Wish You Were Here

by Renee Carlino

  I chased after her, but she stuck her arm out, blocking me from the monitor. “No, I have to see it!” she shouted.

  “Stop it, girls,” my mother chided.

  “Move, bitch.” We were very mature for our age.

  “This is the best day of my life. Your mommy made a Match profile for you!”

  “Actually, Chuck made it,” my mother yelled from across the hall.

  Oh shit.

  Helen typed my name in quickly. My prom picture from nine years ago popped up on the screen. My brother had cropped Steve Dilbeck out of the photo the best he could, but you could still see Steve’s arms wrapped around my purple chiffon–clad waist. “You’re joking. You’re fucking joking.”

  “Language, Charlotte!” my dad yelled.

  “Mom,” I cried, “he used my prom photo! What is wrong with him?” I still had braces at eighteen. I had to wear them for seven years because my orthodontist said I had the worst teeth he had ever seen. You know how sharks have rows of teeth? Yeah, that was me. I blame my mother and the extended breastfeeding for that one, too. My brother, Chuck the Fuck, used to tease me, saying it was leftovers of the dead Siamese twin I had absorbed in utero. My brother’s an ass, so it’s pretty awesome that he set up this handy dating profile for me. In case you hadn’t noticed, our names are Charlotte and Charles. Just more parental torture. Would it be dramatic to call that child abuse?

  Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath.

  My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile.

  Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup.

  I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole.

  “Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles.

  I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.”

  “He’s only three years younger than us.”

  “Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.”

  My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity.

  “God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!”

  “That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned.

  “Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled.

  “What do you think the password is?”

  “Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said.

  “Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.”

  My parents had retired to the living room while I cleaned up and Helen tried doing damage control for the sake of my love life.

  “I have a good picture of you from Facebook,” she said. “Oh my god, Charlie, you have three messages from men who want to date you.”

  “Read them to me,” I called out.

  “Okay, this is from Rod in Hollywood. It says, ‘Charlotte, I’m dying to see your ink. I also like your candor. Can we chat?’ ”

  “What does he look like?”

  “Oh no, his entire face is tattooed.”

  “Move on. Read the next one.”

  “This is Ben in Encino. He says, ‘Charlotte, hit me up, yo.’ ”

  “Next!” my mother and I said in unison.

  “Okay, this is Charles from TO. It’s your brother.” Helen starts chuckling. “It says, ‘Hey Fatbutt, guess you figured out the password. Please don’t trick any poor fools into dating you by lying about your disgusting habits and sick-ass halitosis. Love, Chucky.’ ”

  “Bastard,” I said under my breath.

  “Charlotte Ann Martin!” my father scolded from the other room.

  I didn’t think he could hear me.

  “Okay, I’m fixing it,” Helen said.

  The picture she changed it to was of me in a skimpy bikini, standing in a house in Cabo, holding an ice pack to one eye and frowning. Our families were on vacation there the year before. I had gotten stung by a bee on my forehead and my entire left eye had swollen like a puffer fish.

  “That picture?”

  “You look vulnerable and cute and your body looks hot.”

  The new profile details read:

  I’m Charlotte, 27, and mildly allergic to bees, but I do love being outside, going to the beach, live music, baseball, and dining out! I love life and adventure, especially when I have someone to share it with.

  “I like it, but baseball?”

  “You love going to baseball games,” Helen said.

  “Right, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I don’t even know any of the players on the Dodgers.”

  “Listen to me. Guys like girls who are willing to watch sports with them. I wouldn’t be caught dead at a baseball game, but you love that shit.”

  “Honestly, it’s the butts in the baseball pants I love.”

  “Nevertheless, Charlie, you only have so many angles. Would you rather I include your proclivity for men with debilitating phobias and cross-dressing fetishes?”

  “Fine, leave the baseball thing.”

  When we left my parents’ house that night, my mom told me to be patient and my dad said, “You better figure it out. Your college fund is gone and I can’t help you out of a pickle.”

  I hugged him even though I felt wounded. “I will, Dad. I’m gonna be a hairdresser.”

  “What, like how you were gonna be a real estate agent?”

  That stung.

  Helen tugged on my arm. “Come on, Charlie. Bye Pops, bye Mom, we gotta go.”

  Sometimes she saved me from their scrutiny, and I did the same for her with her parents. We relied on each other a lot. Maybe too much.

  8. Jedi Mind Trick

  A week later, I was checking Match.com. I laughed out loud at a message I had gotten.

  Charlotte, hello, my name’s Seth Taylor and I’m also mildly allergic to bees, love baseball, and have asshole family members who think they’re hilarious. (I caught on pretty quickly to your original profile details.) I live south of LA. I’m not great at emailing or texting, so if you want to talk, here’s my number. I’d love to chat with you.

  I was sitting on the couch in our apartment, waiting for his profile picture to load.

