I haven’t used this app before.
I’ve been a Tinder girl.
Sometimes you just want nookie.
And nothing gets you nookie like Tinder.
I haven’t been on Tinder in a year or so, since the last guy I met there—a thirty-five-year-old who’d been recently divorced—cried after we’d finished. “God, that was so good. I haven’t had sex like that since my college days. You’re so aerodynamic.”
I think it was a compliment.
Before Mr. Waterworks, I had mostly swiped right on guys in their twenties. But a lot of them were simply machines in bed, and not the good kind. They were one-speed jackhammers.
Before I dabbled in Tinder, I was involved with Chad, my last serious boyfriend.
We met at a wine-tasting event for people who’d never liked wine but wanted to try. He seemed fascinating at first—he had two dogs named Peaches and Cream, produced science podcasts for a public broadcaster, and loved to entertain me by pretending to be a snooty sommelier who opined on cheap wines, describing them as tasting like shoe leather or bacon strips cooked too long.
We had a good run for a while, but he was all surface quirk, and soon, I grew bored with him. Trouble was, he beat me to the breakup, telling me one night that he just wasn’t feeling it.
I wasn’t feeling it either, but when he pulled the trigger first, it left me with the empty feeling not only of being dumped, but also of being too uninteresting for a guy who I’d already become uninterested in.
Now, here I am, back online again.
But this project isn’t about me. This is about Peyton.
I grab a raspberry bubbly water from the fridge—I’m following Truly’s habits, since she’s queen of her domain—crack it open, and begin.
Must love cakes and books.
Wait, that’s me.
But Peyton likes cake too.
I modify it a bit to suit her passions.
Must love cakes, books, badminton, and lingerie.
No, that’s wrong. She might attract cross-dressers. She doesn’t want a cross-dresser. At least, I don’t think she does.
“Okay, let’s try again,” I say, stroking my dog as I do my damnedest to channel Peyton.
I close my eyes, picturing my bestie, her wishes, her wants, her habits. Lola is my work friend who’s become mission-critical in my life, but I’ve known and loved Peyton forever. We met on the first day of junior high as the two new girls. It was instant friendship, and we stayed close all through college too, even when we went to different schools.
I know this girl. I get her.
With her in mind, I type.
If you see me on the subway, I won’t be that person playing Tetris or Pokémon GO on her phone. I’m the one reading the book, and when it comes to books, I love all types. I believe in kindness, flossing, caffeine, chocolate, and that Raiders of the Lost Ark is the greatest movie ever, but that Back to the Future is a close second. Fitness is cool, but being a protein-head is not.
Are you a guy who can sustain a conversation with words other than “awesome,” “cool,” and “dude”? Do you practice good manners? (Because good manners will get you everywhere.) And do you read avidly and often? Buzzfeed and the sports section don’t count.
Also, bonus points if you like badminton. Badminton high school champion in the house!
P.S. I’m just asking for a friend.
There. It’s all true. Nothing is a lie. I’m not catfishing or misrepresenting.
I read it aloud to my dog. “Thoughts?”
He snorts.
“I knew we were birds of a feather.”
I turn on Spotify, crank up some P!nk, and with a flourish, I hit enter.
I imagine the beep-bop-boop of the internet as the profile goes live and visible to guys within five miles of me.
And since it’s Boyfriend Material, it goes live with only an avatar.
I picked a sexy little cartoon Betty Boop, showing off her booted legs while holding a slice of pink cake.
My freaking hero. To look like her and to love cake . . .
Maybe I’ll lose out on some guys who are looks-centric by using this app. But I don’t want them anyway. I mean, Peyton won’t want them anyway. She said so herself on our call.
That’s why this is the perfect app for her—it doesn’t cater to those types. It matches you based on shared interests and likes and won’t reveal pictures for the first forty-eight hours, true to its marketing slogan.
Find out if he’s more than just a pretty face—is he boyfriend material?
I’m dying to hit refresh, but I know responses won’t come that quickly, so I pop over to my personal email, where I find a message from Madison Turnbell, the badass editor I admire.
Hey, Amy! Looking forward to seeing you tomorrow at Little Friends. I was hoping to catch up with you on some industry stuff. Shop talk!
Ooh, color me intrigued. I can’t wait to hear what’s on Madison’s sharp-as-a-tack mind. And since I’m embracing my inner badass saleswoman tonight, I reply with a cheery I love shop talk!
I close my email, step away from the computer, adjust my glasses, and gather ingredients for banana bread. Quinn loves it, so I can take some to her and take a second loaf to my volunteer time tomorrow at the animal rescue where Madison also helps out. They always appreciate banana bread. The people, not the dogs. We don’t give the dogs banana bread. Though I suspect they’d appreciate it too.
I whip up the batter, pour it into two loaf pans, and set it in the oven.
When I return to the computer, I spend a few minutes reading a manuscript and taking notes on how I’d edit it. There. This too will help my promotional pursuits. Plus, working on it proves I’m not utterly obsessed with finding out if I have any responses to my profile.
With the smell of bread rising, I finally check, and I nearly fall out of my chair.
