A Girl Like You Page 10

  When I got home, Penny stood on my lap with her two front paws on the table, looking at the computer screen, clearly confused.

  “Help me find a good one,” I said.

  It was frustrating, complicated, time-consuming, and thrilling, all at once. And so began my long-term relationship with the dating site called Go Fish.

  Within a couple days, I had set some ground rules.

  “I don’t want to be seen online on a Saturday night,” I told Ian.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’ll look desperate.”

  “But they’re online too.”

  “Exactly. I don’t want to look as desperate as they are.”

  “But you want to date them.”

  “So far, no.”

  “You make no sense, Mom.”

  “I know.”

  Another ground rule: No contact with any guy who mentioned sex in their user name (sorry BigMikePorn and SitOnMe). Yes, I wanted sex—oh boy, did I want it—but not with someone obviously trolling for the best lay.

  I had new discoveries about online dating.

  “So, some guy messaged me to have drinks tonight,” I told Ian.

  “On a Sunday night?” Ian asked. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

  “Yeah, so I’m supposed to meet him at nine.”

  “Oh god, you’re kidding. You’re not going. Don’t go.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because you’ll never meet the right person on a Sunday night,” he said with complete assurance.

  * * *

  “So this guy asked me to ‘come cuddle.’ Is that code?” I asked Maddy.

  “Code? No, it’s pretty blatant. It’s a booty call. Also, stay away from anyone who asks you to ‘watch Netflix and chill.’”

  “OK, good to know. The way this is going, I may never have sex again.”

  “That’s what we all say, Mombo.”

  * * *

  “I messaged a man with a lobster on his head,” I told her another day.

  “You would yell at me if I did that!” Madd hollered.

  “Probably, but at this point, I don’t care.”

  “Why are you changing your standards based on how you feel?” Her eyes turned darker with sympathy.

  Damnit. She was right. Again.

  * * *

  “Would you consider spanking to be good therapy?” I asked Madd over iced tea another day.

  “What?”

  “This guy wrote he’s looking for spank therapy in his profile.”

  “Is he the spanker, or the spankee?”

  “I’m thinking the spanker….”

  Madison shuddered. “Sounds like he wants to take out his aggression on a woman’s ass.”

  “Yeah, and it says OTK with hand…what’s that?”

  We Googled it.

  “Over the knee,” Madison said, showing little surprise. “With his hand. Charming.”

  “Well, that paints quite a picture.”

  “Next,” Maddy said.

  * * *

  Looking at photos was free, but the upgrade, nearly overwhelmingly enticing, let me see who was online, who had looked at my profile or read a message I’d sent.

  Madd and I both agreed that this option opened the door for a greater sense of humiliation.

  “When I send a message, and he looks at my pics, then doesn’t reply, it’s a double rejection,” I complained to Maddy.

  “They don’t even know you, Mom. What does it matter?”

  “You know it matters, honey.”

  “Yeah, I do.”

  * * *

  The later it got on Friday and Saturday nights, the lower I went on the list of who I would chat with. I went from my A-list guys to my B-list after midnight. Yes, the man doing the chicken dance was weird, but he was looking pretty good by 1:00 a.m. Ditto the guy with the barbecue tongs burning hotdogs. One guy used his wedding photo in his profile. I even broke my rule and replied to Tall2Ride, because maybe he was just tall and rode a motorcycle? Sunday mornings carried messages hinting of desperation after the guys spent Saturday night alone.

  “Hey AriesGurl, want to meet for brunch?” TrueGentleman messaged me. “I’ll buy you a mimosa.”

  “I already ate oatmeal,” I replied honestly.

  * * *

  Over and over, I made the mistake of sharing too much info.

  “Mom,” Ian scolded. “You do not tell a guy you’re making scrambled eggs on a Friday night!”

  “But I was!”

  “Yes, that’s what’s wrong with this picture!” he laughed. “Friday is a date night!”

  “Not for me,” I sighed.

