Chapter Twenty-One

NOELY

“So you give the guy a blow job and then send him on his way? How does that work?”

“Can you keep your voice down?” I ask, lifting a ten-pound dumbbell overhead only to start counting out my tricep extensions.

“I’m sorry but you sprang this breakup on me this morning without any kind of background information. I thought Beck was it. He was charming, hot, domineering, had a motorcycle. What more could you want?” Dylan is still reeling over my “split” with Beck, can’t you tell? I truly think she’s living vicariously through me.

“He was very closed off. He wouldn’t talk about anything that delved too deep into who he was or his past.”

“So? He dry-humped you on a motorcycle, that should be reason enough to stick around.”

I give Dylan a pointed look as our trainer makes a huffing sound next to us.

“I’m not using Going in Blind as a hookup app. If I wanted to find someone to have sex with, I would join Tinder. This is different for me, Dylan. I want to find someone I can spend the rest of my life with, someone who wants kids—a family—who can understand my work schedule but also demand some attention himself. I want what you and Chad have.”

“Two demonic children and morning shower sex?”

Chuckling, I nod, “Yes.”

“Do you want to borrow Chad and the kids, see if it’s something you’re really interested in?”

I pull up a BOSU ball and start doing pushups, my breath becoming labored. “Thank you for whoring out your husband to me, but I think I want to try to find my own.”

“He’s yours if you want him.” Resting against the wall, not putting any effort into our workout like normal, Dylan asks, “So it’s really over with The Rebel? Like really, truly over?”

“For now, yeah. I mean, he said if I don’t find what I’m looking for, he wants me to message him.”

“So he’s waiting around?”

“I hope . . . not,” I grunt, performing my last pushup. I roll to the side and sit on my butt, legs spread out, sweat dripping down my chest. “Honestly, he seems to have some demons. I hope he’s trying to work through those, because until he does, he can’t move forward, not just with me, but in life.”

“Damn.”

“Dylan, are you going to finish your workout today?” our trainer asks, looking less than pleased at my co-host.

Bending at the waist, Dylan grabs her calf and lamely says, “Charlie horse, ouch.”

Our trainer rolls his eyes and I’m pretty sure if Dylan wasn’t paying on a monthly basis, and paying well, he would have dumped her as a client. But the money keeps rolling in so he continues to pretend to train her, despite how frustrating it can be.

Throwing in the towel, our trainer gives us a quick rundown of the rest of the week’s schedule and sends us off to the smoothie bar—Dylan’s favorite part of her “workout”—so we can replenish our bodies with the right nutrients.

I order the kale protein smoothie with Greek yogurt and chia seeds, the smoothie our trainer tells us to drink, while Dylan picks the berry bliss smoothie that is full of sugar. How she keeps her figure, I have no idea.

Taking a seat at a high-top table with smoothies in hand, Dylan sucks on her straw, eyes marveling in her flavorful drink. “God, this is so good, much better than that kale crap that gets caught in your straw.”

“It’s really good, actually.” Sort of.

If you tell yourself it’s good, then your taste buds follow suit, right?

“So what’s next? Do you go on another date? Are you going to quit the program? From my view, it doesn’t seem to be working. Two guys down, no promises of happily ever after in your future.”

She sure knows how to make a girl feel good.

“I think I’m going to try again. I mean, why not? So far, the matches have been dead on, almost perfect. I’ve had so much in common with both guys in different ways, but the timing has just been . . . off.”

“Is that what you’re calling it? Timing? Couldn’t it be that the men you keep being matched with have some kind of underlining issue?”

“Not issue, just . . . you know . . .” I trail off, not sure how to put my thoughts into words.

“An issue. That’s what it’s been and don’t deny it. Jack seemed like the perfect catch. I was even rooting for him, but one little mention of his name on national television and he scurried away. And then Beck, my main humping man slips into our lives, and good Christ, was he ravenous—”

“And that’s all he was. He didn’t even give me a glimpse into his dark past, just the tip of the iceberg. Even when I asked for more.”

“But the oral, that was good.”

Sigh. It was. It was so damn good. And a little part of me wonders what it would have felt like if we went all the way. Would it have been unbelievable? Mind-blowing?

Maybe, but I’ve never been a sex for the hell of it kind of girl. There has always been emotion involved with my sexual encounters, and I wonder if going all the way would have left me feeling empty rather than fulfilled.