  “Oh my god.”

  From the bathroom, Helen yelled, “What? Is he ugly? Or is it an old guy?”

  I was speechless. Seth Taylor was hot. Like, surpassing a ten on the range of hotness into he would never give me the time of day territory. Of course he posted a picture of himself lying on a beach, shirtless, with an adorable sleeping black Lab splayed across his twelve-pack abs. I wanted to be lying across his twelve-pack abs. I’d polish his twelve-pack abs with my tongue if I could.

  “No, he’s cute!” I called out. “But he’s a dog guy.”

  Helen came out of the bathroom and looked over my shoulder. “He’s gorgeous.”

  “He would never like me,” I said.

  “Give it a chance.”

  It was a Monday at ten in the morning. “Do you think it would be weird to call him now?” I couldn’t take my eyes off his photo. He had short, golden-brown hair, blue eyes, and a perfectly scruffy jawline. He had a playful expression in the photo,
like those people who can smile with just the corners of their eyes.

  “You should call him. He’s gonna get snatched up. And look, he’s younger than you, you cougar.”

  “He’s two years younger than me,” I protested.

  “Call him!” Helen messed up my hair, then skipped off to her room.

  I dialed his number. “Hello,” he said. His voice was deeper and smoother than I expected. It radiated through me.

  “Hi.”

  “Hi.”

  I should have written down at least five go-to lines before I dialed his number.

  “I’m Charlotte. I’m the girl you messaged on Match.”

  “Hi, Charlotte, I’m Seth.”

  Awkward silence. “Hi, Seth.”

  “Well, I think we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way. Your profile was pretty brief, although I did appreciate the prom picture that was up before this new one, which, by the way, is hot, even though you’re holding an ice pack to your face.”

  He called me hot. Is that good or bad? Stop overthinking this, Charlotte, and talk to the poor guy. “Oh, thank you. That first profile was my brother’s creative genius.”

  “I figured. I’m actually the youngest with three sisters—so I fully understand how sibling love works.”

  “Three sisters? My goodness. That must have been interesting.”

  “There was a lot of drama and fighting over the bathroom. I’m also very skilled at painting nails and picking out accessories.”

  “I just realized I didn’t look at your profile details. All I saw was your picture and the message you sent me.”

  “You should have done your research. We might have nothing in common. I can read it to you if you want?”

  “Sure.” This is weird.

  “ ‘I’m Seth Taylor, I enjoy hunting large endangered species and finding ways to get out of paying my taxes. I’m better looking than most people and I hate everyone under the age of eighteen and over the age of fifty-five. I own a lot of button-down stripies and my favorite cologne is called Sex Panther, which is made with little bits of real panther so you know it’s good. Hit me up.’ ”

  There was no way I could contain my laughter. Before I even responded, I went to his profile on my laptop and saw zero description, so I knew he was making the whole thing up.

  “What do you think?”

  I was still laughing. “Sex Panther sounds delicious.”

  “Women like it, sixty percent of the time, every time.”

  “All right, I found your real profile but there’s no description, clever guy.”

  “Well, I can tell you about myself. I lied about the little bits of panther; everything else is true. What else do you wanna know?”

  The conversation was picking up with ease. I felt comfortable talking to him. He seemed down-to-earth and fun.

  “Where do you live, what do you do? What do you like to do for fun? Is that your dog in the profile?”

  “Yes, that is my dog, Obi-Wan, and he’s awesome. I live in Encinitas. Do you know where that is?”

  “Yeah, on the coast, right? In San Diego?”

  “Yep. I’m embarrassed to admit this but I’m living with my parents until I finish school.”

  Ugh, he’s still in college at twenty-five?

  “What else?”

  “I like baseball and I like to surf. But let me tell you more in person. Can we meet tomorrow night?”

  The invitation was completely abrupt. “Um, well . . .”

  “I mean, I have to take off right now. But I wanted to plan something . . . with you.”

  “Yeah, sure, where do you want to meet?”

  “How about you text me an address and I’ll meet you there at seven tomorrow?”

  “Okay. Sounds good.”

  “Looking forward to seeing you in person.”

  “Likewise.” We hung up.

  I screamed with excitement and then Helen and I danced around the apartment. Adam would soon be a distant memory once I went out with cute and clever Seth.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, Helen picked out a slutty outfit for me to wear, but I chose to go with jeans, a sweater, and flats. We were to meet at Villains. I figured I better keep it close and safe so I could call in reinforcements if I needed to.

  When I got there, I took a seat at the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. I checked my phone and looked around every five minutes. Five minutes turned into thirty minutes—and no Seth.

  I texted Helen.

  Me: I’m getting stood up. He’s still not here.

  Helen: He lives far away. Text him or give him another twenty.

  Me: This is beyond rude. He should be texting me.

