach out to me. Especially my DMs. While I get the occasional dick pic from men who really, really need to learn what an acceptable boundary is, I don’t worry about them.

  I message back people who legitimately reach out for help or for advice. It’s normally a joy of my day. But today’s been . . . distracting.

  I posted one of the pictures I took before my date with Noah, just a selfie of me, not one of our couple shots. I wouldn’t share Noah that way without his permission or before talking to River and Arielle. But my being all glammed up has triggered a barrage of comments I wasn’t expecting.

  Ooh, looking fine, Miss Sunshine. Where might you be off to?

  Date! Date! Date!

  Who’s the lucky man that gets to date Riley Sunshine?

  The support is sweet, especially the comments on my dress, and I responded to a bunch of the early comments with teasers of my own, like ‘having dinner with a friend and felt cute.’ I even added a link to the dress in case anyone wanted to buy one of their own. And the Joroast makeup comments were just as kind and complimentary.

  And then it started to go a little wonky.

  Someone mentioned the dress showing off my ASSetts. And then someone else commented that those ‘buns needed a good glazing’ and added a hashtag of #sinnabuns. That’s actually pretty cute, and it started trending pretty quickly with people posting pictures of their own butts looking smackable. I love their body positivity and support that one hundred percent, but the comment on my picture felt skeevy with the gross sexualization of my picture by an account I’ve never seen before. Especially when the dress is perfectly reasonable, nothing more than a floral body-hugging cotton shift with a scoop neck and a mid-thigh hem.

  And then the supposition and comments went way downhill and off-track into remote four-wheeler territory.

  The good thing is that the commentary is pushing my views higher and higher, and any comment helps in the algorithms, creating a cycle of views. The not-so-good thing is that it’s turning ugly, with people who’ve never followed me commenting and others thinking they have a clue about my life beyond what I share willingly.

  Ever notice she never shows anyone but herself? Can you say narcissistic?

  Probably doesn’t have anyone. Sits alone in her room, pretending to have this great life, when she’s worse off than we are.

  That butt is totally photoshopped. Or plastic. Probably both.

  Face masks . . . fine. Kale smoothies . . . whatever. But now we’re supposed to be all rah-rah for your “date” too. I can’t find a fuck to give about your perfect life.

  Made her a Starbies drink once. She was a total bitch. Sunshine? Fake AF.

  Why do these people even care? I wonder as Raffy searches along the sidewalk for the perfect spot to pee, even though there’s only one tree and patch of grass for our building.

  Their comments sting.

  I shouldn’t let them, but they sting a lot, and while walking Raffy helps simply by pulling me away from the toxic environment and comments of the Internet, they still run around in my head like little grains of sand in my boots.

  So I try to separate Riley Watson from Riley Sunshine.

  What would Riley Sunshine tell someone in this situation to do? Probably to take the high road, stick to being who you are because haters gonna hate no matter what, so you should focus on making yourself happy. I try to breathe that energy in, dismissing the negativity as much as possible.

  What should Riley Watson do? I consider deleting the photo. Seems like that’d be the fastest and easiest way to shut down the drama and stop the hurtful lashes to my psyche. But surprisingly, that’s not usually how the internet and social media work. At all. That’d likely add fuel to the fire.

  The trick is to manage the fire.

  Raffy finds his favorite, and only, tree and decides it’s time to squat, so I turn my back. I don’t know what goes on in his little doggy mind, but he won’t squat unless I’m ignoring him. A thousand other people can be walking around, cars driving by, a whole cheering section rooting him on, no p
roblem. Me? Nope, he’s shy.

  As I wait for my fur baby to finish his business, my phone rings. I see my mom’s name on the screen and my gut drops.

  Oh, no! Has she already seen the drama too?

  She checks my pages—was my first follower, in fact—and I wouldn’t put it past her to start commenting back to rude people, getting into some social media war with AbbaQueen79 on my behalf if she felt it was warranted.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Hi, honey . . . are you busy?” Mom asks. “I’m in the garden, and I could really use some help. You said you’d come by soon?” she reminds me. “The weatherman said it might rain tonight, and if I don’t get it done, I’m going to have to redo the whole darn thing. Are you . . . working today?”

