Ford

“I should get inside.” I point toward the movers the second I’m able to get a word in with this woman.

My new neighbor, Melissa, frowns, but I don’t feel bad. She’s been talking my ear off for the past half hour, inviting me to singles night at her church and telling me all about her kid. She hasn’t asked a single question about me, nor has she stopped to take a breath.

“Thanks for the brownies.” I hold up the warm tray that’s been singeing my palms this entire time. “I’ll be sure to return the pan.”

She knew what she was doing.

Melissa smiles, coiling a strand of hair around her fingers. “Take your time. Like I said, I’m in the yellow house across the street if you need me.”

If I need her …

I stifle a chuckle before turning back to the house. The movers have made a good dent in the load already, and I walk into a living room stacked high with cardboard boxes. How one single man can accumulate so much shit by his late twenties is beyond me, though in my defense, most of my belongings are books—mostly college texts and literature classics—and I refuse to throw them out.

Good words never expire.

Moving to the kitchen, I grab a box cutter from the counter and get to work. My new job as principal of Rosefield High doesn’t officially start for another couple of months, and I’ve got all the time in the world, but the clutter and boxes are going to drive me insane. The sooner everything gets to its place, the better.

I can’t live with chaos. It’s nails on a chalkboard.

A couple of hours later, my kitchen is done and the movers are bringing the last of the furniture pieces in. I tip them each a hundred bucks and walk them to the door. The second they leave, I spread across my sofa, kick my feet up, and rest my eyes for a minute.

My stomach growls, a reminder that the purchase of this house didn’t include a stocked pantry, so I slide my phone from my pocket and see if there are any places around here that deliver something other than lightning-fast submarine sandwiches or soggy pizza.

Within five minutes, I settle on Thai food, place my order, and pull up my Karma app to kill time.

Starting a job like this in a town where I don’t know a soul means hook ups can be risky. I need to establish my reputation first, and the concerned residents of Rosefield, Illinois would be aghast if they found out their children’s principal is a commitment-phobic man whore.

Karma is safer.

I can actually get to know someone before deciding if they’re worth hooking up with, though at this point in time, I’ve opted to use a stock photo and stick to phone sex. It’s less risky, and my career isn’t worth an hour of electric sex with a stranger.

Tapping the app, it asks if I want to “search singles in the area searching for no-strings attached experiences.” I press “okay,” and the screen displays a list of options in alphabetical order.

Woman number one is named Absinthe, and her bio is an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote, which tells me she’s introspected and a fan of the literary arts. Sticking in a pin on her profile, I move on to the next options and make my assessments.

BlaireWS1989. Her bio is a list of her college degrees and various professional certifications.

Pass.

DaringBoldly_SoulfulAries. Addicted to self-help books. Probably consults psychics on a regular basis.

Nope.

FoxyMamaIL. Her bio says she’s a mom to three and fur-mom to four. I can’t do the single mom thing. They always want more, even if they say they don’t.

Moving on.

HeavenlyHannah. Is that … is that a Nickelback song she’s quoting?

Seriously, people.

I check out another dozen before going back to Absinthe, making absolutely certain I want to send her a message. Once I do, I won’t be able to communicate with anyone else … though the last five minutes of my life have shown me that I’m probably not missing out on much anyway.

Tapping the “initiate contact” button, I type a message and press send.