My Boyfriend Material inbox is spilling over. It’s bursting at the virtual seams, and this calls for cheerleading.
It’s late, but I text Lola.
Amy: Are you entertaining?
Lola: I’m always entertaining. :)
Amy: I mean, are you entertaining a man?
Lola: If vampires count.
Amy: Ah, so it’s a Vampire Diaries kind of night.
Lola: Yes, Ian Somerhalder and I are having a thing. Shh. Don’t tell Fabian. He just left.
Amy: Didn’t you see him last night? You’re seeing Fabian more than one night in a row?
Lola: Well, he is attentive.
Amy: And attentive is the best compliment a man can earn in the entertainment department. Anyway, if you’re decent, FaceTime me. If not, call me.
When Lola video calls, I dance a jig and squeal, pointing wildly to the screen. “This is like a treasure chest. I have a ton of responses to Peyton’s ad.”
“That’s awesome, but you do know it takes about forty-eight responses to get one good one?”
My shoulders fall. “Seriously? Where did you come up with that number?”
“Girl, when was the last time you did online dating?”
“I was on Tinder a year or two ago.”
“And that was when all you had to do was watch football and swipe aimlessly?”
I straighten my shoulders. “I don’t watch football.”
She waves flamboyantly, as if reaching for an alternative. “Fine. You’d watch Raiders again for the fifty millionth time with Peyton and shout the words at the screen.”
“We love our retro entertainment, and eighties flicks are so retro. Plus, Harrison Ford was the ultimate fuckboy.”
Lola’s voice dips appreciatively. “My God. He so was.”
“And nothing confirmed that more than Carrie Fisher’s book.”
“After I read her book, all I could think was Princess Leia, why did you ever think anything more would come of it?”
“Lola,” I chide, “I don’t think you bang Harrison Ford because you’re looking for boyfriend material.”
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“Right. You bang Han Solo.”
“And in my case, you bang Indiana Jones. But let’s focus—there is no banging tonight. Only chatting. Let me read you some of the responses.”
I clear my throat and take her through the inbox. “Here's the first one. Ice cream, soup, and you—all things I want to spoon.”
“Ewww,” Lola says, cringing on the phone screen.
“I know, right? He doesn’t even know what I look like. How does he know he wants to spoon me yet?”
She ahems me. “You mean what Peyton looks like.”
“Yes, that,” I say, quickly resetting my mind to Peyton. “Obviously. And he doesn’t know she’s gorgeous. Okay, here’s another,” I say, reading from the screen. “I like books. My favorites are the ones I use to prop open my door to let you know I have an open-door policy if you want to come into my life and move in with me forever.”
Lola waggles her finger in a big forbidding gesture. “And that’s a no. A no. And another no.”
I slump onto the couch. Maybe Lola was right about the number of responses I’ll have to trudge through. “Here’s one more. Big fan of Fortnite. Want to play?”
“Run. Run far away.”
I scroll on, all my excitement leaking out of me in a heavy sigh until I spot a particular reply. I sit a little straighter, lean a little closer. “Hold on.”
“Did you find a diamond in the rough?”
A frisson of possibility runs through me. “Maybe. Bear in mind, Peyton’s profile mentioned Back to the Future. Look what he did. Confession: sometimes when I’m impressed with something someone did, like, say, assembling Ikea furniture in under an hour or snagging a great deal on an apartment, I’ll say, ‘Wait a minute. Doc, uh . . . are you telling me you built a time machine . . . out of a DeLorean?’ Because that’s just a good line. But truth is, I’m more apt to be that guy reading a book too. Except not on the subway. I’m probably walking and reading.”
“Oooh, cute,” Lola says, giving a big smile. “He gets the Lola seal of approval.”
“And the Amy one,” I say.
After all, his avatar is a cartoonish image of Dax Powers from Spying on My Neighbor. It’s the perfect fit for a book-loving guy—looks like a bad boy in his leather jacket but inside he’s a hot-nerd librarian dude.
So, I write back: Don’t trip.
Linc
I’ll admit it.
I’m a virgin . . .
To online dating.
I’ve never done it, though I don’t have anything against it.
I’m all for people meeting in whatever way floats their boats. But I’ve never dipped my toes into the Match or POF waters because I've always met women in person. That’s not on principle; it’s just worked out that way.
In college, I dated Kelsey Simmons from one floor down, then I went out with Christine Waters, who worked on the school newspaper with me.
Postcollege I moved to Los Angeles and snagged an entry-level job at a talent agency. The grunts like myself operated as a pack. We left work together and went to the gym together, or to a bar, or to cheap eats. An incestuous troupe of young twentysomethings, we dated each other or friends of each other’s. When I moved up at the agency, work was all-consuming, and I entered a dry spell for dating and sex—but it was deliberate, the daily grind my sole focus.
Until I met Marisa at the gym.
She was on the elliptical next to mine and eyed my machine the entire time, watching my speed, my levels, and surreptitiously adjusting hers to go faster, harder.
When I finished my workout, I congratulated her on beating me. She blushed then admitted she’d been using me to pace herself.
We hit it off and went out that night for tacos at a food truck on the beach.
We were so very LA.
