by SM Lumetta
“I’m the lead mail sorter.” The lead mail sorter. Because of course he is. The look of pride on his face is comical and almost endearing. Almost.
I should feel bad for what I say next. But fret not, I don’t.
“So you lied.”
“What?” His expression goes full-on deer in the headlights.
I take a little too much pleasure in this reaction. No, no I take that back. Never too much pleasure in calling out liars. Never.
“You lied,” I say, and now I’m ready to grill him like a legit hard-hitting investigative journalist, like Anderson Cooper. Woohoo! Promoted! “On your profile. You literally wrote ‘architect.’ ”
He stutters for a minute, eventually stuttering into, “Oh, no, I’m pretty sure I wrote architectural firm something or other.”
Way to be specific.
I glance around, curious as to whether anyone else is hearing this shit, but the restaurant is dim. Several of the patrons are what appear to be actual couples that have no interest in my date’s failure.
“No. You didn’t, actually.” I pull out my phone and prepare to pull up the app. “Would you like me to show you your profile?”
“Excuse me?”
“I would if you confessed.” I wink. His expression then tells me he didn’t follow. I roll my eyes before slowing down my speech. “I would excuse you if—oh, never mind. Who cares?”
He’s completely flustered now, blinking like he has something in both eyes. I take pity. But little, very little.
“Listen, Alan.”
“Alistair.”
“Whatever. How can I even be sure that’s your name?” I say, and for once he doesn’t respond at all. “Anyhoosier, I am really hungry and looking forward to the cheesy spinach and artichoke goodness that’s coming my way any minute.”
“Oh yeah! Me, too,” he says, melting into a gooey smile that makes me want to vomit a little. Clearly he has the assumption that I’m letting go of all the previous offenses. He settles back in his seat and rubs his hands together like a cartoon villain.
“Ha! Nice try. What I’m saying here, Arthur—”
“Alistair.”
“Right, I don’t really care anymore. Point is I think we’re done here.” I smile widely and tilt my head to one side, having shifted my Anderson Cooper persona into more of a game show host who’s dismissing the losing contestants.
He stares at me for a minute before hesitantly scooting out of the booth, creating one of those loud vinyl fart sounds that bench seats are famous for. I cough as a diversion while he stands there turning purple. He points at the seat, looking comically unsure.
“That was the…” he starts, but trails off and gives up on his excuse.
I mean, I feel for him. That was probably the worst moment for accidental fart noises. He looks at me again and I nod regally, still smiling. He opens and closes his mouth a few times, obviously unsure what to say. At last, sweet God Almighty, he closes his trap. I’m about to direct him to the door Vanna White-style when he spins and walks out as quickly as he can.
The server walks over and sets down the magnificent tray of baked dairy goodness.
I look up at her and grin. “I love you.”
She makes a panicked face. “I have a girlfriend.”
“That wasn’t a—” She scurries away before I finish. Great. Now I’m sexually harassing the waitstaff. I better leave a big tip.
The audience giggles. I love that they’re as dirty-minded as I am. Well… they are me. I digress.
Date Two
“I hope you don’t mind, but I don’t drink,” he says as I take a sip of my Scotch and soda. It almost goes down the wrong pipe. I’m forced to mask the cough as best I can. I pretty much fail.
I shrug and smile. Why did we meet in a bar, then? “No, no, it’s fine. No worries. Coke, then?”
“Oh, I don’t do coke anymore,” he insists, a little panicked.
Seriously? “What? No! I meant Coca-Cola, not cocaine,” I correct with a wobbly voice. I’m not sure what happened there.
“Oh, I get it,” he says with a breath, offering a small smile. “It’s just that I’m an alcoholic.”
His eyes convey such guilt, I feel bad. And irritated. Why is cocaine the first thing he jumps to with that suggestion? And regardless, WHY SAY OKAY TO MEETING IN A BAR? They don’t even serve appetizers at this shithole. It’s a dive bar!
“Honestly, Ben, it’s no big deal. If you don’t drink, you don’t drink,” I say, and he smiles. Definitely cute. “I just hope you don’t mind my hangover stories,” I joke, offering a wink and a lone fingergun.
