by Sierra Rose
“I am. I want you to hear it.”
“I’m listening.” She stretched out on her bed and shut her eyes, gave herself up to the lonely sound of guitar strings and his voice, low and smoky and intimate.
“Clever girl/I lost my heart/can you help me find it now?/You say we’re nothing/none of that is true/I found myself/when I found you.”
“Do you like it?” he asked.
“Yeah, I do. It’s beautiful,” she breathed, feeling that twist in her stomach that she knew was the war between yearning and regret. What would he sing, she wondered, if he knew she had dinner with Chris?
“It’s called Two Margaritas.”
“Is that my nickname now?”
“What makes you think it’s about you?” he teased.
“Obviously because I’m clever.”
“Right. Well, of course it’s about you because...it is. I wrote it the morning after we...met.”
“I was nursing a hangover and a major case of shame. You were all, oh hey I’ll make some art. You are so resilient.”
“You can be. If you trust yourself.”
“I don’t. I don’t trust myself to make the simplest choice because I wanted to play it safe and be with Kevin and look where that got me! I chose wrong. I was so SURE about him, that he was someone I could always count on. I was so fucking wrong it makes me sick, Jack. What if I was that wrong about you? It would be a six thousand times worse because I actually—”
“You actually give a shit about me?”
“A little more crass than I would have put it, but yeah. I know that makes me sound so bad about Kevin because I respected him, I liked him, liked knowing he was around and I could call him. But it wasn’t like, well, like this where you call me and I’m afraid to answer because I’m sort of...under your spell. As stupid as that sounds. But when you call, I can’t stand not to answer even if I end up saying something completely idiotic like now. I lose all sense of self control around you, I swear.”
“Don’t blame me, I’m miles away,” he said softly.
“And I’m GLAD you’re so far away. Because that keeps me from falling back into bed with you and getting in deeper.”
“What’s wrong with deeper?” he asked in such a sultry voice that she got a flash of what she’d like to be doing to him right in that moment.
“Too dangerous.” She said, her voice high, strained.
“And what’s the matter with dangerous?”
“Because I want you too much already,” she confessed. “I really want to go to sleep now. I’m not panicking, I just...I have to get up for work.”
“Dream about me,” he said, his voice warm, honeyed.
Britt closed her eyes and imagined that song again, the sound of his breath, his music, and it was too deep and too dangerous to fathom at all.
Chapter 7
Britt was adding all the completed insurance paperwork to the database for submission to their new carrier. She had her earbuds in, cranking some vintage Timberlake, glancing fast between the papers and the screen as she pounded out the information. Marj came in and sat down her desk, right on top of an insurance form.
Britt popped out one earbud and looked at her.
“What?”
“Coffee break time. What’s up? You seem pissed.”
“I am pissed. You roped me into that date with Chris the Pretentious and he was appallingly rude.”
“Don’t blame me. I’m not his mom; I didn’t raise him to be a mannerless heathen. Also, last time I checked you’re equipped with free will. I encouraged it but I did not come to your apartment, array you in a slutty dress and carry you bodily to the restaurant. So take credit for your choices.”
“Fine. I went. I said I’d go and I went. And I was sorry.”
“Here, cheer yourself up.” Marj passed her phone to Britt.
“What is this?”
“Tinder. You swipe right to like, left to nope.”
“Nope? That’s not a verb, Marj.”
“Sure it is. Look at him. Nope him. He has weird facial hair.”
“That’s harsh. You can’t nope someone for a bad hair decision!”
“Sure I can. It’s my phone. Oooh, like him. Right swipe, woman, right swipe!”
Soon, Britt was caught up in the addictive nature of the swiping and had piled up several matches for her friend.
“Ooh, this one’s messaging you! What do I do?”
“Delete him. That’s a winky face. He sent a winky face emoji. There is no recovery from that. Into the trash with him.”
