“Ooh, elder abuse!” Viktor rasps, clutching a hand to his chest and grinning. “See what I have to put up with, Riley? Oliver Twist had it better than I do! Oh, the humanity!”
“I’m sure you give as good as you get, Viktor,” I tell him, and Viktor grins. “Maybe give more than you get, too.”
“Get me a couple of Viagra, and I’ll definitely give it,” Viktor says before narrowing his eyes at Arielle. “This girl won’t let me have any . . . stupid doctor’s orders.”
“Viktor, you try sneaking Viagra in here again and I really will tape your mittens on!” Arielle says with just enough seriousness to let Viktor know she isn’t quite joking. “You know what it’ll do to your heart, and though I’ll deny having said it, I happen to like having you around here!”
“Ah, you’re no fun,” Viktor says, but he’s smiling at the compliment. Getting back to the game, he picks up one of his checkers and hops three of my pieces. “And that, I believe, is how it’s done. King me, Riley.”
I look at the board, and I’m pretty sure that in all that discussion, he slid a piece on me. Still, I king his piece, losing a few minutes later when he traps my last piece with a nifty little snare maneuver. “Sharp as ever,” I tell him, offering a good sportsmanlike handshake. “Rematch next week, Viktor?”
“Ah, giving me a reason to live another week, I see,” Viktor says dramatically, standing up and reaching for his walker. “And what a reason too. See you next week, Sunshine.”
Viktor turns and slowly makes his way toward the outdoor patio and the warm sunshine there while Arielle and I watch him go, chuckling. “Can you believe him?” I ask when he’s out of earshot. “Old enough to be our grandfather, and he’s still trying to hit on us!”
“Men,” Arielle says sagely. “Once puberty kicks in, they’ve got two things on their minds. Food and sex. Both of which you could use some more of. Speaking of, have you checked the app today? Your hook get any fishies?”
She gets up as she asks, putting her finger in her cheek and pulling herself toward the kitchen. I grin and follow her.
“Maybe . . .” I tease out.
“Oh, this I’ve got to hear. But we work while we talk around here, so help me with this rice pudding. I’ll scoop, you top with raisins. Five each. So help me, if you put too many or too few, there will be rioting in the dining room and I’ll have to tranq them.” She’s kidding. I think.
We wash up, put on gloves, and Arielle grabs an ice cream scoop. Plopping a serving of white mush from the big, steaming pot on the stove into a dish, she sets it in front of me and I carefully place five raisins on top.
“Talk and work. Tell me about your DMs,” Arielle demands, never missing a beat with her scooping.
“I had a lot of messages, actually, but the one we looked at last night—the ninety-six percent match that I messaged?” I’m explaining like Arielle forgot overnight despite her near-perfect memory and her nodding like a bobblehead. “He messaged me back.”
“Yeah!” she yells. “That’s good, right? I mean he’s not creepy or anything?” The worry on her face tells me that she really is concerned about that.
“If you thought there might be creeps on there, why did you tell me to do it?” I sputter.
She shrugs. “There are creeps everywhere, Riley. What are you gonna do? Never date because the dude from the produce section might be a serial cheater? Because he might also be a loyal, faithful, monogamous guy who wants to treat you like a queen. Same with the guy from an app. Possibly awful, potentially amazing.”
“Fine,” I agree, knowing she’s right.
“So, which is he? Mark, right?”
“Yeah, Mark. I think he might be amazing. Or at least he seemed like it for the three hours we talked this morning.”
I drop that tidbit, knowing that like a grenade, it’ll detonate in three, two, one . . .
“What?!” Arielle screeches, stopping her multi-tasking to stare at me. “Lead with that next time, bitch. Start with ‘hello, Arielle’ and then follow up with ‘I talked to a man online for three hours and might finally get laid’ next.”
“Arielle! It wasn’t like that,” I argue. “We weren’t sexting. It’s not Tinder, that’s the point! We talked about. . . stuff.”