He doesn’t smile or frown. Or respond, really. It’s uncomfortable.
“Sorry,” I say quietly. I shake my head and stretch my posture for a little reboot. “How long have you been sober?”
“Almost three weeks now.”
I only have myself to blame for this one.
Date Seven…
or a million, I can’t tell anymore
Two months into the countdown, and I’ve been on six dates. Every one of them disastrous or pathetic in their own way. Not all of them were the dude’s fault either. Date number four found me at a beachside café in Venice just after a work meeting. My adorable and super shy date, Owen, texted that he’d be late. Since I had time to kill, I waited on the sand to get some sun. Somehow I managed to get so much sand in my bikini top that during the actual date, all I could think about was rescuing my increasingly irritated nipples. Apparently, I couldn’t resist enough, because he left halfway through, citing his lack of interest in kink. I’m still trying to figure that out, but Nora agrees that if you can’t deal with public adjustments, he shouldn’t even be a guy. I mean, isn’t adjusting their junk whenever and wherever in the rules of being male? Seems like it.
In any case, this new guy—Callum, a name like some Celtic god—is perfect. I internally praise Nora’s choice. I can’t believe he is interested in me. The night starts off with me basically laying out how done I am with online dating. I spend half an hour complaining about bullshit profiles and how the guy who shows up is not the guy in the pictures. Instead of being offended or turned off, which is fair, this guy agrees. He goes with it. He doesn’t call me a bitter hag who has no chance at winning a man—it happened before—but he listens. I ask him twice if he’s gay and he just laughs. He counters with his own dating horror stories and even makes a point to mention that while I definitely resemble the woman in the photos and in the bio thus far, I am “far more beautiful and interesting in person.”
The conversation is surprisingly easy, comfortable, and on occasion, extra flirty. He even takes my hand as we talk. Normally, I think that would irk me on a first date, but the way he does it is a turn-on. Callum is unnaturally attractive, taller than me—at nearly five foot nine, it’s not as common as I’d like, especially in heels—and owns his own business. Never married, no kids, but desperately wants them. I very nearly spill my predicament. The only caveat, he was born and bred in San Diego and still lives there, but splits a house in LA as well since he’s there all the time. And he loves to surf. This… has potential. San Diego is a minimum three-hour drive for me, but for the right guy, meeting in LA is more than doable.
Please, other shoe, don’t drop.
After dinner, we leave the restaurant where we started with “just drinks” hand in hand. His thumb delicately brushes over mine, sending chills everywhere. I sneak a look or two as we walk only to find he’s peeking over at me. I’m all kinds of amazed and blown away by how smooth the evening has gone. I’m wary of such smoothness, of course, but after the third drink of the evening, I put it out of my mind. We get to my car and he whistles.
“Nineteen sixty-seven Mustang soft top? Be still my heart,” he coos, running a finger down the length of the car. He moves closer to me, leaving very little room between us.
“Thanks. She needs some work, but she’s my favorite car in the world. And I love to drive her,” I say, a little breathy. I
wonder if that sounded like some sort of metaphor, but I can’t quite figure out what it would be. Probably a masturbation reference. Oh well. I’m still loving the dress I bought last week because right now, I feel hot. Like bangin’ hot. And yeah, I said bangin’ for a reason.
“Sophie?”
“Callum.”
“Would you want to come—?”
“Yes.” Shit. I interrupted too fast. So many jokes. I momentarily hold a hand over my face until I can swallow the funny.
“Don’t we all,” he teases, his mouth a heartbeat away from mine. And then it’s not. He kisses me, pressing me up against my car with his entire body and oh my God is he packing. I’m sore and we haven’t even broached the topic of sex. Just the thought of it scares my love tunnel. My uterus faints.
When he nips my bottom lip, I gasp, giving him the opening he was looking for. The kiss deepens, and I am sold. I lose track of time as well as place and start to get really antsy. And by antsy, I mean horny. The man is taking me home or vice versa. If that’s his question, it’s happening. All he has to do is ask it.
But we can’t speak, not for a while, because the make-out session is a hair’s breadth from getting us arrested. I faintly hear a couple of people clear their throats and mumble nasty comments, but it doesn’t deter us in the least. Keep walking, prudes!
