The Undateable

by Sarah Title

  In record time, the check was acquired and paid, and Bernie was standing at his elbow.

  “Did you even try?”

  “He told me stories about illegal big game hunting in Africa while staring at my chest; then he told me he had an early meeting so why don’t we cut to the chase and go back to his place.”

  “Yikes.”

  “Yeah. Plus I thought my eyelashes were going to fall off into my soup. Are you okay?”

  Colin felt like he wanted to hit something. Preferably something called Paul.

  That’s it, he thought. No more software developers.

  “Can we go home?” Bernie asked. “My feet hurt.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  DISAPPROVING LIBRARIAN IS . . . DISAPPROVING

  ____________________

  By Colin Rodriguez, Staff Writer

  Two dates down, twenty-eight disasters to go.

  After a quick office poll, it turns out that everyone has gone out with a Paul. Looks good on paper, seems nice enough, pretty good first impression. But Pauls have a problem, and that problem is with eye contact. Specifically, with eye contact when there are boobs nearby.

  “PAUL COULD SUE,” Clea said when she read Colin’s article.

  “So change his name.”

  “Be honest with me, Colin. Is she going to get any better?”

  “Sure!” Colin said. “I mean, she can’t get worse, right?”

  “I still don’t think people are relating to her. Our readers don’t have a meltdown when they want to wear grown-up shoes.”

  “It wasn’t a meltdown—”

  “Our readers aren’t paralyzed by a little eyeliner.”

  “It was more the fake lashes—”

  “This series was a great idea, but it’s not pulling in the numbers we want.”

  “She’s only been on two dates! It’s a journey!”

  “A journey that’s not going anywhere. It would be one thing if advertisers were interested, but your librarian throws a hissy fit whenever anything remotely girly comes within fifteen feet of her. Are you sure she’s straight?”

  “Why, because she’s not girly?”

  “Because she doesn’t seem to be interested in actually attracting men. Your sister’s gay, right? Can’t she test her out or something?”

  “That’s not how it works.”

  “So that’s a no.”

  “Clea, Bernie’s not a lesbian.”

  “Then what’s her problem?”

  “That’s what the series is all about. Finding the path from undateable to dateable. If we already knew what the problem was, we wouldn’t have much of a series, would we?” He didn’t exactly bat his eyelashes at Clea, but he knew he was pretty close to begging.

  Clea sighed. “Colin, I know you like this girl—”

  “No, I—”

  Clea held up a hand. “But we are not spending thousands of dollars in clothes and beauty products and page space to watch some frumpy lesbian work out her issues with men.”

  “Well, she’s not a lesbian.”

  “Maybe she’d be happier if she was.”

  “Again, not how that works.”

  “I’m not going to cut the story. Not yet.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But you’re getting help.”

  “I had help. Jeanaeane and Makeda and . . .”

  “Pia has very good relationships with places around the city. Especially those boring places that don’t serve booze. Your librarian will love that.”

  “No . . .”

  “Colin, she’s already been helping you. She went through all of those dating submissions for you.”

  “She’s the junior reporter.”

  “She’s not your assistant. Besides, I feel like I owe her because she had to look at a lot of . . . unfortunate photography. Why do guys do that? Why do they think we want an unsolicited picture of their manhood?”

  “I, uh . . .” Colin felt like the conversation was getting out of his control. Just like his story.

  Not that he had ever really been in control.

  “Maybe that should be your next story: a guy’s perspective on why it’s so superfun to stick your phone down your pants and send the results to us.”

  Well, at least she was talking about his next story.

  “Okay, end rant. Sorry about that. But seriously, think about it. In the meantime, Pia’s in charge of the dates. You wrangle the librarian.”

  “But I thought Pia wasn’t my assistant. . . .”

  “Your job is to make sure the librarian gets better at dating. Or at least more interesting. Otherwise, we kill the story. Got it? Which will be too bad, because I was looking forward to your insight into your sex’s obsession with its anatomy.”

