by Tamara Lush
The group screeches in laughter.
“Once,” Mrs. Myers says, holding up a hand, “back when I was playing the field, I was out with a gentleman in Manhattan. We were walking down the street and he was quite agitated. Then he sprinted off. I ran after him.”
“That was your first mistake,” I crack.
“Exactly. When I caught up with him, he told me that he was wanted by the cops for dealing dope. He was later arrested and sent to Rikers.”
“Dodged a bullet there,” comments Mrs. Richards.
“I’ve got one,” I say. “Well, I’ve got many. But once I met a guy on Tinder and I showed up to dinner. He had no teeth. Like none. Toothless as a baby.”
“Was he elderly and forgot to put his dentures in?” Ma asks. “I don’t think you ever told me about him.”
“I did. And no. He was my age. I think he’d had a tangle with the meth pipe.”
“Oh dear,” says Mrs. Meyer. “What about tonight’s man? Where did you meet him?”
I sigh. “I met tonight’s guy on Tinder. He seems nice. Works on the mainland as an environmental engineer. He’s coming over to have dinner at the Square Grouper.”
“Make sure to order the chargrilled oysters, so delicious,” pipes up Mrs. Richards.
“So, what’s the problem? Sounds lovely,” says Mrs. Meyer.
“I made the date with him early last week. Then Sunday I met the other guy. The beach guy.”
“The one she kissed during the photo shoot,” Ma points out helpfully.
“Thanks, Ma,” I say.
“And so? You’re not marrying him, are you?” Mrs. Richards demands. She’s always been a little bossy.
“No. No! I mean, we’re seeing each other Friday night. That’s all.”
“Well, what if he doesn’t show up?” one of the women, a newcomer, chimes in.
Good point. I’ve been ghosted by past dates…
“I think you should keep your options open, especially because of his status. And your preferences.” Ma gives me a pointed look.
“What status?” asks Mrs. Meyer. “Is he a convicted felon? Not yet divorced?”
I roll my eyes. This was a terrible idea, getting this gang involved in my personal life. “He’s divorced. He’s also a single dad.”
“What have you got against single dads?” Mrs. Richards asks.
“Nothing. I just…I don’t know if I like kids. Not sure if I want them. What if I don’t like his daughter? What if she doesn’t like me?”
“Dear, you’re not going to be her mother,” Ma points out.
“I know, but…won’t there be complications if we start to date?”
“Who says you’re going to date? Maybe you’ll just hit it and quit it.” Mrs. Meyer shrugs.
I gape at her, wondering if that’s the lingo of senior citizens these days. Hit it and quit it.
Ma’s bracelets jangle as her hands flutter in the air. “That’s right, dear. You don’t have to cancel tonight just because you felt a connection with Mark. What if you see him Friday and the spark’s gone? No spark with Mark. Or what if he stands you up?”
I squint at Ma. “Mark? You mean Matt. Matthew.”
“Yes. Him. Don’t lose out on a possible good time with tonight’s man. But only if you want. You don’t need a man to complete you. You can be single your entire life and be happy. I’ve always told you that. You can also stay home with Mister Sinister tonight and watch a movie. And Chunky could join you.”
I open my eyes wide, then blink. “That’s an alluring image, me eating junk food at home, surrounded by my crotchety cat and a pudgy pug. It’s like a children’s book, one that warns kids how not to live life.”
Though I think I’m living life pretty well. I have friends, a beautiful beachfront condo, two great jobs… I have to admit, though, it would be nice to have some attention from a decent man. In my bed, especially.
“Go on the date tonight. Christ Almighty, stop bellyaching. Eat some oysters and fool around with Tinder Twinkie. Have fun with Mr. Beach Hunk on Friday. Enjoy being single. God knows I should have when I was young. Sex is a wonderful thing, and I think you need more of it, missy,” Mrs. Meyer says.
“Thanks for that advice,” I grumble.
I bury my head in my beads as the conversation turns to whether or not the island’s handsome mayor is into kinky sex. I should be taking notes for my friend and neighbor Sadie, who has a crush on the guy. But all I can think about is Matthew and his eyes that are the color of the silver beads in my hands.