His hand is in my hair and I’ve got one firm grip on his tight, muscular ass. His lips and teeth tease along my chin to my neck, the hand in my hair firmly holding the angle of my head. It’s incredibly hot; I’m panting embarrassingly loud. I even feel a trickle of sweat down my back. I’m tempted to take my panties off and throw them.
“We should take this somewhere else,” I suggest, a little worried I sound like Kathleen Turner after a pack of filterless Camels.
“My place?” he asks.
I chuckle. “You live in San Diego. That might be a little too far and I can’t wait that long.”
He grins and pecks my lips. “My rental here. You remember?”
I blush and shake my head. It’s a little embarrassing how his kiss made me forget. “Of course. Let’s go. Now.”
He kisses me again and nudges my nose with his. Then, as if we were in a remake of Invasion of the Body Snatchers, his demeanor shifts dramatically and he stands ramrod straight.
“So how’d I do?” he asks, and everything just stops. He’s looking at me like a kid looks at a teacher.
My heart is in my throat. “I’m sorry?”
“How did I do?” He overpronounces it like I just didn’t hear him the first time.
“How’d you do what?” I repeat slowly, because what the fuck is he going on about? When did it get so cold outside?
“The scene? Pick up a woman and romance her, get her to agree to come home with you,” he says like I should recognize the plan.
I’m going to lose my shit if I walked into the setup for some motherfucking prank show or something.
“The scene? For the Improv Academy audition? You’re Brandy, aren’t you?”
Well, that’s even worse than Punk’d. I stare at him in abject horror for hours. Okay, maybe thirty seconds. I start fanning myself with my clutch, because my previous chills have turned to sweating rage bullets. “Are you serious?”
“Sophie was the character,” he explains, even if he doesn’t realize that’s what he’s doing. “Wasn’t it? Or something with an S. The code was wearing a red top.”
“Did you happen to notice there were other red tops in there?”
“Yours stood out. You’re Brandy, right? I’m Jordan?”
“Why is that a question?” I whisper as I wipe frantically at my lips, trying to get the lies off. He looks confused, which only pisses me off. I don’t wait for an answer. “You don’t live in San Diego?”
“Oh, no, not anymore. I was born there, but I live in the Valley now.” He’s disturbingly calm and casual about all this. My rising instability doesn’t even touch him.
“You live in the Valley?” I say, unable to hide my disgust. “And you… Jordan?” I’m leaning far enough back on my car that I’m about to fall into it like a coin in a bucket.
“You’re not Brandy, are you?” Genius Callum—ahem, excuse me, Jordan—finally gets the drift.
“You’re a fucking actor?” I almost cringe at the shrillness of my voice, which may permanently remain in this pitch of wispy screaming upper register weirdness.
His eyes go wide. “Holy shit. I’m so sorry. I thought you knew.”
“But the kissing,” I say, looking around for a camera or someone to corroborate that what we had was not, in fact, a drama exercise. All I see is a real-life couple staring at me as they walk past us into the restaurant. I look back to this evening’s punishment.
He smiles sheepishly. “I got really into it. You’re a good kisser.”
“Fuck you, man!” I shout, my voice suddenly back and in full force. “Why the fuck are you trolling Tinder for acting scene partners? What the fuck is wrong with you?”
He backs up, his hands in the air. “No! I-I thought—your profile was on the list for the scene! I swear! Wasn’t it?”
I glare at him. Death glare. Like, I-will-tear-you-a-trio-of-extra-assholes glare.
“Didn’t you coordinate this with Angela? Angela Rodriguez?”
I honestly have no idea how I got into this situation, but I’ve had enough. I pull open my car door and unceremoniously drop my overheated ass onto the bench seat. “Fuck off, Jordan.”
Never so pissed in my life, I stab the ignition with my keys, rev my V8 engine, and peel out like a bat out of hell. I run three separate red lights on my way home and look forward to the ticket I will get in the mail from the one intersection that has a traffic camera.
Worth it.
