Thirty Days: Part One (A SwipeDate Novella Book 1)

by BT Urruela

  “So, what’s the challenge?” I ask and he shoots me a mischievous smirk that makes me wary.

  “Thirty different SwipeDates in thirty days,” he says, pausing briefly before adding, “and not thirty dates in one day, fucker. Don’t even try it. It has to be one per day.”

  “Are you trying to lead me to suicide? Is that your end goal? Because I’m quite certain after thirty more days of that shit, I’d throw a noose around this bitch,” I say, pointing to my neck.

  “Give me a break,” Bobby responds, rolling his eyes. “You’re such a fucking drama queen sometimes. You’ll be fine. Just think about the money.”

  “And what if I don’t finish? What do you get?” I ask, lowering my brows.

  “You owe me a book by January. Full length.”

  I shake my head, waving him off. “No way, man. That’s two damn months from now. I haven’t even brought Word up on the laptop in about a year. Not a chance.”

  “Ha!” He points a finger at me. “I knew you weren’t writing.”

  “Yeah, surprise, surprise. Anyway, I’ll have to respectfully decline your challenge, seeing as I would have no way of keeping up with my end.”

  “Then go on thirty dates. It’s real easy, Gavin.”

  “Easy for you to say,” I chide as he digs into his jacket pocket. He pulls out a check and holds it up. It has my name and twenty-five thousand dollars written on it.

  “Your call, buddy. You just let me know.” He eyes the TV with ESPN playing while pocketing the check before rolling his head back over to me. “So, how were the dates?”

  “I already told you,” I say, narrowing my eyes. “Shitfest.”

  “Literally?” he asks, laughing up a storm.

  “We covered that. That girl was way too young anyway. She at least waited until I was away from the table to selfie, but Christ, whenever she got the chance it was like a coke fiend stumbling into an eight ball. And for the love of God, she talked endlessly.”

  “And the others?” he asks with a smirk, far too entertained by this.

  “Well, the first one, Jessie, she was pretty cool until about the last five minutes. Health nut, which you know I’m just all about,” I say, putting my hands to my stomach. Though there’s no noticeable gut, I’m lacking abs and my love handles are now successfully pouring over my shorts, but hey, I still have nice arms. I lean in, making the Home Alone aftershave face with my hands, and continue. “She’s a vegan, too.” I lower my hands and scoff. “Not happening.”

  He chuckles mid-chug, and coughs a little before turning to me. “Yeah, that’s no good. How’d you pick them, anyway?”

  “How do you think? I picked the ones I was attracted to.”

  “Did you even read their profiles?” he asks, tilting his head in an accusing manner.

  “Yeah, dude. I perused them. There’s not a whole lot on there, though. My second date, Ashton, was a second-grade teacher. Jessie, she was a yoga instructor. Only Danica, the unruly bowel date, is still in school.”

  “And what was wrong with Ashton?”

  “She was cool… just uber religious. I felt like I was going to burn up just sitting next to her. She’s sitting there telling me how she’s never drank alcohol in her life. Not a sip.” I motion to my beer on the bar top. “And I can’t stop thinking about the Baileys I slipped into my coffee before she got there. All fucking huddled in the corner so my fellow patrons didn’t think I was an alchy.”

  “It wouldn’t be far from the truth,” Bobby chides, and I flip him off, taking a big swig of beer with my other hand.

  Setting the beer back down and wiping a foam mustache away, I say, “hey, man, I have plenty of memories from plenty of nights where you got smashed right along with me. Who was it picking fights at Peg Leg’s last Friday night? Over some dude,” I throw up air quotes, “looking at your girl’s ass.”

  “Dude! He grabbed her ass.”

  “Semantics.”

  He laughs, finishing off his beer and digging cash out of his pocket. He tosses a few bills to the bar top and says, “Well, maybe go about picking them differently for the next thirty.” He winks at me as he stands and then pats me on the back. “Because I happen to think you’ll take me up on it. Now, I gotta get back to work.”