“What sort of stuff? Give me the play by play so I can make sure you’re not getting catfished.” Arielle’s insistence is written clear as day in the set of her lips and the focus in her eyes. She might’ve gone back to scooping rice pudding, but her full attention is on me, and she’ll go Mama Bear in a heartbeat if she thinks her cub—that’d be me—needs protecting.
Slowly, it all pours out.
I tell her about Mark’s first brush-off, and she scoffs, singing an off-skew version of Ariana Grande’s song, “No, thank you. Next.” The song is complete with a stop-right-there palm, a turned away face, and an aggrieved huff.
“It was okay. He immediately messaged me again, apologizing and asking for a second chance. And when we really started talking, it was like we had this connection.” My explanation seems to soften her by degrees, especially the part where he apologized.
Arielle hums along as I tell her about the rest of our conversation, asking questions here and there.
“He really didn’t ask you for a picture or even what you look like?”
“Nope. I kinda wanted to ask him, but since he didn’t and it’s kind of the point of the app, it just didn’t seem right.” I shrug, though now that Arielle’s brought it up again, I’m massively curious about what Mark looks like. “Do you think I should ask him tonight? But if I ask him, he’s going to ask me, and it’s not like I can send him a picture. It’s too risky. He might know I’m Riley Sunshine.” I talk myself into and out of that idea in a mere split second.
“I think you’re right,” Arielle says. “Talk to him again and see where it leads. Maybe nowhere, and then it won’t matter. And if the next few conversations go well, you can meet in person and explain the fake name and fame.”
Fake name. I’d kinda forgotten that part. Mark started short-handing Rachel for the letter ‘R’, and I’d read it as Riley automatically. There will definitely be some things to discuss if we do meet up, but not yet.
For now, I’m enjoying being Rachel—a regular, everyday nobody who might’ve met someone special. And I don’t want to let that go yet.
"But make sure you let me or Eli know if you decide to meet this guy. We need date, time, and place info in case you go missing. We want the cops to know where to start looking for your body.”
“Arielle! That’s awful. And scary,” I tell her.
She shrugs carelessly, as though police hunting for my missing body is no big deal, just another normal Tuesday. “And safe. You haven’t dated in a while, Riley. The world is different now, especially when you’re someone like you. Be safe with your body and your heart, but that doesn’t mean hiding away. I like that you’re taking risks and getting out there in the game. It’s about time, and you deserve it.”
“What about you?” I question carefully. She and Eli have been weird lately, and I wonder if they’re moving back in to an ‘on’ phase for some friends-with-benefits action. But they’ve done that countless times and it’s never been awkward like it has been lately.
“Oh, I’m so busy these days working extra shifts because we’re short-handed around here, so when I get an evening off, I want to eat and sleep so I can repeat it all the next day.”
“Nobody special filling your bed then?” I pry.
“Nope. No one special. Just me and my buzzy buddy, and most of the time, I’m too lazy to even manage that.”
Arielle starts moving faster to finish the puddings. If there’s one thing she’s not, it’s lazy. Something’s rotten in Denmark, but if she’s not ready to talk about it, I’ll respect that. For now. But mentally, I set a timer to gently push for more info because while she’s the protector of the group, I’m the cheerleader. And if she needs a pep talk to ditch someone who’s not tr
eating her well or to balls-up and speak her mind to someone who’s caught her eye, I’m damn good at those.
“All right, let’s get some damn rice puddings done. If we miss the three o’clock snack time, it turns into Dawn of the Almost Dead out there!” Arielle warns as she lines a serving cart with the raisin-bedazzled rice puddings. One of the raisins falls to the floor as we move them, and Arielle curses. “Shit. Grab me another one. I can’t risk the fallout of only four.”
I laugh and add one more piece of wrinkly fruit to the shortened bowl. “Who knew raisins were such serious business?” I tease.
“Everything around here is serious business,” Arielle retorts.
Chapter 6
Noah
R: Happy Tuesday!
I glance at the timestamp and feel my lips spread in a smile. Rachel sent this twenty minutes ago when I was in the shower. Then again, that’s what we’ve done for the past three days. We have a long, drawn-out conversation that’s mostly punctuated with ten- and fifteen-minute gaps for the whole day before we text each other to sleep.