  * * *

  “By the way, Dad says hi,” Ian said casually one morning when he came downstairs.

  “Uh-huh,” I said, concentrating on smoothing the hair on Penny’s back with a soft brush.

  Ian talked to Adam all the time; I knew this and I was glad about it. I knew Ian turned to his father for advice and kept him in the loop about his life. Adam also planned his stops near the town so Ian could meet up with him and camp out. Also good.

  Where I drew the line was sending chipper messages to Adam through Ian, something like “How’s life on the road?” or “Did ya need any more silverware?” Not going to happen.

  I thought about the night by Adam’s camper when we decided to go our separate ways, literally. Bob Marley’s lyrics were true—everything was all right, even though it was impossible to predict what might come next.

  30

  A message came across Fish around 5:00 on a hopelessly dull Tuesday six weeks after I’d joined the site, from a guy whose profile name was MBAMan. His photo showed him lounging in an outdoor chair with a small dog curled around his shoulders like one of those neck pillows you use on airplanes.

  MBA listed the usual testosterone-fueled hobbies: hiking in the rain, snowmobiling on the thin ice of lakes in winter, parasailing, jumping off rocks and snowshoeing uphill, but his profile was different: he was looking for friends, possibly not putting pressure on finding “the one.” Also, he lived about five minutes from my house. Also, it was a Tuesday night.

  “Let’s go for a drink, AriesGurl. I think it would be good for both of us,” messaged MBA, aka Michael.

  I liked his confidence.

  “How’s 7:00?”

  “Sounds good,” Michael replied.

  I quickly took my second shower of the day, then approached my closet with trepidation.

  I knew what I wanted. I wanted to look self-assured, sultry, and maybe even a little sassy.

  There was absolutely nothing I owned that would accomplish this.

  I tore through my closet, flinging so many outfits on the bed that I buried Penny. Finally, I settled for a black peplum top, leggings with flowers instead of vampires, and Converse sneaks, with my hair in a ponytail, which hopefully didn’t portray me as matronly, lonely, or overly hopeful.

  I picked Nick’s Tavern as a meeting place, a pub just out of town, blessedly dim and not known for any particular food specials, so the likelihood of people at the bar tearing into wings and bleu cheese was low. I have a thing about watching people eat wings. It’s a phobia, really. I can’t stand the whole process: the dunking in sauce, the slobbering at the chicken, the inevitable pile of discarded bones, the greasy hands. Yuck. No thanks.

  Ian thought I was crazy to be meeting a man I barely knew.

  “Did you get his last name?” he asked.

  “No, but I’ll text you from the bar’s bathroom,” I told him, checking my teeth for lipstick. “And Nick’s is like six minutes away. You could get there really fast to save me if I need it.”

  “Remember, you can run if you want to. Don’t be afraid to run,” Ian said worriedly. “And next time, ask him to take a picture holding the day’s newspaper so you know he’s real.”

  “Thanks for the tip, honey,” I said.

  “Good luck, Mom,” Ian said, looking just as nervous as I felt.

 
; My palms felt clammy on the steering wheel, and when I got to the pub, I turned off the engine and sat there until my breathing calmed down. Then I realized there were windows overlooking the lot, and it was possible Michael could see me sitting in my car, so I bolted, slamming my door on the seatbelt.

  “Shit, shit shit,” I said, reopening the car door and fixing the belt.

  I saw Michael at a corner table, watching the door so closely that he looked almost too hopeful, which was strangely comforting. I knew his face immediately—the deep-set gray eyes and strong chin—but since he’d been wearing a baseball cap in his pics, I didn’t recognize the bald head.

  Bryan is bald, I told myself. Bald is the new coiffure.

  We hugged awkwardly, Michael bending way down in slow motion as I tried to recall if his profile said he was 6 feet or taller. Must be taller.

  “What are you drinking tonight?”