  I turn to him and smile, shaking my head. “Don’t hold your breath, buddy. Take it easy.”

  “Okay, so what are the stipulations?” I ask into the phone without announcing myself and rubbing the sleep from my eyes with my free hand. Bobby laughs. “Just tell me, dick.”

  “No real stipulations,” he says. “Just one date per day. And change it up. Try some new things.”

  “You mean thirty straight coffee dates is a no go?”

  “I don’t think so. Not that your bowels could handle that. You’d have no asshole left,” he says, laughing. “No, if you’re going to do the challenge, at least try and enjoy it a little.”

  “That seems highly unlikely,” I say dryly as I flip through the morning news and cartoons on TV from my bed.

  “We’ll see. You starting today?” he asks.

  “Yeah. This evening after my usual Thursday visit.”

  “Oh, yeah, forgot about that. Tell her I said hi.”

  I internally laugh at the idea of that, but agree. “Will do. I’ll let you know how the date goes.”

  “Weekly checkup, at least,” he reminds me, clearing his throat loudly into the phone. “Good luck, buddy.”

  “I hate you.”

  “Love you too, Gavin,” he says, laughing before there’s a click over the line.

  I drop the phone from my ear and hold it in my hand for a moment, my mind running through what the next thirty days will entail, and whether I’ll be able to finish the challenge to begin with. I’m a shy ass dude. I’ve been introverted my whole life, and first dates are just one of those things that fill with me a very unpleasant amount of anxiety.

  Pulling the SwipeDate app up, I sit up in bed and lean my back against the headboard. There’s an uneasy shift in my gut as I begin swiping. By the third straight left swipe, I’m struck with a thought. Why not pick based on profile content alone? I’m not looking for love here. I’m looking to get through this challenge as painlessly as possible. If I choose from profile content alone, I’m more likely to enjoy the bit of time I spend with each person. The ridiculous superficiality of it all isn’t something I’m very comfortable with anyway.

  I force my vision on the short blurb at the bottom, and do my best to ignore the picture up top. I can see a blur of what they look like, but pay no attention to them as I analyze the content. I swipe right on a few of them for listing good TV shows and movies… some bands I like and, well, good quotes get me every time. The majority go left though, most of them blank, whether literally or figuratively speaking. I’m not picky, but I want substance when I’m spending time with someone. I want to know who they are from “Hello.” No bullshit. No manipulation. Which is funny when I really think about it, because there are times I do just that. I go against my own standards. Human beings are funny that way. We go around judging and pointing our finger, trying to find the next place to put the blame. We so often forget to look inward, to see who we really are, and to own up to the flaws we have. I like to think I do… and most often that’s the case… but with dates, the writer in me comes out. I want to paint a beautiful canvas for them, describing my life, but there’s no beautiful canvas to paint. Life is ugly right now, as can happen from time to time. It’s a weird little inner battle I don’t think one ever really gets used to—you feel like a failure, you want to try harder, but then you just end up feeling bad for feeling bad, and you wallow in it. It’s a vicious cycle.

  After playing around on the app for long enough, I set the phone back on the nightstand, and lumber off the bed, stretching my stiff back. The cold hickory wood floor sends chills up my legs, which gets me moving a bit quicker to the bathroom.

  I probably shouldn’t be getting out of bed for the first time at
eleven a.m., but to hell with it. It’s one of the perks of being a struggling writer.

  Taking a look at myself in the mirror, I chuckle at the sight. My hair is strewn about in every direction and I have heavy bags below my eyes. I’ll need an extra-long shower before making one of my tri-weekly visits to the Brookdale Retirement home.

  The facility is a beautiful one just steps away from the Hudson River and historic Statue of Liberty Island. I feel a bite to the air that sends a swift shudder down my spine. It can be quite chilly by the river during the fall and winter seasons, but of course, tomorrow it’s likely to be back up to the fifties before it drops again. You gotta love NYC weather. I’ll enjoy the good weather when it comes, though. Before long, everything will be coated in white.