  He got it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Dear Maria,

  I’ve been dating a guy for a few months and we spend a lot of time at each other’s places. The sex is great. But the problem is my leg hair. I’m Italian, and if I don’t shave every day, I turn into Chewbacca. But shaving every day is a pain in the ass, and it’s winter and I know my bare legs won’t see the light of day for several months. But my boyfriend loves how smooth my legs feel. How can I ease him into my relaxed winter routine?

  Hairy in Portola

  Dear Hairy,

  I had a friend who had hardly any leg hair, and who never shaved because of it. She’s divorced now. Coincidence?

  Of course, her husband was cheating on her with another man, so maybe the problem was not a hirsute one.

  Just remember that men are delicate creatures, despite what they may tell you. Some men are shocked to discover that a woman’s legs actually do grow hairy. Be gentle with him. Ease him into your winter coat. Instead of shaving every day, shave every two, then every three, and he may not even notice. But if he does, take him to get his back waxed. That’ll shut him up.

  Kisses,

  Maria

  “QUIT BLINKING!”

  “Quit poking my eye!”

  “I’m not poking you!”

  “Children!” Dave stepped in between Bernie and Marcie, making it officially way too crowded in her tiny bathroom, especially when Starr jumped up on her lap and almost knocked her into the bathtub. “No fighting,” he reminded them.

  “But she’s—”

  “No fighting.”

  Bernie looked at Marcie, who looked seriously offended. She burst out laughing, and Marcie caught the ’itis, and soon they were crying and running their eyeliner and Dave was rolling his eyes and stomping out of the room. “C’mon, Starr. You’re the only female who understands me.” Starr followed him, if only because he had a reputation for being generous with the organic doggie-friendly sweet potato snacks.

  “Oh, crap,” Bernie said as she wiped her eyes with a wad of toilet paper. “This is never going to work, is it?”

  “It will! I’ll make a woman out of you yet, Melissa Bernard.”

  “This,” she said, wielding a tube of mascara, “does not define my womanhood.”

  “Yes, but they don’t make cosmetics for vaginas.”

  “Yes, they do!” Dave shouted from the other room.

  “How does he know that?” Marcie asked.

  “Your librarian friend told me!” Dave shouted.

  “I saw it on Facebook,” Bernie admitted.

  “Yikes. Okay, now open your eyes wide.”

  “Eeeee . . .” Bernie squealed as Marcie, finally, applied the mascara.

  “We did it! One more eye to go!”

  “Why aren’t we drinking right now?”

  “Because you’re going on a date in an hour and you called me in a panic because you don’t know how to put on makeup. And I brought Dave for moral support and I’m not really sure how the dog got in here.”

  “She just comes over sometimes.”

  “What, she just, like, knocks on the door?”

  “She scratches.”

  “And you answer?”

  “I love
Starr!”

  “I can’t believe you’re single,” Dave said, leaning against the doorframe with a beer in one hand and Starr in the other.

  “I can’t believe they just sent Bernie out without any help,” Marcie said, bracing herself to mascara the other eye.

  “Jeanaeane sent tutorials. I don’t think she fully appreciated how nonexistent my knowledge of makeup is.”

  “I can’t believe you’ve never really worn makeup. You didn’t even play with it when you were a kid?”

  “I wore glasses when I was a kid. Can’t do mascara and glasses.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Oh. Well, then, I guess my whole life has been a lie.”

  “Bern.” Marcie leaned in and tucked a piece of hair behind Bernie’s ear.

  “Wait!” Bernie said in a panic. “Don’t touch my hair.”

  “Why? I thought you just got a blowout.”

  “I’m not supposed to touch it!”

  “So you’re going to go a whole month without touching your hair?”

  “Yes . . . ?”

  “What if you get lucky?” Dave asked. “Are you gonna yell at your guy like you just yelled at Marcie?”

  “I’m not getting lucky.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “I have serious doubts that any of these dates will go any better than the first two.”