“You are a cruel woman,” Britt laughed. “What about this guy? This is the cute guy with the kayak.”
“No one really has a kayak. He posed by one for his Tinder picture. They all have some kind of oh-I’m-outdoorsy shot. That way we can’t tell they spend all their time playing Call of Duty and eating Taco Bell.”
“He didn’t use any emoji. He says ‘hey how ru?’ What do I say?”
“I don’t care. Answer him.”
“Okay, I said nice kayak.”
“Very original. He says how are you and you say ‘nice kayak’? Social skills, babe. Learn them.”
“He’s answered back! Look! I feel like we’re winning. This is better than eBay!”
“Eh, never mind he just called us a hot mama. I disallow hot mama.”
“I think everyone since about 1985 has disallowed hot mama. He’s either older than he says or he’s a creep.”
“I say both. Next.”
Britt looked at new matches.
“Oh my gosh! Look at this one. He could be a Hemsworth.”
“Their eyes are too close together and the one in Hunger Games seemed stupid.”
“And you only date rocket scientists?” Britt said dubiously. “He is gorgeous. I’m right swiping him I don’t care what you say.”
“Whatever,” Marj said.
“It’s a match! I’m so making you go out with the Hemsworth! He’s messaging us!” Britt said, the other earbud dangling from her computer now as she seized the phone with both hands eagerly.
“Ha! He likes DIY shows, Mumford & Sons and his favorite movies are the Mad Max series. Winner winner, YOU are going to DINNER!” Britt crowed.
“No, you are.”
“What?”
“Tap there to look at the profile, Britt.”
“What the hell?”
There in the profile were three photos of Britt, one from Silver Rain, one from a dressing room when she’d tried on the tight blue dress for her anniversary, and one in a bathing suit from the summer before. Her name and age were on the profile. She realized with a sick thud that she’d been swiping and messaging for herself. Marj had set her up.
“Undo it. Make it go away or I will never forgive you.” She snapped.
“Way to overreact. I’m trying to get you back in the game. What’s the harm in a little right swiping? Instant messaging? No crimes were committed and you said yourself he’s gorgeous and he obviously liked your pictures too.”
“I am not LOOKING for some guy on Tinder.”
“Well, you didn’t have much luck at the bar since Chris was such a tool. I thought we’d cast a wider net.”
“Look, you can either message this guy and let him know you set me up and I’m not coming or you can go meet him yourself. Just make it go away.”
“Gosh, you act like I did something terrible!” Marj said, offended, and took the phone back.
Britt got back to work and tried to push down her anger, mainly at herself for not being up front with Marj. Although that was sort of a Tinder entrapment scheme, she thought ruefully. It was so addicting to approve or disapprove of people’s pictures and messages. She sighed. Wishing Jack was there, then being glad he wasn’t because things were so much more complicated when he was nearby. Particularly because she wanted to kiss him and never stop, which was awkward in the workplace.
That afternoon, she hesitated, considered skipping her weekly coffee with Marj, but she decided that was to
o much like pouting. Marj had been out of line but she meant well, her intentions were good. No reason to be a total bitch about it, Britt told herself as she ordered a coffee and a cookie. She might even share her cookie with Marj in the interest of peace. She sat at their usual table and watched the people going by on the sidewalk. She was soothed by the low conversation in the place, by the whoosh and hiss of the coffee machines. Halfway through her latte, Marj showed up with a guy. Correction, with THE Tinder guy.
“I’m Greg. We met...earlier. Your friend explained the whole situation and I was hoping you’d still be willing to meet me.”
“No thanks, Greg. I’m sorry you came here for nothing but I’m not interested in doing Tinder, for hook ups or otherwise,” Britt said, glaring pointedly at Marj for putting her in this situation.
“At least let me buy you a muffin to make up for the mental distress of being Tinder-jacked,” he said with a winning smile.