Still, this group of wise women is probably right. I’m under no obligation to him, amazing kisses be damned. Who knows if he’ll show up, even. It’s not like we’ve made a commitment to each other.
Plus, Jordan seems like a nice person — maybe a little conservative and stodgy, but I like to give people the benefit of the doubt. Not everyone can project their best selves on Tinder.
The worst that can happen is I’ll eat oysters, get a little horny, and end up like I have the past few nights — alone, in my bed, with my vibrator, thinking of Matthew.
Chapter Six
NATALIA
I saunter into the Square Grouper fifteen minutes early. It’s my thing, arriving early to a Tinder date. It allows me to get comfy, take a few sips of water, and feel grounded. Despite my rousing success on the beach the other night with Matthew, I’m not the best at dating.
Normally, I’m awkward, blurt snarky and inappropriate things, and am generally a nervous wreck. Unlike with my other Tinder dates, though, I’m not feeling anxious tonight. Not even a bit.
Honestly, I’m in a sleepy mood after drinking all that herbal tea at Bead and B*tch. Going home, nestling into my sofa, and texting with Matthew while Mister Sinister kneads my belly with his paws sounds pretty awesome right now.
But, I’m here early and ready to mingle. Or at least be friendly over a decent dinner. I hate when people cancel on me hours before an appointment, and I’m nothing if not polite. Plus, ever since there was talk of chargrilled oysters during the craft hour, I’ve been hankering for a dozen. I can already smell the smoky, salty goodness in the air, and my stomach rumbles in response.
“Hey, Nat. You eating at the bar tonight?” It’s Dexter, the owner. He went to school with my brother Max. They were close in high school, almost like brothers. Max and Dex. Dex and Max. With sandy hair, pale skin, broad-shoulders, and a six-two frame, I never imagined he’d be single for this long. Some people on the island thought we’d hook up, but memories of him sleeping over and lighting his farts on fire with my brother when they were twelve keep him firmly, and eternally, in the friend zone.
“No, I’ve got a date,” I whisper.
Dexter grins. “Ahh, it’s probably that dude over in the corner. He looks like he’s waiting for someone.”
“Where?” I crane my neck, hoping to get a glimpse of Jordan before I take the plunge.
“Back corner. Waterfront side. Here, hide behind these plants and you can sneak a peek.” He points to a bank of potted tropical ferns.
Feeling foolish — but obviously not foolish enough, because I step over to the ferns and part them slightly, like I’m in a spy movie — I focus on the man at the table in the corner. The guy is handsome, if not a little stern-looking. Probably a few years older than me. Wearing a suit. At least he looks like his profile pic. Once, I went out with a guy whose profile pic turned out to be from 1983. I’d thought it was an Instagram filter. Turned out, he was the real deal, a 1980s cocaine cowboy kind of dude. Cool guy, though. Owned a parrot. Awesome storyteller. We had a lovely dinner, although I did wonder if he was still wanted by the feds.
Experiences like that are why I don’t mind online dating — at least I meet some interesting people.
“Not bad,” I say out loud.
“Seems like a business type of guy. He’s not from the island, is he?”
“How’d you guess?” I let the ferns fall back into place and glance at Dex.
&nbs
p; “Not many people show up to The Grouper in a suit in the dog days of summer.”
“Well, maybe this means he really does have a job, like he claimed in his profile,” I offer hopefully.
“Or that he owns a suit.”
“Or that.” Not many people on Paradise Beach dress up for work. Even I feel overdressed in my simple, black, cotton wrap dress.
Dexter shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve struck out with online dating. Hey, I thought you hooked up with that guy during the beach photo thing the other day?”
I roll my eyes. “Does literally everyone on the island know my business? Is it in the paper today? Did a plane fly a banner over the beach with the news?”
“Naw. Saw your brother Remy and he told me all about it.”
“Jesus, that’s so Remy,” I whisper, and stalk off to meet Jordan. Still, the idea that people know about Matthew and me leaves a pleasant afterglow in my chest. Not for long, though, because when I arrive at the table overlooking the water, my date is on the phone, barking out orders to some unfortunate assistant or secretary.