  “That last one doesn’t count. You weren’t comfortable. You were too distracted by all the stuff on your face.”

  “What about the first date? I didn’t have anything on my face.”

  “You were too comfortable then. We need to achieve the perfect balance.”

  “And then all the boys will fall at my feet?”

  “Or you’ll have a pleasant connection with someone and you’ll let him get all up in your womanhood. Here, you try.”

  Marcie handed Bernie the tube of mascara and watched her.

  Starr wiggled out of Dave’s arms and yipped at Bernie’s ankles.

  “Uh-uh. No dog,” Marcie warned. “Mascara.”

  “But she wants to be picked up!” Bernie said, bending down to scoop up the dog, who cuddled into her shoulder. “How am I supposed to resist this face?”

  “I’m not letting you go out with only one eye made up because the dog is cute.” Marcie reached over and plucked Starr out of her arms, and turned the dog to face her. “God, she is cute. Aren’t you? Aren’t you the cutest little weirdo baby?”

  Bernie started to reach for Starr again—she was not a weirdo baby—but Marcie held her close.

  “Uh-uh. You, mascara. I’m snuggling.” She pushed Dave out of the way and the two of them—and Starr—went to the couch to admire Starr’s smooshy, fluffy good girl face.

  Once she was alone, Bernie leaned into the bathroom mirror. She stuck out her tongue in concentration and swiped the wand over her lashes.

  She didn’t die.

  It looked pretty good. Like Bernie, but more.

  The hair was still a problem. Was this really a thing that people did? Not wash their hair for weeks at a time to preserve its flatness?

  She took one last look in the bathroom mirror. Good-bye, sleek hair. It was fun while it lasted. She reached behind the curtain and turned on her shower. Jack would kill her, but her dates would thank her in the long run. She shook herself, disgusted that she was only thinking about how men would react to her beauty decisions. This is for me, she said, and she stepped under the spray and destroyed her blowout.

  * * *

  Bernie looked different. Colin couldn’t exactly pinpoint what it was. She didn’t look as made up as she had yesterday, but she wasn’t totally back to her pre-Glaze look either. She was wearing a deep purple dress that reminded him of his ideas about what lingerie she should wear and he idly wondered if she was wearing a matching bra.

  That was probably inappropriate.

  As she got closer—walking much more smoothly in flat boots—he realized what it was. She was smiling like she meant it. She looked happy.

  “So. Who’s tonight’s victim?” She was practically bouncing. Huh, he thought. Maybe she shouldn’t wear heels.

  “Parker,” he answered, ever the dutiful librarian wrangler.

  “Don’t tell me, he’s a software developer.”

  “No, actually.”

  “Oh! Diversifying!”

  “He’s in software sales.”

  Bernie hung her head in mock despair. At least he hoped it was mock despair. She was in a remarkably good mood tonight. Maybe it was the hair.

  “Hey, your hair is up.”

  “Oh, yeah. Don’t tell Jack. He told me I wasn’t supposed to wash it for two weeks.”

  “Two weeks!”

  “It ruins the blowout. Glamor has a high price, my friend.”

  “So, you washed your hair and got rid of the eyelashes?”

  “How can you tell?”

  “You’re not blinking like a maniac.”

  “Ah.”

  She looked good. She looked happy. But Colin couldn’t help but remember his earlier conversation with Clea. “Bernie, did you keep anything from that very expensive makeover we gave you?”

  “Yes! The clothes! And I am wearing some makeup.”

  Colin stepped closer. “What’s that?” he asked, pointing at her jaw.

  “Crap. I’m still working on blending. Is that better?” She rubbed at her face.

  “Now it’s all red.”

  “Grr.” She pulled a scarf out of her purse and wrapped it artfully around her neck. “That’s right,” she said. “I carry scarves now.”

  “Fashion.”

  “Fashion, baby. Bring on the men.”