  Madison had coached me on what to order so there was no risk of getting drunk: Midori, ginger ale and vermouth, or even a wine spritzer with club soda—anything but plain soda, she said, but when I opened my mouth, I blurted out, “Ginger ale, on the rocks.”

  Over my childish soda (with ice) and his draft beer, Michael led the conversation.

  “What do you do, Jess?”

  “Well, I just started a new day job at town hall, but I write at night. Ad copy, actually.”

  “For who?”

  “Insurance companies, a hardwood floor business, a couple of builders,” I said, wishing it sounded more interesting. “And you?”

  “Have my MBA, obviously.”

  “Yeah, I kind of figured that out.”

  “I’m an accountant for a small family business.”

  “Nice,” I said.

  “What kind of food do you like?” he asked next.

  “American? I mean, Mexican? How about you?”

  “I consider myself an adventurous eater,” Michael said, sitting up taller.

  “Like, eel, fungus, and bugs?” I asked.

  “I’m sure I’ve had all three of them,” Michael smiled. “Fungus would probably be the lowest on that list. What’s your favorite food?”

  “Shrimp. Oh, and chocolate.”

  “But never chocolate shrimp?”

  Just as I was starting to relax, the #1 dreaded question came along, the question I knew I should have prepared for, but hadn’t.

  “What do you like to do?”

  I knew what I should say, hike, bike, parasail, run uphill in the rain, lift weights, but instead this is what came out of my mouth: “Hang out with my kids and dog, Penny.”

  “Ah. What kind of dog?”

  “Yorkie.”

  “How old?”

  “Five.”

  “Nice. My pug is just a puppy.”

  “Yeah, saw her in the photo—really cute.”

  “It’s a him.”

  That pretty much covered the topic of pets.

  Michael took a deep drink of his beer. I worried he was trying to finish it so he could leave. A man brushed by Michael, jostling his beer a bit, and Michael gave him a dirty look.

  “This place is too crowded.”

  It was a Tuesday night; the bar was barely half-full.

  I had a terrible thought that Michael was going to suggest we go someplace quieter, like his car, or worse, his house, but instead, he went to the bar, coming back with another beer and a glass of red wine.

  “Thought you might like an adult beverage,” he said, sliding the wine glass toward me, his eyes glinting in the light over the table.

  “Thank you.” I took a sip.

  The #2 dreaded question came next: “So what are you looking for?” Michael said, wiping the film off his beer glass, then smoothing the pockets of his camo cargo shorts.

  “Oh, you know,” I said.

  It was clear from his face that he didn’t know; he expected an actual answer.

  “Friends, I guess, I mean, people, someone to do things with, so that I don’t spend every night at my dining room table, working.” I looked over Michael’s shoulder to avoid eye contact. There was a party going on in the small banquet room, with a huge sheet cake covered in blue flowers, and a bunch of red helium balloons.

  “I understand,” Michael said quietly. “I get lonely too.”

  I looked at Michael closely. My heart rate went into overdrive.

  My wine glass was empty. Michael ushered me out the door, his hand on the small of my back. “Where are you parked?”

  “Way down there.” I pointed to the only car in the lot with the interior lights on. Shit! I hadn’t closed the door hard enough.

  “Not the one with the lights on?” Michael said.

  “I’m sorry, it is.”

  “Don’t be sorry. Let’s see if it starts.”

  I trudged in my sneakers to my car, thoroughly shamed. Climbing in, I turned the key, grateful beyond words when it started right away.

  “I’m good,” I turned to Michael.

  He was already bending over in that slo-mo way, and I was thinking, Thank God his head didn’t hit the roof, when he kissed me.

  I hadn’t been kissed in months. I’d forgotten how nice it was.

  31

  Michael and I immediately became the kind of people who text good morning as soon as we woke up, even though neither of us was a morning person.

  He was a great texter.

  “I dreamed about your long hair last night,” he texted. “My hands got hopelessly tangled in it, and it was soft and smelled like rain.”

  I had dreamed that I was out of dog food. Michael seemed very sweet.