  Well, I guess the good news is . . . Mom doesn’t know about the rude comments. Actually, her needing help is good news too. It’ll get me away from the screen, out in the sunshine, and working with my hands.

  Maybe I can take another picture and post it, pushing the drama-affiliated one further down my feed?

  That’s not a bad idea.

  “Sure, Mom . . . gimmie an hour to get a couple of things done?”

  “Thanks, honey! See you then!”

  I hang up and see that Raffy’s finished too. I’d like to bring him along, but if we’re actually going to be working, it might not be the best idea. He tends to tear up the garden with his enthusiasm. And he’ll probably sleep all day after being spoiled rotten at Loretta’s. “Okay, baby . . . looks like Momma’s gotta help Grandma. I’m gonna need you to protect the place while I’m gone.”

  * * *

  Warm sun streams through the windshield of my VW bug, bright enough that I have my windows down to cut the heat, but just the right temperature to make going over to Mom’s house not so bad.

  The beautiful day is already enough to lift my mood a little. Even Riley Sunshine needs a little sunshine sometimes.

  And if the weather weren’t enough, there was the text from Noah wanting to get together tonight.

  My reply was three words. Where, when, how?

  In other words, absolutely, yes.

  He and I have magnetism, and the way he ate me out . . . my thighs were still trembling after he dropped me off at my apartment.

  He’s so much more than I assumed him to be. So much of his arrogance is hiding a sensitive soul, and just the fact that he’s let me see the real him means so much.

  Too bad you still haven’t seen the one thing you really, really want to see.

  Don’t remind me. I was nearly naked, with nothing but some translucent lingerie on. The truth is, I’ve fantasized about what I felt through his pants, and I’m yearning to see it.

  I want him in my hands, in my mouth . . . inside me.

  But it’s more than that too.

  He also told me the photo from last night looked gorgeous and asked if I’m okay after the comments today, so I know he’s seen them. That was a harder question to answer, so I just sent back a thumbs-up and an eye roll emoji. And really, I am okay. Mostly. I’m used to this and have even been through worse. With as fast as the internet moves, it’ll probably blow over in twenty-four hours too.

  I hope.

  It definitely gives me pause about my decision to date, though, making me think I was right to put it off for so long. It’s one thing to put myself out there for public consumption and take the lumps with the loves. It’s quite another to ask someone else to do it for you.

  I try to imagine Noah and me being at a point that I could post one of the adorable pictures we took together last night. Just a pre-date selfie, me and my guy dressed up for a night on the town. Or dressed down for an evening on the couch, digging into more tacos and sharing cheesecake.

  What would River say? What would Arielle say? What would my followers say?

  And most importantly, could Noah and I withstand all that?

  Because that’s the whole point—to not be fake. To be real and show that life can be good without filters and manufactured lies, so that others don’t feel the need to negatively judge their own lives either. We all have days of excitement, but they’re sprinkled throughout long runs of mundane existence. The trick to finding joy is appreciating the ordinary and the extraordinary equally.

  But I can deal with that later and focus on my date with Noah later too. For now, I’m going to help Mom in the garden as a mindful meditation about what’s important. Maybe there’ll be a lesson I can use in the dirt—something about digging your roots down deep so that when a storm comes through, it doesn’t leave you ripped to shreds.

  Mom’s had the garden since I was a little girl. She started it after reading an article about how delicious homegrown tomatoes and bell peppers were and how growing them yourself would make it fun for your kids to eat their vegetables. I don’t know if it increased my vegetable consumption, but Mom found a passion with gardening and never stopped.

  I pull up outside the house, looking at it like I always do. It’s simply home to me, almost frozen in time like a fading picture in a photo album. But this time, I see more.

  I see the symbol of my parents’ years of hard work. I see the easy childhood I had, never worrying about where my next meal would come from. I see my mom and dad as a team, even when Dad was traveling for work. I see the gift my upbringing was, and I feel for Noah. Not pity—he doesn’t want or need that. But my heart simply beats a little faster for the boy who took on so much responsibility and grew into a man who still needs to be in control to feel safe.