  Once I’m signed in, Nurse Jackie comes toward me with her arms wide. She’s a big, beautiful black lady with a wide, pearly white smile, and a tight hug she gives you every time she sees you, regardless of who you are.

  “Gavin, baby, how you been?” she asks, wrapping her arms around me and squeezing me tight.

  “You know, living that rock and roll lifestyle,” I jest, pulling back from her and passing her a smile of my own.

  “You look like you smoked,” she says bluntly, giving me a knowing squint.

  “What did I tell ya?” I say through a laugh. “That rock and roll lifestyle. I’ve got a reputation to maintain.”

  “Oh, Lordy,” she says, rolling her eyes with a quick head shake. “Well, c’mon now, you little devil.” She motions for me to follow her down the hall, and I oblige. She stops just in front of room one-sixteen; the same room I’ve been coming to for five years now. Jackie rhythmically knocks on the doorframe and leans her head through the open doorway.

  “Miss Gracie, we’ve got Gavin here to see you,” she calls out. I lean in too, and see my grandmother, her frail body wrapped up in the covers, only her weathered face exposed.

  “Who’s Gavin?” she asks, her voice gravelly and weak.

  “He’s a volunteer, just here to spend some time with you, dear. Can I turn the lights on?” Jackie asks and Grandma nods. Jackie flips the light switch on and the small room is flooded with sterile fluorescent lighting. Jackie turns to me and smiles. “Alright, baby. Just let me know before you head out.”

  “Thanks, Jackie. I will.” She puts a hand to my shoulder and holds it there for a moment, smiling, before turning on her heel and heading back to the nurses’ station where I signed in. I slink into the room, nothing more than a spruced-up hospital quarters, and I note the flowers that I got her last week have started to wilt. I’ll have to bring her fresh ones on Sunday.

  “Hi, Grace!” I say, planting a wide smile on my face. “I appreciate you spending some time with me today.”

  Her pale blue eyes narrow on me, her eyebrows scrunched. “I thought you were the one spending time with me?”

  “Well, that’s true, but I enjoy it just the same. How have you been?”

  “Do I know you?” she asks, an inquisitive look on her face as I pull a chair to her bedside and take a seat.

  “Yeah, Grace. I visit you often.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s just what I like to do. Don’t you want some company?” I ask, swiping Gone With the Wind from her nightstand. “We’ve got a book to read, after all.”

  Her eyes light up, and her small, veiny hands come out from under the blankets and meet her face. “Oh, I love that book. I haven’t read it since I was a little girl.” She lowers her hands to her side and for the first time since my arrival, she’s smiling.

  I open the book to where I left off last, which is about where I usually leave off. I don’t know why I try and get one over on her every time. I guess, to see if she notices. To see if maybe, just maybe, today will be a good day. They are few and far between, especially the last couple years, but they still come from time to time.

  “No, no, no,” she says, and I lift my head with a little smile. I know exactly what’s coming. “You can’t start there. The beginning!”

  “Okay, Grand—Grace.” I turn back to the beginning and start from page one as I’ve done three days a week, every week, since moving her here after Grandpa died. Diagnosed with Alzheimer’s five years ago, it hit her quickly and without warning. My parents had long since gone their separate ways, to places still unknown to me. My brother is in San Antonio and struggling his own way through life. I haven’t even seen him in years. And with the passing of my Aunt Lisa shortly after I moved to New York, I was the only one who could take care of her, and that’s what I did. I sold her house and moved her in the best assisted-living facility I could find. I was lucky enough to have just published my first novel and it became a New York Times bestseller a short time later. Out of it, I received a three-book deal and more money than I knew what to do with, or had ever seen. I had the money to help her, and was more than happy to do so. As those royalties continue shrinking and money becomes scarce, I’ll have to find an alternative means soon. It’s not something that I’ll ever let affect her. I’ll get a damn job at the community college as an adjunct professor again if I must, but the money from Bobby’s bet could surely go a long way.