  “You surprised me,” I texted, the morning after our drink at Nick’s.

  “You didn’t think you’d meet anyone you like at Fish?”

  “No, in the parking lot.”

  “Ah, the kiss. Maybe we should do it again.”

  Not only was he a great kisser, but Michael’s grammar/spelling was impeccable.

  “When’s your lunch hour?” he texted around noon.

  “Right now, but I only get half an hour.”

  Michael worked about ten minutes away from the town office.

  “I get an hour,” he texted back.

  “Jerk.”

  “Don’t be a hater. One of these days, I will drive up there and meet you for your half-hour lunch at First Rate Deli.”

  I smiled at my phone.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Joe asked pointedly. “You got that spreadsheet ready for me?”

  “Maybe she needs some fresh air,” Paulie said over the sound of Wes snoring at the conference table. He looked over his reading glasses at me. “If we all pitch in a couple bucks, think you could be a good gal and run down to Spot for a half dozen of them cinnamon scones?”

  I got up and went just for the sake of getting away from them for ten minutes.

  After work, I logged into Fish to show Maddy Michael’s picture.

  “Eh, he’s cute, but what does he look like without the hat on?” Madison said, examining the ends of her hair for splits.

  “Well, he’s bald,” I said.

  “Looks a little bit like a tall Bryan to me,” Madd said, shrugging.

  That night, as Penny snored at my feet, I stayed up texting Michael.

  “So, I have to tell you, I searched for tall men with master’s degrees, and you came up, but I was too afraid to message you.”

  “Why?”

  “I thought you’d be too smart for me.”

  “OK, well, check that worry off your list. Anything else you wanta tell me?”

  “There is something, but it’s stupid.”

  “Tell me.”

  “At Nick’s, we had a moment.”

  “I don’t remember a specific moment,” Michael texted. “But I know I liked you enough to kiss you. What was the moment?”

  “Well, when we were looking at each other at one point, I got butterflies.” OK, so the butterflies were mostly out of nervousness, but still, it was true.<
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  “That’s not stupid. That’s sweet.”

  “I’m getting sleepy. This is a late night for me,” I texted. It was 10:40 p.m.

  “Don’t go to bed yet. Tell me more about your life. Do you like your job?”

  “Not really,” I texted. “It’s very technical, and I keep getting interrupted by the Three Stooges, these old guys who don’t seem to have a home to go to. I get overwhelmed and go home with a headache, completely drained.”

  “You need to relax, Jess. Ever smoke pot? It’s the best thing for stress.”

  Okaaaay. I would have never pegged Michael for a pothead. All right, maybe not a pothead, and most likely no one used that term anymore. Stoner?

  “I don’t smoke,” I texted Michael reluctantly.

  “Well, don’t rule it out. I think you’d like it.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It even makes orgasms better. And you never drink? You had only one glass of wine the other night.”

  Hold on a minute—had he said “better orgasms”?

  “There’s one more thing,” Michael texted. “I tend to be more dominant.”

  “Dominant?”

  “Yeah, dominant in bed.”

  Now he had my full attention. I had to admit, it was a longtime fantasy of mine to be told what to do while having sex, to hand over control to a man I trusted. I didn’t want pain or anything done in a harmful way, but a dominant lover? That I could get into.

  We said good night, but I couldn’t sleep. I’d told Eddie I was open to new experiences in bed. Maybe this was the perfect opportunity.

  I texted Madison and told her the latest about Michael, my sort-of, maybe boyfriend.

  “Lots of people smoke, Mom,” she texted back right away. “It’s a lifestyle choice. Just tell him you don’t. Unless you want to?” Smiley face emoji.

  I’d smoked plenty of pot. OK, I’d smoked a little pot. At least a half dozen times in high school, standing around a keg of Miller Lite with friends at an outdoor fire, lighting up and passing it around. I’d gotten the buzz, the cotton mouth, the paranoia, the raging hunger that resulted in inhaling half a bag of Fritos.