“Nora?” I yell, the wind not only blowing my hair into an unintentional beehive but also drowning out any sound that may or may not be coming from the other end. I have no idea if she can hear me and I’m only mildly sure she even answered. “We are done with the Tindering. So. Fucking. Done. You’re also on helping-me-make-a-choice probation. Next up, clinic reviews. I’m going sperm shopping.”
“Iris!” I shout when I spot my friend on Fox’s patio with a short cocktail in hand. “What are you doing here? Didn’t you, like, just have a baby?”
I have to refrain myself from immediately peppering her with a shit-ton of questions. I just had an appointment with Dr. B about my plan for a sperm donor and got the “do all this shit to get pregnant” checklist. It’s crazy overwhelming. I thought it was simply get sperm in the right place and BOOM. Done. Okay, that sounds flippant and ignorant. But for someone whose main obstacle to pregnancy is the oven shutting off too early, I had no idea the purposefully getting pregnant part was so complicated. The level of dumb I feel is epic.
She smiles, but it slips. “Ha ha, jerk,” she says. She had the baby almost six months ago. “I finally got a night off, but Daniel has already texted me three times and called once. I won’t be here for long, unfortunately.”
I rub her shoulder. “Not taking to daddyhood very well?”
I won’t even have a daddy to dump the kid on. Crap, have I given this anywhere near enough thought?
“Oh, he loves it,” she says with an eye-roll. “Except when Will’s crying. Then he can’t get out of the room fast enough. He panics! My six-foot-three man is afraid of a crying baby, for Pete’s sake.”
“Trial by fire,” I say and groan internally at the parallels. My ass is already burning at the thought of my own. “Don’t respond to his texts unless it’s nine-one-one. Let him figure it out.”
“Sophie,” she says, her face slack. “I want my kid to live.”
Cracking up, we pause and sigh when her phone rings.
“See what I mean?” Iris ducks into the house to answer the phone, handing me her drink.
Fox chooses that very moment to goose me with a beer.
“Holy hell!” I jump, then twist around to see his shit-eating
grin and waggling eyebrows. “You are the devil sometimes, did you know?”
“You love it,” he mumbles.
I notice as he bites his tongue between his teeth that he’s wearing lipstick. Red. And lots of it. What’s more, it’s disturbingly well applied. I do a full scan and realize he’s dressed as a naughty nurse. A female naughty nurse, complete with vinyl minidress and stuffed tits.
“Sweet Christ, you are kidding me.”
He grins, then schools it, his face falling slack as he deadpans, “What? I never kid.”
I grab a fake titty and squeeze. I’m not sure if it’s socks or just a rag, so I honk the other horn. Socks. I look down at his feet. He’s got chunky platform heels on and his toenails are painted. “Halloween isn’t for another three months, Fox. And this isn’t even a costume party.”
He points at himself as if his logic is obvious. And sound. “Birthday boy.”
I stare at him, trying desperately to convey with my incredulous expression that his response does not properly explain anything. Slowly his amusement dissipates until he rolls his eyes. His green eye seems to roll slower than the hazel one.
“You’re already drunk, aren’t you?”
“No.” He hiccups. A friend bustles through, pushing between us to get to the coolers. Fox continues, unruffled. “Shit. I mean, yeah, a bit. I pregamed. And the costume is like a birthday crown but awesomer. Plus, I’m an actual nurse!” he shouts as if he has no idea his volume changed. “It’s funny.”
I can’t help it. I chuckle. “Granted, but you look like you showed up to the wrong party.”
“It’s my house!” He looks offended.
“Okay, Drunky McShitfaced.” I shrug and decide to let him off the hook. “Have you at least locked the rooms? Because if you haven’t, that’d be like inviting people to trash your place since you’re already three sheets.”
“I’m not even one sheet. And it’s like inviting people to outdo me, not tripping… trusting—no, wait. What did you say again?” He sways, and I realized that “pregame” means he and Doc hit the tequila like it was outlawed.
“Trash your place,” I repeat slowly, gesturing widely to the growing crowd on the deck. I know most of these people, but I also know with enough of us together… shit happens. “By which I mean having a vomitorium-style orgy all over everything you own. Including your absurd collection of ABBA vinyl.”
