A Girl Like You Read online

  44

  “So, I was invited to have a viral drink last night,” I told Ian while peeling potatoes in an attempt to make Cathy Kitchen’s frittata for dinner.

  “What’s that?” Ian was at the kitchen table, slumped over his homework.

  “You don’t know? I thought it was a thing. It’s when you sit at your house and drink, and they sit at their house drinking, and you go on WhatsApp.”

  “What the hell? That’s completely stupid!”

  “So it’s not a thing?”

  “No, it’s not. And I’m not willing to sit and use an app while drinking beer in my living room, and if that means I’ll be alone the rest of my life, that’s fine,” Ian said.

  “Geez, and here I thought I was missing out on a trend.”

  “Don’t waste your time with that one, Mom.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “In other news, I’m thinking of trying speed dating.”

  “OK, this sounds interesting,” Ian said, pushing aside his books.

  “As you know, the last guys I went out with turned out to be something completely different than what I expected.”

  That was an understatement.

  “I’ve lost track of your dates, to be honest.”

  “There was Harold, the sad guy with no money who lost his hair during chemo, and then Macon, that jerk who talked about me on the phone right in front of me then said it didn’t matter that I didn’t want another date….”

  “Oh yeah, right! The one with the accent? You couldn’t even understand him?”

  “Exactly.”

  I’d given it some thought and realized if I’d met either of them in person, we would both have known we weren’t a good match.

  “The best way to meet a guy, I think, is to do it in person—you know, let it happen organically.”

  Ian was unsuccessfully trying to hide his laughter.

  “Yeah, Mom, speed dating seems pretty grass roots. Doesn’t sound artificial at all.”

  I threw a dishtowel at his head.

  “Go ahead, let’s hear it,” he said.

  “It’s where you meet like twelve people in one night, talk for a few minutes, then discreetly decide if you want to see them again.”

  “OK, strange, but go on.”

  “It was popular years ago. I don’t even know if they have it anymore, but it’s all very discreet.”

  “Yeah, you said that.”

  I got out the grater to shred the block of sharp cheddar cheese. “How’s urban planning?” It was Ian’s least favorite class in his environmental studies courses for his four-year degree.

  “Sucks.”

  “Teacher still talk about himself and not the actual class material?”

  “Yeah. We know all about the birth of his first child.”

  “Well that’s TMI,” I said, sliding the veggies into a frying pan.

  “OK,” Ian said suddenly, making me jump. “They do still have it. It’s called Flash Pre-dating. There are some right down in Ashton.”

  “Geez, you scared me. Let me see.”

  I leaned over his laptop at the cheerful logo: two entwined love birds texting one another.

  The flash sessions ran two hours, during which I would meet up to ten men. At the end, I would choose the men I wanted to have an actual real-life date with.

  “Yeah, but look at the age groups,” I said, turning down the heat when the zucchini began to sizzle and pop on the stove.

  “Well obviously you’re in the over-fifty group,” Ian chuckled.

  “Stop it! Everyone takes a few years off their age, so if I was going to do it, I’d go to the 39-49 group.”

  “That’s a stretch, Mom.”

  “Thank you for your support, Ian.” I returned to the stove.

  “There’s one next Tuesday night in downtown Ashton. Give me your credit card. I’ll sign you up now. And when’s that quiche going to be done? Smells delish.”

  “It’s technically a frittata, but I’m not sure how it’s different from quiche, actually.”

  “Whatever,” Ian said, getting out a plate and fork. “I’ll take a big hunk.”

  I spent the weekend worrying about speed dating and what questions I would ask the ragingly cute, highly intelligent men.

  Tuesday morning at my desk, I wrote practice questions on the back of some old invoices:

  “Where did you grow up?

  “What’s your favorite color?”

  “What do you do?”

  “Like, what’s your sign, man?”

  I was so disgusted I crumpled the paper and tossed it. Then I started again:

  “Italian food or Mexican?”

  “Vanilla or chocolate?”

  “Red or black licorice?”

  “Raisinettes or M&M’s?”

