I expected the messages to continue the next night. I’d even gone so far as to hope that they might lead to an invitation to meet. I’d stepped out of my comfort zone, and I was ready to tread further into this new and exciting world where inhibitions don’t exist.

But, they stopped dead. No suggestive texts, no invitation; not so much as a winky face.

I took a leap of faith and decided to be the first to reach out for round two.

—Hi, it’s Sophie. Forget about me?

I wait all day on Saturday, but nothing comes. I start to think that this guy—whoever he is—has gotten his rocks off, then ghosted me. I’m glad I never sent a picture.

As Saturday nears to an end, I try again.

—I had fun last night. I’d love to talk again.

The hours tick by with no response. I think about how steamy those messages were and start to panic. Just who is it I’ve been talking to?

I wonder why someone wouldn’t reply. Maybe they met someone else through the site. Maybe they do this for the thrill. Maybe they ghost women like me all the time.

I’m a little tearful by the time I crawl into bed. I’ve taken a chance to do something entirely unlike me, and it’s backfired already. I feel cheap. I can’t believe this bastard won’t reply.

Whenever one of my attempts to connect with a man goes wrong, I’m always reminded of Cole. I think of him now. In its time, our romance was perfect. I’ve never stopped longing for something that comes close to making me feel how I felt when I was with him, traveling the world.

Cole buys me a slice of pizza by pointing at pieces in the display. We take our slices and sit at a table out front of the restaurant where we can watch the world go by. The top of the Leaning Tower is still visible from the backstreet we’ve wandered onto; even here, floods of tourists sweep by.

“Are you on vacation?” I ask him.

“Kind of,” he replies. “I’m building a photography portfolio. You guessed right—I want to be a photographer.”

“That’s amazing. Have you traveled anywhere else?”

“I’ve been working my way around Europe. I was in France last month, and Germany the month before.”

“Incredible.”

“How about you?”

“I started with some of the other states—I’m from New York, originally. I went to Florida, then California. I did some work to pay for the next leg of the trip. Then I went to Spain and England.”

“London?”

“Of course.”

“I went there a couple of years ago with my family. Are you traveling after Italy?”

I nod. “I’m going to Asia next. Thailand.”

“Are you serious?”

Cole pulls out some paperwork from his backpack. “Visa for Thailand.”

A smile spreads across my face. There’s a flutter in my stomach. This feels an awful lot like fate.

I look up at Cole. He’s probably the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s twenty-one years old and gorgeous. His skin is tan, his eyes blue, his hair a sandy blond, short at the sides and long on the top. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a tight-fitting navy T-shirt which shows off his muscular arms and flat stomach, his camera slung around his neck. He looks like an action hero, a cross between Peter Parker and Indiana Jones.

“Maybe we’ll run into each other again, then,” I say.

“Maybe I’ll make sure we do.”

I blink back tears, trying not to think about Cole or any of our adventures. Even a decade later, it still hurts.

I pick up my cell. I deserve to feel a spark again.

—I know you don’t know me very well, but I don’t usually do this kind of thing. It took a lot of guts to message you, so please don’t leave me hanging. Maybe we could meet and see if there’s a spark in the real world. Text me.

No reply comes. I curl up under my duvet and go to sleep.

I wonder if I said something wrong, or if my attempts at being sexy were actually just the cringe-inducing straw-clutching of a desperate woman. Either I did a terrible job at sounding attractive, or I was used and discarded.

Isn’t that what Lena suggested you do to him if you didn’t click?

This is why I’ve never gone down this road. I don’t have skin that’s thick enough.

The next morning, I’m done. I fire off one last message.

—I’m deleting this number.

—Don’t. I think we should meet.

I swing by Lena’s on my way to work the next morning to ask her for advice. I sit on the edge of her bed as she does her make-up in the mirror, ready to check in on the local branch of her restaurant.

“So, let me get this straight,” she summarizes after I’ve filled her in. “You did send some sexts, got offended when he didn’t come back for more, sent a passive-aggressive text calling him out on it, and somehow turned it into a date?” She casts me a sympathetic gaze. “I’m not sure you get this strings-free type of dating, Sophie.”

“You think I shouldn’t meet him, then?”

“I’m not saying that. It’s up to you.”

I fiddle with the frilly edge of her pillowcase. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Clearly. Because from the story you told me, you asked him to meet you, and now you’re getting cold feet. Make up your mind! Are you a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman, or not?”

I was a spontaneous, free-spirited single woman once when I let a stranger I met in Italy convince me to change my flight to match his so we could travel to Thailand together.

“I don’t know, Lena. Maybe I should call the whole thing off.”

Lena shrugs. “It’s your choice; just stay safe. If you’re meeting this guy, tell me where and when so I can check in on you.” She pulls a comb through her short hair, carefully styling her fringe, then she turns back over her shoulder to me. “Did you figure out which guy it was?”

“No idea.”

She laughs. “Maybe it’s more fun that way.”

I nod. “You know what? I’m going to do it.”

“You are?”

“Yes. I’m sick of the same routine over and over. I get up, I get dressed, I go to the bank, I come home from the bank, I eat alone, I watch TV alone, I go to bed alone. It’s been like that for far too long. You’re right; let’s mix it up a little.”

Lena claps her hands in delight. “Go, you! I like this version of Sophie. Are you going to message him back?”

“I’m doing it—now.”

I press “send” on my reply: Great. Tell me where and when

—Tonight. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro, Eighth Avenue, Midtown. 8pm. Meet you there?

—See you there.

I grin as I send my response, then let out a little squeal. “Am I really doing this?”

“You’re really doing this! You’re going to meet someone who might very well have a sex drive.”

“I wish I knew which one it was.”

“Do you find any of them attractive?”

I bite down on my lip. “Connor is my type, I suppose.”

“Let me guess: looks like a Ken doll.”

I give her a playful shove. “We all have a type.”

“What about the others?”

“Dave is really not my cup of tea. He looks like one of those old-fashioned muscle men with the dumbbells and curly mustaches and stupid leotards.”

“Does he have a mustache?”

“No. But that’s all it would take.” I scrutinize his photo again, making a face.

“And the other one?”

“Noah. It’s not that he’s unattractive, but he only has the one photo, and it’s so weird and stagey. More like he’s trying to win a client than a date.”

“Well, one of them is obviously a red-blooded male who thinks you’re sexy. I hope you’re pleasantly surprised.”

“Me, too.” I glance at the time on my cell and sigh. “Better get off to work.” I slip my feet back into my court shoes and let out a dramatic sigh. “When will I get my own chain of stores, so that I can do absolutely nothing all day?”

Lena laughs. “I’m sure your fortunes are just around the corner, sweetie.”

I squeeze her shoulder. “I’m meeting mystery man at 8 tonight on Eighth Street. George’s Wine Bar and Bistro. I’ll try to send you a message once I’m there to let you know everything’s okay.”

She grins, laying her hand on mine. “Have fun, you little minx.”