Greg was cute. Greg seemed easygoing. Britt wanted desperately to stomp out of there and leave her latte steaming on the table, but to do so was to be, in her estimation, horribly rude. Not just to Marj, her best friend, but to Greg who innocently met up with her and didn’t deserve the snub. She had, herself, been so recently jilted at Tamarind, that she quailed from dumping on another unsuspecting person who had done nothing wrong.
“Marj, I need to speak with you. Greg, please have a seat. I’m afraid this isn’t going to go the way you’d hoped,” Britt said evenly.
She led Marj over by the door, out of his earshot.
“Why the fuck would you do this? It’s arrogant of you to think that I can’t handle my own personal life and we’ve gone past the point of it being in good fun. Now you’re being controlling and this poor guy is going to get rejected because YOU think you can push me around.”
“I’m not pushing you around. You picked him out on Tinder. You made a date with him, not me.”
“I made a date for you. I thought I made a date for you. I do not want to be on Tinder. I do not want to have coffee with Greg and I sure as hell don’t want to talk to you right now. So take your Tinder boy, buy him some coffee and leave me alone. This is really ridiculous of you and I can’t believe you’re blaming me!”
“Sometimes, Britt, you get yourself into situations and you look for somebody whose fault it could be. You’re not helpless. You never have been. In fact, that’s your whole problem. You think things happen TO you. You got dumped, got picked up, got laid. Now you selected a guy, messaged with him, and you’re refusing to even talk to him, because it might mean you have to take ownership of your own actions.”
“Marj,” Britt said crossly. “This is about you bringing him someplace to force me to meet him. Now you brought him, take him back.”
Greg tapped her on the shoulder.
“I can take myself out of here. I don’t want to cause trouble. You ladies have a good evening,” he said.
“No, wait. I’m sorry. I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at her. You don’t have to go.” Britt sighed, defeated. He’d been too nice about it. She couldn’t be mean back.
Marj smiled, triumphant, and sashayed out the door of the coffee shop under Britt’s undisguised glare.
At the table, she sat with pursed lips watching Greg add packets of sugar to his coffee.
“Listen, I’m sorry if I caused any problems with you and your friend,” he said.
“None of this is your fault. You’re just in the crossfire. I’m the one who should apologize. I was playing on Marj’s phone, thinking it was her Tinder profile. So I did pick you out, I just picked you out for her, not myself.”
“Yeah she told me. That you picked me for her and she wanted me for you. It’s not all that flattering when you come to think of it, that you both are trying to unload me. I don’t really drink coffee, in fact. So you’re free to go.” He said affably.
“I think that would be impolite considering the fact that you got dragged into a power struggle between two women.”
“That is, like, every man’s fantasy if it were true,” he joked.
“Well, if we were naked in a pit of Jell-o or something, I’d believe it. Us bitching at each other in a coffee shop not so much catnip for thrill seekers, I’m guessing.”
“I was trying to put a better spin on it, Britt,” he said. “I haven’t had much luck on Tinder.”
“Not getting enough right-swipes?”
“I get my share of swipes. I just can’t seem to get swiped by anyone I like.”
“Hang in there.”
“Do you really think Tinder works?”
“I have no idea. I just thought it was the appropriate time to say something encouraging.”
“I want someone to date, go places with. Nothing serious but just a way not to be lonely all the time. I work. I go to bars. I don’t meet anyone over the age of like 22 and they’re not exactly interested in me.”
“My dad always said if you want to meet a baseball fan, go to a game and if you want to meet a drunk, go to a bar.”
“Wise man, your dad. Baseball fan?”
“Nah. He was into music.”
“Was he a musician?”
“No but my boy—” She stopped herself short of saying that her boyfriend was one. She took a gulp of coffee and hoped for deliverance.
“Ex-boyfriend?”
“Kind of.” She said, meaning kind of boyfriend, not kind of ex.
“We won’t talk about him. What kind of work do you do?”
“I’m an accountant.”
“Really, that must be interesting.”