  I realized every question was about food, and tried again.

  “Betty or Veronica?”

  “Mary Ann or Ginger?”

  “Summer or fall?”

  “Travel to Ireland, or to Cancun?”

  “Mustard or ketchup on a hot dog? Relish?”

  Whoops, I was back to food. I tucked the list in my purse for later.

  Madison was working, so I made Ian my wardrobe consultant before he headed to the gym. I modelled Elvira leggings, a long skirt, and a shorter blue-and-white striped skirt, all topped with my oldest denim jacket.

  “The jean jacket is to look a little casual, you know, laid back,” I said, so nervous I considered pre-gaming for the pre-dating with a glass of wine. “I want to look young and thin. As if that’s even possible.”

  “I like the jean jacket,” Ian said. “Turn around. OK, definitely the striped skirt. It makes your butt look smaller.”

  “Thanks,” I said, really wanting the wine.

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Striped skirt it is,” I said.

  “And don’t wear sneakers with it,” Ian yelled on his way out the back door.

  Shit. I was planning on sneakers, but I dug through my closet to find my one pair of walkable heels, ankle-strap with a cork wedge heel.

  I didn’t achieve the bouncy curls I’d left the salon with. I flipped my head upside down, then stood back up, a bit dizzy, and smiled in the mirror. My smile looked fake and my hair flat. Oh well. I’d done my best.

  I was ready. I had to leave at 6:15. It was 5:45.

  Penny followed me around, confused by all the activity. I knelt down in my wedge heels to stroke her chin and sing to her.

  I texted Madison at work.

  “I’m scared to death. I don’t think I can do this.”

  “Mom, if you don’t want to go, don’t.”

  “Are you kidding? I paid $32 to register!”

  “So go. Just try to have a good time. Even if it kills you.”

  On the drive to Ashton, I practiced smiling and saying a casual hello.

  “How are you tonight?”

  “How you doin’?”

  “Nice to meet you.”

  “Hey, whassup?”

  At red lights, I tried to arrange my face into a friendly, not desperate-looking, casual smile. I failed. Definitely not good in the pre-dating world.

  “Oh, shit, just go with it,” I told myself.

  45

  Downtown Ashton was a nightmare with its unfamiliar one-way streets. I circled three times before I found the restaurant, Ocean, then drove another four blocks looking for a parking lot.

  I found a $25 lot, then searched until I saw one last spot at the end of a row.

  “Hey, lady!”

  A man rolled down his window and started yelling at me.

  I left my window rolled up and pretended not to hear him, fiddling with my purse.

  “Hey lady! That was my spot! I was just about to pull in when you cut me off!”

  I opened my purse and pretended to intently be looking for something.

  “Nice, lady, real nice. Have a good night!”

  Well, that’s a good start, I thought.


  Ocean was down a cobblestoned street that made me walk in my wedge heels like a drunk person, which I wished I were—or at least buzzed. By the glass front door was a sign that read: “Closed for private party.”

  Inside, there was a ridiculously thin, bouncy young woman who greeted me before the door even shut behind me.

  “Hi!” She thrust out her small hand. “I’m Laney!”

  “Jessica Gabriel.”

  “Shush!!!! Don’t use your last name!!!! Hahaha. First names only.” She slapped a sticker on me with my name embellished with the lovebird logo.

  The group of women clustered at the small u-shaped bar were all wearing jeans, khakis, jean skirts, or khaki skirts. I cursed myself for the heels; even sneakers would have made my striped skirt look less dressy.

  I made a run for the bar, ordering a wine spritzer from a cute guy with an easy smile.

  “Good luck,” he said, and I swear I saw him wink.

  I looked around the restaurant, trying to be casual.

  There was a man wearing a bowling shirt with pigeons on it, talking to a guy wearing suspenders and very pointy shoes, and another guy with tattoo sleeves, still carrying his Harley helmet. Hmm.

  “Excuse me, I don’t mean to push.”

  I turned to find a tall guy wearing an untucked light-blue polo and black penny loafers.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “Not a problem. Thanks.”