“It was, but I want more than sex.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. But, you’re young and should be having flings with irresistible men. You know, be all Sex in the City. Be a Samantha.”

How do I put this without sounding ridiculous . . .

“Samantha isn’t my style. I’m more of a Charlotte. I hate being lonely, especially with our grueling schedule. You get to go home to Chad and your kids and have people love on you and hold you and take care of you. You have a partnership, an ever-lasting friendship, someone to hold your hand when you’re nervous or scared, or want to be cuddled.” Taking a long pull from my straw, I swallow. “I don’t want to be single. I’ve never enjoyed it; I don’t have that type of personality in my blood. So, yes, I’ll go back. I will look for another date, and who knows, third time might be the charm.”

Dylan studies me, her chin propped up by her palm. “The Suit and The Rebel. Who will be next?”

I shrug, feeling nervous about another blind date. “Who knows, maybe it will be the nerd.”

“Or the construction worker.”

“Or the cop.” I point at her.

“Or the single dad.”

“Don’t forget the Navy SEAL.”

“Ah,” Dylan sighs. “Any military man. We could be totally off. You might get the theater geek.”

I tap my chin with my index finger. “Hmm, the theater geek. I could totally go for that. Maybe he was in Hamilton.”

“Shooting for the stars, are we?”

“If I was shooting for the stars, I would have said someone like Chris Hemsworth.”

Dylan stares at the ceiling, a sparkle in her eye. “If Chris Hemsworth is signed up on Going in Blind, I’m going to personally ask Chad to make me a profile, hoping he doesn’t mind a little brother husband situation.”

“For Chris, I’m sure Chad would jump on board.”

***

“Any matches yet?” my sister-in-law asks while looking over my shoulder. I’m flopped on her couch, Chloe is decorating my legs with the Paw Patrol stickers I bought her, and Alex is watching a National Geographic show about elephants and their diminishing herds.

“Uh, let me check.”

It’s been two days since I put in a request for another date. With Beck, I didn’t even have to put in a request; it just appeared, which makes me nervous now because what if there are no more matches out there for me? The app and restaurant are still new, so what if I barreled through my only two matches? What if there’s a limit?

Is there a limit? Do I look like a serial dater according to the system? I know they specifically said this is not a hookup app. I really hope they don’t think I’m doing this just for a hookup. Surely there are other people in the same boat as me. Hell, Danny at the bar said I wasn’t the only one on a second or even third date.

Squinting, afraid there will be no matches, I carefully open the app and pray to the dating gods that there is someone else out there for me.

Dramatic, I know. But I’m feeling pretty low after the first two dates.

“You have a match.”

Thank you, dating gods.

“Looks like I have a match.” Again.

“Really?” Lauren asks, scooting in closer so she can take a look as well. “Who is it? What’s his handle? What does it say about him? Did he message you?”

“No message, no name, remember? But it looks like his handle is . . .” I start giggling.

“What is it? Is it something stupid like CallMeDaddy? Or BlowiesRock?”

“Or ManHands?” Alex chimes in, eyes still fixed on the TV.

“Man hands?” I mouth to Lauren who rolls her eyes, looking completely exasperated over her husband’s little addition.

“Why would man hands be bad?” I ask.

Alex flicks a few pieces of popcorn in his mouth. “Don’t know, just seemed like a weird name.”

“How about balloon butt? That’s funny,” Chloe chimes in.

I tickle her neck. “That would be funny. Should I call you balloon butt now?”

“Noooooooo. I’m Chlo-money.”

“You’re not Chlo-money.” Lauren makes that known real quick. “Your father is in big trouble for letting you watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians.”

“Hold on, repeat that.” I sit up a little taller, all thoughts of my match out the window when Lauren drops a bomb. “Alex, you watch Keeping Up with the Kardashians?”

No shame emitting from the popcorn-eating fiend, he says, “Ever hear of a guilty pleasure? That’s mine. Go ahead, ask Lauren what hers is; you will judge her even more.”

“We don’t need to talk about that.” Lauren clears her throat and points at my phone. “What’s his handle?”

“Uh-uh.” I shake my head. “You get no information until you tell me what your guilty pleasure is.”

“Not in front of my daughter, okay?”

Leaning closer, I whisper, “Is it porn?”

“What’s porn?” Chloe asks, popping her head up from the floor.

“Go get a popsicle,” Lauren says, directing Chloe to the kitchen with her arm.