“The spreadsheets. I told you. They’re in the folder marked Mall Project. No, not Mall Project One. Did I say the word one? How many times do I have to repeat myself? You need to open your ears and listen. Text me when you’ve gone over them.”
I’m wincing as he sets his phone down on the table and stands. “Hello there,” he says, his demeanor changing from arrogant and annoyed to smooth and seductive. He’s grinning like a cross between a car salesman and a predatory shark.
My heart speeds up, and not out of lust. My breath catches in my throat. It’s an involuntary reaction to men like him.
“Hello.” I pause, debating whether I should sit, turn and run out of the restaurant, or kick him in the balls simply for existing. I loathe arrogant men, and I’d even put that on my online dating profile.
Jordan holds out his hand and I take it. His handshake is firm, competent, normal. I exhale.
Maybe I caught him at a bad moment. Maybe his assistant or secretary really is incompetent. Give him a chance. I smile and let go of his hand, sliding into the booth. An image of Matthew comes to mind, the one where he carefully helped Nina’s assistant fold the beach blanket when we were finished.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I say.
“It’s definitely nice to meet you.” Jordan’s eyes roam down my face and land on my breasts. “Somehow I thought you’d be taller. And blonder. You should wear your hair down. Your ears stick out a little.”
My hand goes to my nape, and I snatch it away from my bun. Deep in my body, my stomach churns. “So, how long did it take you to get here?”
He shrugs. “’Bout a half-hour.”
I nod, trying to diffuse the conversation storm that I feel brewing. “You originally from Sarasota?”
“Nah. Ohio. Moved here a couple of years ago.”
“Oh.” I smile, awaiting the usual conversational back-and-forth. When none comes, I try again. “Do you come to Paradise Beach often?”
He blinks. “What is this, a job interview?”
My mouth goes dry. “Um. Just trying to find out more about you. Like people do, you know. On dates.”
He grins, another toothy, dazzling smile. “Dates. Is this a date? I thought we were here to get some food then hit the sack.” He makes a little thrusting motion with his fist. “Just kidding. Where the fuck is the waitress?”
Oh, yeah. This is going down the toilet, fast. My initial instinct to kick him in the balls was the correct one. I narrow my eyes. “You seemed quite different online. Am I at the right table? You’re Jordan, correct?”
“Yeah, that’s me. You think I’m a dick?” he asks in a surly, slightly menacing tone. Eek. Not good.
I glance around, hoping to catch the eye of Dexter. Maybe I can scarf down some oysters and hightail it out of here.
A sigh escapes my mouth. Maybe I’m being harsh. I force a smile. “Let’s try this again. I’m Natalia.”
The corners of his mouth turn up, but he shows no teeth. “Jordan. Nice to meet you.”
I lean forward, inhaling the briny, garlicky, seafood smell. “Tell me something interesting. What have you been doing lately? I recall online that you said something about being an avid cable news watcher.”
Nodding, he drums his fingers on the table. “You know, I’ve been trying to figure out why so many people these days are going nuts and shooting everyone. I think it might be all those popular TV shows. I call it diarrhea TV.”
Oookay. Maybe I can get a to-go bag for the oysters. My eyes dart around the room, then finally out the window at the pretty, blue Gulf water. I’ll say I’m going to the bathroom and try to snag some oysters on my way out.
He continues. “Like Orange is the New Black, Jane the Virgin, Downton Abbey. Diarrhea.”
“What?” I whisper, squinting. That doesn’t even make sense. All of my favorite shows. Is this guy for real? I’m saved from lobbing a snarky comeback his way by the waitress, a clearly overworked woman of about forty. The place is packed and she’s seemingly the only server.
“We’ll have a bottle of pinot noir and the calamari,” Jordan snaps. “And make it quick. I’m starving over here.”
I realize my face is frozen in a squinty grimace, but I don’t bother to relax my muscles. Nasty phone demeanor? Check. Snide comments about my appearance almost immediately, as if he’s trying to tear me down? Check. Arrogant to the wait staff? Check.