  I get out, stretching as I soak in the warm spring sun. I walk through the open garage door and into the shade and grin at the sight of mine and River’s old childhood junk packed in boxes along one wall. Mom swears that someday it’ll all be at our houses, but I don’t believe her. She doesn’t keep it for us. She holds onto it all because they’re her favorite mementos of our childhood.

  “Mom?” I call out. “You here?”

  “In the back, honey!” Mom calls. “Grab the bag of seeds, will you? They’re on the washer!”

  I look, surprised when I see the small bag in question. “Corn?” I ask the empty garage as I pick up the bag and walk through into the backyard.

  Things look exactly the same back here, right down to the rope swing hanging from the old pine tree in the corner. I haven’t swung in ages, but Mom hasn’t taken it down either. Another memento of a good childhood.

  Mom’s over on the left side of the yard in her garden, and I have to pause at the rush of warm fuzzies and happy memories that wash through me. Mom looks amazing, easily mistaken for a woman twenty years younger than she is, and in this moment, I see her the way she was long ago.

  “Hey, honey!” Mom says, dropping her gardening trowel and coming over for a hug. I set the bag down and give Mom a hug. She likes physical affection, even as far back as when I was little and we’d snuggle our way through TV shows.

  “Hi, Mom!” I tell her warmly, holding her extra-long. “Have I told you how much I love you and appreciate everything you’ve done for me recently?”

  “Aww, honey. That’s so sweet,” she says, but then she gets to the point. “What do you want?”

  I laugh, letting her go because she’s broken the moment. “Nothing. I’ve just been thinking a lot lately and realizing that you’ve done so much for River and me. I always knew you had my back, never doubted that for a second, but maybe I didn’t appreciate how rare that was. So just . . . thank you.”

  “Riley, honey,” Mom says, tears shining in her eyes. “That’s so . . .” Instead of continuing, she just hugs me again, a little tighter this time.

  “Oh, I got dirt on you.” Mom tries to brush off my shoulder with the back of her hand, but she only succeeds in getting another smudge on my T-shirt.

  “It’s fine, Mom,” I tell her, laughing. “I wore work clothes because I knew we’d be getting dirty in the garden.”

  She freezes suddenly, looking me up and down. We’re dressed similarly, in
denim shorts and T-shirts, though her shirt has the sleeves cut off. And Mom’s not wearing boots like I am, but rather her gardening Crocs that are easy to hose off at the end of the day.

  “Hmm, I didn’t think of that,” she mutters, wiping at her forehead.

  My brow furrows. “Think of what?”

  “What? Oh, nothing. You want a glass of tea?” she asks suddenly, turning away from me and walking over to the patio table. She has a pitcher of iced tea sitting on a tray and is pouring one for me before I can even catch up with her.

  Her frenetic energy worries me. “Mom? Everything okay?”

  “Of course, of course.” She hands me the tea, and I take a slow sip, my eyes never leaving her because she’s scanning me from head to toe. She reaches out, messing with my hair . . . or fixing it?

  I wave her off. “What are you doing?” I mean for it to sound sharp and no-nonsense, but I choke on the overly sweet tea and lose any and all cred. “And who made this? It’s basically diabetes in a glass!” I sputter around a cough as I thump my chest.

  She smiles as though her actions, and her tea, are totally normal, which they are not. “The tea is fine, honey. Maybe you don’t know what flavor is.” She tilts her head, one shift away from a neck roll and I know true fear. If Mom can do the whole sassy neck roll correctly, I will know that I’ve surely entered the Twilight Zone. “And I’m just fixing some flyaways in case you want to take some pictures for your page,” she explains as the infamously eerie theme music starts.

  Doo-doo-doo-doo . . .

  That makes zero sense.

  Mom is completely supportive of my work, but she doesn’t exactly understand it. And my photo habits are not something she thinks of . . . ever.

  “I probably will take some pics, but it’ll be close-ups of flowers, playing up the whole garden angle. So my hair and a little dirt won’t hurt,” I tease.

  Mom smiles back, unconvinced.