I’d just switched to the boutique publishing house, shifted to the editorial side of the business and away from agenting. Editing was less cutthroat, and I had a bit more time in my life for another person.
Marisa and I stayed together for a year, until she nabbed a fantastic opportunity to produce a TV show in Vancouver. She took off, and we said our goodbyes, but I missed her more than I’d thought I would. Or maybe I missed the idea of her.
I like the companionship. I like getting to know someone, and I like having that person in my life.
The one who you play Ping-Pong with.
Go to dinners with.
Curl up with at night.
When Marisa left, I missed the companionship more than I missed her.
That craving played a large part in what happened when Karina Leigh walked into my life.
Or maybe I was simply swept up in her orbit.
“You’re going to want to buy this book,” she’d declared when we met for drinks—a business meeting.
She was an agent, and she repped a pair of wildly successful podcasters who were writing their first book.
“Yeah? Tell me why I want it.”
Karina was passionate, intense, and smelled like she’d just stepped out of a perfume ad.
That wasn’t why I bought the book, but that was why I fell into a thing with her when the ink was barely dry on the deal sheet.
I say “thing” because what we had wasn’t a relationship like I’d had with Marisa.
It was a tryst, and something about it nagged at me from the get-go. But I ignored that little voice, the one that said dig deeper, ask more questions.
Karina had no ring, made no mention of a husband or children. She had her own place in Santa Monica, with plush white furniture and a view of the ocean—a bachelorette pad. We went out to dinner but never near work, always off the beaten path, then back to her place.
She was only in town a couple of days a week and said she had to tend to her sick mother on weekends in Palm Springs.
Her lies were believable enough for a few months, then a few more, until my sister came to town.
“I want to meet this new woman who’s got you all worked up,” she’d said.
“She’s taking care of her mom this weekend,” I said.
Lisa hummed. “And she took care of her last weekend too?”
“Yeah.”
“And the weekend before?”
I gulped. “Yes.”
Then Lisa big-sistered me. She sat me down, told me her radar was going off like a tornado siren, and made me tell her everything because “something isn’t adding up.”
My pride nearly kept it all bottled inside. But my morbid curiosity was stronger. Was Lisa onto something? Had she figured out what had been nagging at me?
Lisa suggested we follow Karina after work.
I hated the idea but loved it too. I had to know, so we Starsky and Hutched her, following Karina to her home in Palm Springs.
The sprawling ranch home she shared with her husband and two kids.
Turned out the agent I was seeing was actually Karen Lee, a married mother of two with a stay-at-home husband who doted on their four-year-old twin daughters.
That was what Lisa found on Facebook when she promptly stalked her.
I didn’t confront Karina in the driveway. I’m not the kind of guy to flip the table on her marriage by exposing her. Lisa and I simply turned the car around and drove back to my place.
I sent Karina a curt “it’s over, and you know why, but I’m not going to breathe a word of any of this” note.
Then I had to grin and bear it.
Because here’s the thing: even though Karina and I didn’t work in the same office, the fallout spilled into my professional life.
It fucking avalanched.
It was my dirty, filthy secret. Every day at work, I saw my bad decisions, my poor judgment, because we had a project together. No one else knew what had happened. But I had to work with her and shepherd that book into the marketplace with a woman I knew was a liar.
That’s why I instituted my rule—do not mix business with pleasure.
That may also be why online dating is appeali
ng, or so I’m learning.
Yes, I know I could meet a liar online.
I’m well aware of catfishing, and that the web can be a hot cesspool of married scammers.
But I’m not bringing a book into the world with any of those people. I’m not tangled up professionally with anyone in this online realm.
And I’ve learned to trust my gut.
Right now, my gut says Asking for a Friend is someone I’d like to chat with.
Especially when she responds to my opening lines with her own quip: Don’t trip.
Then she quickly follows up with another note.
Asking for a Friend: Mostly because you never know who might be watching and/or capturing your call on cell-phone video, and then you’d become the next day’s walking-and-reading-and-tripping gif. And nobody wants that, right?
And just like that, we’re bantering like it’s a bag of potato chips I can’t stop eating.
Ping-Pong Lover: One of my goals in life is to avoid becoming a gif or a meme or a viral video.
Asking for a Friend: How are you doing with that so far?
Ping-Pong Lover: It’s working out well. Thanks for asking. Hey, is this where we segue into the “life goals” conversation?
Asking for a Friend: Why, yes! Now that you’ve asked, my biggest life goal is to end discrimination against jammies as all-purpose attire.
Ping-Pong Lover: Pajamas are so misunderstood.
Asking for a Friend: That’s why I’ve taken up their cause. Someone needs to be their champion.
Ping-Pong Lover: The sleep garments thank you, I’m sure.
Asking for a Friend: BRB. I need to grab the banana bread from the oven.
Ping-Pong Lover: You’re making banana bread at eleven thirty on a Saturday night?
Asking for a Friend: You’re chatting with a banana bread maker at eleven thirty-one on a Saturday night. So there.
Ping-Pong Lover: But maybe I’m chatting with the world’s finest banana bread maker. So, tell me. How is it? The finest?
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 147