I can’t help but notice that I’ve been smiling a lot more these last few days too. So much so that people at work noticed yesterday. I heard two people in the break room joking that it was weird and scary for me to be happy, musing about what might make an uptight asshole like me smile. Their best guess seemed to be that I am either on drugs or I’ve finally gone off the deep end and am going to show up at work next week with my hair dyed green and in clown makeup. But the truth is much more mundane. It’s her. Rachel. Every time my phone vibrates, I can’t wait to see what she says.
M: Good morning. You’re up early. I hope you slept well?
R: I did. At least until my dog licked my face, waking me up at six AM. Men!
M: I don’t blame him. I’m sure I’d do the same in his place . . . maybe with less tongue. Or maybe not? ;)
Fuck, is this who I’ve become? I smile, I use emojis, and I flirt via texts. Ironically, though I would’ve given River a hard time if he were doing this, it feels natural with Rachel. An easy progression of our conversations from bare-boned, get to know you questions to casual chats and flirty double-entendres.
R: I’m sure your wake-up call would’ve been preferable. As it was, Raffy was demanding a walk so he could pee. Which wouldn’t have been so bad except that he saw a squirrel and lunged at it, nearly climbing the single tree on the whole block and barking so loudly that it scared me to death. I almost wet my pants! And then my first-floor neighbor glared at me through the blinds despite my mouthed apology and friendly wave. The nerve! LOL
M: I’m picturing this now and laughing. With you, I promise. Not at you. Were you at least wearing something other than pajamas this time?
R: You already know I wasn’t! I’m out there in the dark, wearing slippers, shorts, and a sweatshirt that’s seen better days with bedhead bad enough to scare away any would-be attacker, holding a leash and pepper spray on my lanyard with all my jangling keys. You think maybe that’s why my neighbor was so freaked?
M: Perhaps.
R: Shoot, you’re right. Maybe I’ll leave an apology muffin at their door later. Is blueberry or chocolate chip more of an ‘I promise not to wake you up before dawn again’ flavor?
M: Hmm, good question. I think chocolate chip. Blueberry has more of a ‘get well soon’ vibe. All those fruit vitamins.
R: You’re right. Adding that to my to-do list for the day. How about you?
M: Off to work, and now I’m wanting a muffin for breakfast. I’ll probably go with cranberry-orange. A little tart, a little sweet. Like you.
R:
I can’t message her again until nearly ten o’clock, but that’s okay. Rachel and I do this often, with our longer gaps almost serving as changes of subject.
M: That muffin was delicious. Mid-morning coffee fix next. How do you take yours? I’ll make mine a Rachel.
R: Aww. I like mine light and sweet, like melted ice cream. Four sugars and cream.
M: Uh, maybe I’ll stick with plain black, bitter and hot.
R: Fair enough, more sugar and cream for me!
M: How’s the morning work coming along?
R: Slow . . . need to come up with a good quote for perseverance. Got any suggestions? Nothing I’m finding is hitting the right note.
M: Atticus- ‘She was powerful not because she wasn’t scared but because she went on so strongly despite the fear.’
R: Whoa. That’s . . . wow. It’s perfect. And here I was expecting you to pull something by Vince Lombardi or something out of your brain. No offense.
M: None taken. Not to kill the spark, but I didn’t have that quote sitting on the front of my brain. I Googled it.
R: I appreciate the honesty! I’ve been Googling quotes all morning, reading and rejecting, and you just . . . boom, pull the perfect thing outta nowhere. Thanks!
M: What’s it for?
Those three dots appear and disappear twice before her next message comes across, and I know she is struggling to answer. We’re still being careful, divulging deep, inside information about some things while staying superficial on others. We still haven’t talked about what we look like, or our jobs, or anything that would really identify us. I can understand her caution and even appreciate it since I’m hesitant to share my own identity. I’m dreading answering questions about my association with BlindDate since my initial motivation—researching the experience—seems a bit underhanded now that I’ve ‘met’ Rachel.