“Not really, but it’s easy and it pays the bills,” she admitted. “Greg, tell me about your last breakup.”
“My girlfriend Abbie slept with my best friend.”
“Ouch. What’s his name?”
“Charlie. And now they’re getting married and they want me to come to the wedding and let bygones be bygones. I know it’s the mature thing to do, just to wish them well, but he was boning my girlfriend.” He shrugged and took a drink of his sugary coffee and grimaced.
“I’m sorry about that. Like, on behalf of my people, I apologize that she slept with your friend.”
“Thanks. Not your fault. Probably my fault. I’ve been reading Cosmo and it looks like maybe I’m not that creative in bed. I should put that on my Tinder profile...Greg, 36, not creative in bed. Maybe I’ll get all kinds of right swipes!”
She giggled and he laughed along with her.
“Maybe you can help me update my profile so I can get more girls like you and fewer girls who ask what my salary is. Like, right up front, what do you earn? And their comments are so...”
“What?”
“Negative. Like I should grow a beard to look more manly or I should just shave my head cause it’s obvious I’m going bald. My hair is a very big topic of conversation apparently.”
“They sound like assholes.”
“That was my impression. So will you help me craft a better profile? Scroll through some pictures and pick out better ones?”
“Sure. Why not? I like being bossy,” she said.
“Tomorrow, same time, same place?”
“You hate coffee.”
“I’ll have water,” he said. “Thanks, Britt. This was fun. Much more so than I expected when it looked like there was going to be a smackdown.”
“Thanks. It was a lot better than I thought it would be, too,” she said.
Britt stopped by the shop and got a microwave dinner. She wasn’t going out with Marj, possibly ever again. She felt bereft that she and her best friend were in a fight, the biggest true disagreement they’d ever had. She wanted to talk to someone about it, to Jack actually. But how could she explain to him what she’d done, how she’d stayed on a coffee date with some guy she met on Tinder? She couldn’t talk openly with Marj about her problem with picking up a new guy because it meant telling her the truth about Jack. Stymied and lonesome, she added a bag of caramel corn to her shopping cart.
Chapter 8
Back at home after her scorched, plastic-tasting lasagna, she tucked into the caramel popcorn. Stretched out on her couch with the bag on her stomach, she tried to sort out what she ought to do. She had settled on never speaking to anyone again and becoming a recluse when Jack called.
“Hey, beautiful,” he said.
“Hi.”
“You sound down.”
“Brutal day,” she hedged, admitting nothing.
“Anything I can do to help?”
“Put me in the witness protection program?”
“That’s above my pay grade, babe.”
“I think I just want to go to sleep, okay?” she asked sheepishly, knowing he would be able to tell something was wrong.
“Did you get your present?”
“Not yet,” she said.
“Go check your mail, slacker.”
She got up off the couch and stalked down to her mailbox while they continued talking. She carried the box upstairs and slit the tape with scissors. Pulling apart the tissue paper inside, she found a good luck troll with hot pink hair. She burst out laughing.
“That was the reaction I wanted!” he declared.
“Thank you. She’s cute.”
“She?”
“Yes, I’m naming her Lucy. Lucy the Lucky Troll.”
“I got it because you brought me good luck, or at least listening to you did.”
“Which is why everyone should listen to me and I should be queen.”
“And you give me a hard time about ego,” he teased.
“I just wish that people would listen to me.”
“We will. But you have to talk. You have to say what you want.”
“I don’t know what I want. I mean, I don’t mean that. I DO know what I want, I just don’t like how complicated it is. I want you.”
“The only part of what you just said that makes any sense to me at all is that you want me. So let’s go from that. What’s complicated? Are you married? ‘Cause I’m not.”
“No!”
“Are you gay?”
“No.”
“Okay, me neither. Are you a wanted felon? Do you have a secret terminal illness?”
“No. What are you doing?”
“Does your family hate Irish people, graphic design or the guitar?”