  I stepped to the side to let him get up to the bar, stealing a look at his tag: Jack.

  Two men by the registration table were talking loudly. “Yeah, so some bitch took the last space when I was clearly waiting for it. I had to drive six blocks to find another lot.”

  It was him! The yeller from the parking lot! I fought the urge to hide or run to the ladies’ room. Squinting, I could see his nametag: Frank. Cross him off my list.

  After a moment, Laney stood on a chair to be heard. “Good evening, singles!!! Who’s as excited as I am to be here?”

  Probably no one, I thought.

  “Well, here’s the update, hahaha, we’re expecting more guys, but don’t worry, ladies, there will be plenty to go around!! Hahaha.” Laney said, nearly losing her balance on the chair. Luckily, she was wearing sneakers and not wedge heels. “Single ladies, have a seat at a table and the men will rotate to meet each of you.”

  It was like a bad game of musical chairs as the women darted to tables.

  I was the last one standing.

  “Are we having trouble, Jessica?” Laney pounced on me. “Let me help you find a table.”

  Yes, help the elderly, I thought.

  She led me to the table farthest in the back of the room, in the shadows, basically halfway into the restaurant’s kitchen. I kicked off my shoes underneath my lonely table and stretched out my toes.

  “Okey-doke,” Laney said. “Let’s speed date!”

  Pigeon-shirt man came to my table, sloshing his drink on the list of suggested questions.

  “I’m Phil,” he said, extending his sweaty hand.

  “Jessica,” I said, shaking it, then wiping my palm on my skirt.

  “What brings you here tonight?” Phil asked too loudly. “Looking for a love match?”

  “Not really. Just looking for friends, I guess.”

  “Yeah, ain’t we all,” Phil said morosely, staring into his drink. “Did you ever stop and think, there must be more out there than the life we’re living?”

  Startled, I sipped my spritzer. Every day, I thought. Every. Freaking. Day.

  “So what do you do?” I changed the subject.

  “Sell used cars.” Phil dug into the pocket of his bowling shirt and fished out a card, handing it to me.

  “I don’t think we’re supposed to give out our last names, or like, business cards. I think this is supposed to be anonymous.”

  “Eh, take it anyway. You might need a gently used car someday,” Phil said sadly.

  Ralph, wearing the suspenders, showed me pictures of his dogs on his cell phone.

  “Oh, look at that little cutie,” I said, pointing to a snow-white Maltese.

  To my horror, he burst into tears. “Just found out she has failing kidneys,” he wept. “Treatment’s going to cost me thousands, but if I have to use up all my savings and sell my house, I will to keep her alive.”

  I nearly had tears springing to my eyes with sympathy for the man.

  Parking Lot Crazy Man and I sat for the entire six minutes without speaking, both of us with our arms folded across our chests. I whistled a little to break the tension. He stared me down and I glared right back.

  Next.

  The Harley guy with full tat sleeves reached over the table and tried to hug me hello.

  Well, that was ballsy, I thought. Maybe this would be the guy to try out my fantasies…he looked like the type that could be dominant but not hurtful. I liked the tats and the bad-boy image. I had an immediate picture in my mind of him standing in my room, jeans pulled down to his ankles, instructing me how he wanted to be sucked off.

  I felt my face flush, so I shook my head to clear my thoughts.

  “So, little lady,” he growled. “You ride?”

  “Motorcycles? I mean, cycles? I mean, bikes? Ride?” I was stuttering. I gulped my spritzer. “No,” I finally said lamely.

  “Then what do you do?”

  This I had rehearsed since the debacle with Michael. “I’m rather impulsive. I love to take day trips, you know, unplanned little getaways to Lake Placid or Vermont.”

  I stopped talking. Harley guy didn’t even notice. He was looking at the next table, where another single—a delicate, small-boned Asian woman—was laughing, tossing her head back to show off her tiny neck.

  “Yes, and I also love to shark wrestle, make my own moccasins and do watercolor paintings with my teeth.”

  “Uh-huh,” Harley guy said. “Good for you.”