R: A motivational thing for work. Which I should probably get back to. Talk soon?
M: Absolutely. And for the record . . .
M: Football is like life—it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, sacrifice, dedication, and respect for authority.
R: What’s that?
M: A perseverance quote from Vince Lombardi. Personally, I think the other one sounds more like what you’re looking for, but I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to meet your expectations.
R: You’re kinda amazing, you know that?
M: I know. And also, my Google skills are stellar. Top-notch.
R: Goofball.
M: You’re pretty amazing too.
I shift back to my afternoon of work, but the truth is my eyes keep drifting to my phone, looking for that green dot to show up next to Rachel’s name. How is it that in just three days I’ve come to look for that little dot so damn much?
By evening, we’re messaging nonstop. Chattering about our days in broad terms, talking about favorite television shows while we watch some God-awful semi-reality thing she enjoys, and later . . .
R: It’s getting late, but I don’t want to stop talking.
M: Are you in bed?
R: Yes?
I wouldn’t mind taking things up a notch in intensity, but that question mark tells me everything I need to know about where Rachel’s head is on that subject. It’s fast, and we’re still getting to know each other. So instead of going to a hotter, sexier place, I pivot.
M: Want me to tell you a bedtime story?
R: Oh, my God! Yes!
There are six smiley face emojis after that, so I know she’s excited, probably even giddy, about the idea. I smile, trying to think of a good one.
M: Okay, get curled up in bed and dim the light on the phone. If you stop responding, I’ll trust that you’ve gone to sleep, okay?
It’s a moment before she responds.
R: Okay! Teeth brushed, bathroom stop for me and Raffy, back in bed, snug as a bug in a rug with Raffy curled up at my feet. All ready!
She paints an adorably sexy picture. Even though I don’t know what she looks like, I’ve been imagining her more and more. The face is always a blur, but I picture her blonde hair atop a curvy figure, her feet kicking in delight every time she sends multiple smiley faces. I wonder if her breasts are full or small, filling or spilling out of my hands. I wonder if she has freckles that I
can trace with my tongue. I wonder if she’s ticklish. For some reason, I feel certain that she is. I wonder if her heart is as genuine as it seems and her mind as quick because she keeps me on my toes, never knowing what she’s going to say. As someone who thrives on structure and needs predictability, that should drive me mad, but I somehow find it amusing and refreshing.
M: Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a vast kingdom with his mother and sister. The boy’s mother worked hard, but times were tough and she often went without so her children would have enough. The siblings saw this and did everything they could to make it easier for their beloved mother, often telling her they weren’t hungry so she would have enough dinner herself.
R: That’s so sad. And sweet of them both, the kids and the mom, looking out for each other.
M: But it wasn’t all dire straits and meals of cheap rice and beans. The mother was wonderful and would play games with the children every night, even when she was asleep on her feet. Her favorite was hide and seek. Years later, the boy realized it was so the mother could close her eyes for at least thirty seconds while she counted, but at the time, he and his sister didn’t know that. They would run and hide, giggling the whole time. You there?
R: Yes. Please go on.
M: One time, the boy hid in the garden next door. It wasn’t a fancy garden with vegetables but rather an empty lot, overgrown with weeds. The boy ducked down in the grass, curling up as small as he could so he wouldn’t be found. Soon, he heard his sister helping his mother, both of them trying to find him. He shrank back even deeper into the garden, his back against the fence. Still as he could be, the only thing he moved were his eyes. That’s how he saw . . . it. Awake?
R: OMG! Yes! What did he see?!
M: You’re supposed to be relaxing, going to sleep. Maybe this isn’t working?
R: It’s working. It’s totally working. Now tell me what the boy saw! Please!
Another smile takes my lips. I touch that word—please—in her message. It’s not begging. More of a demand, honestly. But I can sense her desire to know me, talk to me. Not some hotshot executive, not some rags to riches story, not the grumpy workaholic. Just me.
The Blind Date Page 6