As if the little girl never asked the question, she skips off to the kitchen gleefully.

Shyly, I shrug my shoulders. “Sorry.” A giggle escapes me. I can’t help it. It’s like the time I told Chloe to tell her dad he has a penis. I still laugh about it to this day. In front of his work colleagues, she went up to him, pointed at his crotch and in her cute little voice, she said, “Daddy, you have a penis.” Oh God, I’ve never seen my brother’s face turn that red in my entire life. He patted her on the head, said thank you, and sent her on her way. Later that night, when he asked Lauren about her little obvious pointing out of the genitals, Chloe ratted me out and said, “Aunt Noely told me to say it.” Took a bit for Alex to get over that one.

Clearing my throat, I ask, “What’s your guilty pleasure?”

Lauren picks at an imaginary piece of lint on her pants, defiance in her body language. She’s not going to break, thankfully. I have Alex.

“Alex, what is it?”

Without taking a second to consider his wife’s feelings, he says, “Cricket.”

My brow pinches together from utter confusion. “Cricket? What show is that? Is it on Netflix or Amazon?” Since I’m in the entertainment business, I know every show out there, reality and sitcom, and I’ve never heard of Cricket. The only shows I’m not entirely familiar with are Netflix and Amazon originals.

“Not a show, Noely. The sport. Cricket . . . the sport.”

“What?” I turn to my sister-in-law, laughing and unable to hide the huge smile on my face. “Your guilty pleasure is watching cricket?”

“Ask her about her little box she has in our upstairs closet.”

“Hey Alex, why don’t you shut your effing mouth?” Lauren says, shooting daggers in his direction.

“You have a box?” I’m bouncing up and down now, maybe a little too excited about this new revelation.

Folding her hands on her lap, Lauren pushes her shoulders back and says, “I suggest you move on from this moment, and I suggest you move on quickly—”

“We had to upgrade our cable package so we could get the cricket channel.” Alex clearly is digging his own grave over there and loving it from the look on his face.

“You think that’s funny, Alex? Yeah, see how funny it is when you’re looking for a little nighttime crawling and the gate is closed.”

Eh?

That’s a weird and disturbing way to tell him sex is off the menu.

Shaking the creepy image I’ve conjured up in my head, I turn to Lauren and say, “Please tell me if you have a favorite team.”

Sighing, her eyes to the sky, she says, “Australia, mainly because their uniforms are green and yellow and yellow looks good on me. And before you ask, yes, I have jerseys and hats and pom-poms in my little box in the closet, okay? So let’s move on, shall we? What the hell is the man’s handle?” Her voice rises, sounding a little out of control, so before she flips out, I decide to give her a break.

But if you don’t think I’m not going to store away this cricket information for my own personal use, you’re sorely mistaken.

“It’s IceBiscuit.”

“Ice biscuit?” Lauren asks, a sneer in her lip. “What kind of name is that? Is he a baker?”

“What? No.”

“Oh honey.” Alex shakes his head, eyes still trained on the elephant show.

Holding back my laugh since Lauren is already feeling sensitive about her love for cricket being exposed, I say, “Ice biscuit is a term used in hockey. It basically means the puck.”

“Well, that’s stupid.”

I let out a heavy sigh. “It really isn’t, but that’s besides the point. This guy loves hockey. His profile picture is a hockey stick, too.”

“Is he a Quakes fan?” Alex asks, finally giving me some of his attention.

When the jingle for a local pizza joint comes on the TV, I realize it’s a commercial. Of course he can pay attention now.

I scan IceBiscuit’s profile, looking for any kind of indication that he might be a Quakes fan. “Doesn’t say. But it does say he likes hockey, pool, and can make a pretty mean cheesesteak.”

“Hey, I like cheesesteak and hockey, maybe I should date this guy.” Alex pops a few more pieces of popcorn in his mouth.

Lauren snags my phone from my hands and tosses it over to Alex. It hits his belly with a resounding plop. “Have at it, sweetie. Let him know you like your nipples to be played with when getting frisky.”

Way too much information about my brother.

Alex picks up the phone and looks at the screen. “Eh, there is no mention of his love for animals on his profile. Deal-breaker.” He tosses his phone back at me and returns his attention to his elephants.

“Well, thank God for that,” I add sarcastically. “What do you think, should I accept the date?”

“I say go for it. Who knows, this very well might be the guy for you.”

He very well might be . . .