  After an hour, three glasses of wine, and no food, I began Googling convents in the area. Not surprisingly, there weren’t many. Helen hopped onto the stool next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “Awh, Charlie, I’m sorry.”

  She peeked at my phone. “You going to marry God now?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Stop drowning your sorrows in that wine. Let’s go home. We have to do brunch tomorrow at the restaurant and you know how Jon-Jon gets when we show up hungover.”

  “I only have so many fucks to give, Helen, and Jon-Jon is not one of them.” I used Adam’s line because it was true. I needed to prioritize.

  She pulled the glass out of my hand and downed the rest of it. “Let’s make a deal. We’ll get wine tomorrow after work and scroll through Match.com together and look for nice boys . . . for both of us.”

  “No,” I barked. “As a matter of fact . . .” I hit the Match.com app on my phone and immediately deleted it. “I’m over it. I’m taking a break from dating. Giving myself six months, minimum.”

  Helen laughed. She didn’t believe me, but I had suddenly and finally acquired some resolve after being a flake for so long. Getting dropped on your ass by two men back to back will do that to you.

  9. [ . . .]

  Six months later . . .

  Six months into my celibacy, I was still slinging fries at Blackbird’s. Helen had managed to date a busboy, a cook, and the UPS delivery man. He serviced Blackbird’s while sweet Helen serviced him in the supply closet. She rebounded about ten times after Luc while he watched on with indifference. She told me I needed a rebound, too, but from what? A one-night stand and getting stood up almost immediately after by a hot guy with abs?

  One Tuesday my mom came down for dinner at Blackbird’s. After our shift she was going to follow us back to my apartment so I could touch up her roots. I was muddling through the beginning of cosmetology school but losing interest with every day that passed, much to the surprise of no one.

  I looked over to where my mom was sitting and noticed she was lowering and raising the stupid little tortilla soup flag like it was a toy. Approaching her table I said, “Are you bored?”

  “Not at all, sweetie.” My mom had the most pleasant speaking voice and the kindest eyes. She made everyone smile. Helen always said my mom and I were alike in that way. I hoped it was true.

  I sat down next to her in the booth, feeling suddenly curious about her at my age. I realized I had never asked her,“What did you want to do when you were younger, Mom?”

  “What do you mean? Like, travel?”

  “No, as your career?”

  She sighed. “I wanted to do so many different things. But times were different back then. I was married and pregnant by twenty-one, and your dad was in dental school. I worked at Penny’s for about six months and then I was your mom . . . and then Chuck’s mom.”

  “What were the so many things you wanted to be?”

  Jon-Jon walked by, paused, and looked over at me. “Sitting on the job, are we?” he said.

  “I’m taking my fifteen-minute, mandated-by-law break right now with my mom. Helen is covering my tables.” Jon-Jon never offered breaks even though he knew we were supposed to get them.

  “You need to run that by me first,” h
e said.

  “I couldn’t find you. Papi said you were in the bathroom for half an hour.”

  He scowled before walking away.

  “What’s his problem?” my mom said.

  “Well, that’s him,” I pointed to his frumpy, fat butt and permanent wedgie as he walked away. And then I pointed to his older brother, Jack. “And that’s his brother, who is the owner of this restaurant. Jon-Jon has worked for him for fifteen years.” Jack was an extremely handsome forty-something. He owned three different Blackbird’s locations and Jon-Jon was just the manager of one.

  “Oh, I see. Sibling rivalry,” my mom said.

  “Yeah, I know how it is.”

  “Why do you talk like that, Charlotte?”

  “Because Chucky is the golden boy and I work at this place.” I waved my hand around vaguely. “Look around. Look at what I’m wearing.” I pointed to my bow tie.

  “I love you, Charlotte. I know your dad is hard on you, but I wouldn’t care if you served tortilla soup for the rest of your life. I just wish you and Helen weren’t perpetually single.”

  None of the relationships I’d had were worth discussing with my mom; they’d only met Curtis by accident.

  “Everyone says Chucky is so good-looking and smart and was such an athlete. Dad didn’t go to a single one of my soccer games in high school because I wasn’t good enough. Chucky got all the girls in high school. The boys just thought I was awkward.”

  She huffed. “Have you looked in a mirror lately? You have grown into a gorgeous young woman. Would you have some confidence, please? Sit up straight.”

  I was taking slouching and bad posture to a whole new level. “I just feel like I’m at a dead end.”

  “Well, it’s time to make a goddamn U-turn, kid. By the way, I might have gone on your computer dating thing.” She shot me a sheepish look. “Don’t be mad. Helen told me you stopped using it after that Seth guy stood you up.”

  “Yeah, I changed my freaking phone number the next day, too. Clean slate.”

  “Hmm, that explains it.”

  Jon-Jon was back. “Is that fifteen?”

  I looked at my imaginary watch. “Nope, only twelve.”