  So much for a future adventurous sex partner. The six minutes couldn’t end soon enough.

  At last, Mr. Polo Shirt and penny loafers slid into the seat across from me.

  “How’re you holding up?” he smiled. “Need another drink?”

  “Oh, no, thanks, I’m fine,” I said.

  “So this is quite a trip, huh?” Jack leaned back in his chair, his polo riding up a bit, revealing the button-down fly on his Levi’s. OK! I forced myself to look back up at his face.

  “Yeah, quite a trip.” Goddammit, now I sounded like a parrot!

  “So, tell me about you.” Jack smiled.

  “Well, I have two kids, a dog, a municipal job,” I said, realizing I was making myself out to seem like the dullest woman in America.

  “Where’d you go to school?”

  “Oneonta State.”

  “No way!” Jack laughed. “Some of my closest friends went there. Great party school.”

  He looked at me a little more closely. “You a party girl, Jess?”

  “You could say that….” I let my sentence trail off in a way I hoped was seductive and enticing.

  “Oh yeah? What are you into?”

  How to answer…how to answer?

  “I’m up for pretty much anything,” I said at last.

  “I’m talking sexually,” Jack leaned closer and whispered.

  “I love to explore,” I whispered back.

  “Really? I love it when a woman who looks really buttoned-down is a bit of an animal inside.”

  I tried hard to focus on Jack to make a guess at his age. Late forties? Younger than me, for sure, but I still worried he was placing me in the cougar category.

  Then Laney was ringing the damn bell to signal it was time for the men to rotate again.

  “What’s your last name, Jess? I want to friend you on Facebook.”

  “Gabriel.”

  “Got it,” he said, writing it on the back of his hand with a pen. “Hey.” He leaned in again. “You have really pretty hair.”

  Jack was my last six-minute pre-date. I was done.

  �
�How’d we do?” Laney asked brightly as I was signing out. “So, which single men are you hoping to be matched with? All of them?”

  “Um, one of them—Jack,” I said quietly. “Actually, could I also be matched with the bartender?” I attempted a joke.

  “Oh, no,” Laney frowned. “He’s not part of our group.”

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Okey-dokey,” Laney said, practically rolling her eyes at me. “Just one man on your list, then. I’ll email you about your matches in a day or so. Until then, happy dating!!!”

  “Well, it was a shit show,” I texted Maddy when I got home. “A lot of very sad men out there. I made one of them cry!”

  “Come on, Mom, it couldn’t have been that bad!”

  “One guy called me a bitch over a parking space.”

  “OK, that’s mean…was there anyone you’d want to see again?”

  “Yes, there was, this guy named Jack.”

  “Did he like you?”

  “Well, I don’t know.” I felt a bit smug. “But he wrote my name down on his hand to friend me on Facebook.”

  “Does he know how old you are?”

  “No, missy, I didn’t tell him my age, and it would have been rude of him to ask, by the way.”

  “How old was he?”

  “What’s with you and age all of a sudden? I don’t know, fifty? It was really hard to tell. It was a bar; it was dark in there.”

  “You must have some idea, Mombo.”

  “I don’t want to just pull a number out of the air. Anyway, now we wait 24 hours for an email with our matches.”

  “How many matches can you get?”

  “As many men as you like,” I said. “But I only liked one.”

  I spent the next 24 hours planning a first date with Jack. Dinner up in Ashton, maybe some place with a view of downtown shops and sidewalks. Or a trip to the lake, where he would teach me wind-boarding, and I would somehow manage to look graceful even when I fell flat on my face. But no, that would involve wearing a bathing suit. Maybe a movie and late-night cocktail, ending up with a visit to his cool bachelor apartment. Followed by hours of sex in every position we could think of.

  Laney’s email came exactly 22 hours later, when I was at work. I took my cell into the bathroom so I could do a happy dance unnoticed.

  Phew. OK, deep breath. I read the email.

  Wait. There must be some mistake. All the single men, except angry parking lot guy, had chosen to be matched with me. Every man but Jack. I closed my eyes, opened them, and forced myself to read the email more slowly.