  Chapter Twenty

  COLIN STARED AT HIS COMPUTER screen and idly tapped the kitchen table. So far he’d written one sentence: “It started in Cole Valley . . .” which was already terrible. What was it his writing teacher used to tell him? It doesn’t matter how crappy it is, just get that first draft down on paper. Of course, this wasn’t a novel that would never get published. This was journalism.

  Very Serious Journalism about the dating habits of undateable librarians in San Francisco.

  He rested his head on the table next to his idle fingers. It was too heavy, his head. Too many words stuck in there. None of them were coming out.

  “Blergh,” he told the table.

  “Rough night?”

  He lifted his head enough to see Steph walk into the kitchen wearing his favorite Cal T-shirt and a pair of boxers, which he knew weren’t his because he didn’t wear boxers with Snoopy on them.

  “No,” he said, not at all pleased at the petulant tone of his voice. He was acting like a baby and he wasn’t proud. “Didn’t even have one drink.”

  “Oh, that’s right! You’re dating the librarian! How did Bernie do? Any better than the last two?”

  “Steph, are you actually reading my articles?”

  “No, I’m reading about my friend Bernie. How was it?”

  “Fine. They got along, but she said there was no spark.”

  “Hmm,” Steph said.

  “What, hmm?”

  “It’s an improvement over the other boring dudes you set her up with. But no spark, huh? That’s interesting.”

  “Tell that to my blank screen.”

  She sat down and pulled the laptop toward her. “That’s interesting,” she told it.

  “Ha ha.”

  “So Bernie wasn’t happy?”

  He shook his head. “She seemed pretty psyched about it.”

  “Psyched that she had no chemistry with her date?”

  Her exuberance had puzzled him, too, as they shared a cab home. “She said she had imagined it would be a total disaster. But he was nice and normal and the date was fine.”

  “Will she call him again?”

  “Can’t. First-dates-only.”

  “But what if there had been chemistry? What if she felt a soul connection and didn’t want to let him go?”

&nb
sp; “If she had, I would have something to write about.” He glumly pulled his computer back toward him. What would Maria say about his predicament? Besides telling him to get his head out of his ass and get to work.

  “You really are a baby, you know that?”

  “That’s no way to talk to your older brother.”

  “Psht. You were expecting the date to be terrible so you would have a funny story to tell.”

  He didn’t like to admit it, but that was true. He’d seen a lot of comments from women saying they had dated a Paul or been stood up by a Pete. He, for once, looked at the analytics on the articles and click-thrus to advertisers, and despite what Clea was saying to him, readers were connecting to Bernie. The ratio of commenters who supported her to the commenters who said they’d do her was tilting decidedly in her favor. And, before he’d left to meet Bernie, Clea had actually smiled at him.

  He wasn’t headed toward a Pulitzer, but things were looking up as far as his job was concerned. (He ignored the niggle of guilt in the back of his head that acknowledged that Pia had worked hard on this story, too; it wasn’t her fault that he was such an amazing writer.) Still, no amount of dazzling wordplay was going to make this meh date sound suddenly interesting. There was no story there. How was he supposed to know that he’d pick the one guy in all of San Francisco who worked in software who was not completely abhorrent to his bleeding-heart librarian?

  Of course, there had been no spark. So he wasn’t totally . . . horrent either.

  That was it. That was the angle. What to do if there is no spark.

  “Thanks, sis.”

  “Anytime,” she said, but he barely heard her as he started typing furiously.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  WHEN IS FINE NOT ENOUGH?

  ____________________

  By Colin Rodriguez, Staff Writer

  She looked good. She wasn’t wearing heels, as she had been instructed to do, but her boots went up over her calves and her skirt was short enough that it made a difference. She even wore a cardigan, despite her insistence that all librarians do not dress alike. But this one was yellow with little elephants on it, and it fit snugly over her short dress. She looked like she was comfortable, which was a must for her, but she didn’t look like she had dressed solely for comfort.