It’s like the trifecta of awful male behavior in one ridiculous three-minute span. What attracted me to this guy on Tinder, anyway? I rack my brain, trying to remember. Oh, right. He asked about my cat and didn’t crack cat-lady-spinster jokes.
Lord, that’s pathetic. And sad. Really fricking disappointing, too. Why can’t men be, well, decent human beings?
“I’m the kind of guy who likes to keep current with the news, you know?”
I nod weakly, but offer no response. The squinty grimace is now permanent.
“The waitress better bring us water soon. I’m fucking parched. If she doesn’t, I’m complaining to the manager. I do that, you know. Don’t cut ‘em any slack.”
If there’s something I loathe, it’s people who are nasty to service workers. Probably because I spend so much time working with them at the resort.
I’ll admit that after years of being in an abusive, terrible, dysfunctional relationship in high school, I’m a little sensitive to men who exhibit certain alpha tendencies. Hell, I was so scared and adamant about not being bullied by my ex, Chad, ever again that I took up martial arts.
After Chad, I also vowed to always listen to my gut. Right now, my gut’s screaming that this guy’s bad news. My hand goes to my purse strap, but I want oysters, badly. My dignity battles it out with my stomach over whether I should leave.
“Maybe when the server comes back, she can take my order, too.” I smirk.
A chuckle escapes his lips. “What, babe? I just wanted to take care of you by ordering. Take a load off that pretty little head of yours. What? You don’t like it when a guy takes charge?”
Babe? Something snaps in my brain. I scowl at him and he grins wider. I think about Matthew and his last silly text about an hour ago. He’d sent a photo of a billboard that said ARRESTED? 1-855-WTF-POPO. It made me laugh for a straight five minutes.
You don’t like it when a man takes charge?
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I say briskly, standing up.
Jordan stands up and leans in. “What? You don’t like men talking during a date? You some kind of ballbuster?”
“Actually, yes, I am. A ballbuster. That’s my middle name, in fact. Natalia Ballbuster Hastings.” I glare at him. “You seemed different online. Kinder. For future dates, you might want to stick to that.”
He tosses his napkin down and sneers. “You seemed different, too. Thought your tits would be bigger. I figured you’d be desperate because you live alone with your pussycat. Guess I was wrong. Go home to
your cat, because you won’t be getting this tonight.”
He motions to his dick. I grimace. Is he for real?
I snort. “I’d never be desperate enough to fuck you.”
As he walks off, he hisses the word “bitch” under his breath. Since I don’t want to be in the parking lot alone with him, I sink back into the booth, my heart pounding. Everything about the last ten minutes reminded me of Chad. Always fighting. Always walking on eggshells. Always being put down. This guy was simply a little more blatant, and quicker, with his verbal abuse. With Chad, it took months. By that time, I was already deep in his web and thought I was in love.
The waitress comes over, her pretty face pinched with worry. “I’m so sorry, we’re out of that kind of wine,” she says, wringing her hands. “But the calamari’s coming soon.”
“It’s okay,” I say in a soothing voice, beaming at her. “Can you bring one Corona instead? And I’ll take a dozen chargrilled oysters. Maybe you can split the calamari with me, since my dining companion thankfully decided to leave.”
Her grateful smile and my relaxed muscles tell me I’ve done the right thing. I turn to my phone, fighting the urge to recount to Matthew what just happened. No, that’s a rotten idea.
Instead, I text him a photo of my ice-cold beer when it and the oysters arrive.
Wish you were sharing this with me. Tastes amazing after a long day.
You are speaking my language, girl. Can’t wait to see you on Friday.
I grin and spear a smoky oyster, enjoying the entire dozen by myself.
Chapter Seven
NATALIA
“You don’t like it when a guy takes charge, Natalia? I think you do. I think you love it, just like you love me.”
One wide hand slaps the metal locker just inches from my ear. Then the other hand, on the other side. I’m caged, and alone with Chad in the hallway of Paradise Beach High. He’s in a possessive mood, I can tell. Probably because he saw me helping Jason with the project in chemistry class.
I roll my eyes.