  As I read, I periodically look up at her, and her eyes are closed as they always are when I’m reading, and a big smile is planted on her face. She sways back and forth with the cadence of my voice. I love these days with her, and when I see that smile, it brings me back to my youth, escaping to my grandma’s house every summer, and feeling a familial love I didn’t get anywhere else. Beyond reading, it’s what helped me get through my childhood. In fact, my love of reading was influenced and developed by her. She had an expansive library taking up an entire room in her old house, wall to wall books of every variety. Collecting them was her passion and life’s work. And now, every last book sits on bookshelves in my loft. I couldn’t bear to part with them when going through her stuff. From time to time, I’ll take her out on a day pass and I’ll bring her to my loft. For hours, she’ll ogle over all the old books lining the walls. Only once did she recognize them as her own, and that was an incredibly beautiful day… the best day. I don’t think I’ve ever cried so hard. I’d bet she probably hasn’t either.

  No, she doesn’t often remember it’s her own collection, but it always makes her day. She sits in her wheelchair in front of the bookshelves, wide eyes taking in the sprawling collection. I have her pick a few and I’ll spend the day reading to her. Over the course of a few hours, we’ll work our way through chapters from Moby Dick, Little Women, and To Kill A Mockingbird. She’ll soak up every word and then ask for me to choose another, and then another. I love to watch her rediscovering all the old stories she used to love. She holds each weathered book in her hands, running her trembling fingers down the binding and over the title; connecting with the book fully. At least once a month we’ll do that, and then I’ll take her out to her favorite Italian restaurant afterward. Anything to potentially get the memories going, to spend time with her again as grandmother and grandson.

  And for the mind-blowing fettuccini alfredo, of course.

  After a while, I turn the page to one hundred and six and instinctively look up to find Grandma’s eyes still closed, but she’s no longer smiling and rocking along with the words. Instead, like clockwork, she’s in a deep slumber, her fragile hands fidgeting at her sides. I take her in for a moment, smiling, as I set the book back on the nightstand. Standing, I tilt my head and rest my hand on top of hers. She’s so peaceful in her sleep after I read to her. More so than any other time, the staff tells me. I lift her cold hand, kissing it lightly before laying it back at her side. Making my way to the doorway, I take one last look back at my grandma. My heart breaks that I can’t know the woman I once did, but any time I get to spend with her I treasure beyond anything else.

  As I head toward the nurses’ station, Jackie looks up from a filing cabinet with her radiant smile.

  “How was it, baby?” she asks, closing the cabinet drawer and s
tanding upright, setting her hands on her hips. I stop just before her and shrug.

  “About the same as usual. She looked good.”

  “She’s been doing real good. A lot more energy since we’ve gotten her on a better sleep schedule.”

  “I imagine I may have upset that schedule a bit. She’s currently out cold,” I respond with a grin.

  “Oh, that’s okay. She’s usually napping around this time anyhow. You know that.” She motions for me to come in for a hug and I oblige, nestling up again in her large bosoms and thick arms. “See you Sunday?” she asks, still embracing me. She lets me go and I slip my shades from the top of my head down onto my nose.

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, darlin’. You know I need my Jackie fix.” She laughs up a storm as I stroll toward the entrance.

  “Oh, Gavin, baby. I think I’m the one feedin’ the fix every time you visit. Woooo weeee!” she calls out as I lift an arm and nudge the door open with it. She fans herself dramatically and I can’t help but grin. I throw two fingers up with my free hand and nod my head toward her before making my way out into the chilly fall breeze, off to my next Thursday commitment, one I haven’t shared with anyone… not even Bobby.

  “So, Gavin…” Dr. Thresher gives me her patented pause, letting the words drift off into the stillness of the office and eyeing me over her glasses. Granted, she is old enough to be my mother, so the look is fitting. I nervously twiddle my thumbs together in my lap as she analyzes me. She loves doing this. She knows it makes me uncomfortable.

  “So…” I squeak, grinning weakly.

  “Tell me how you’ve been.”

  “About the same as usual, doc,” I say, shrugging, my mind running through the past week since I saw her last.

  “And what’s the same as usual?” she asks, her tone still neutral with a motherly touch.