Chapter Twenty

Harper

“A/S/L,” I say out loud, reading the newest message in my dating website inbox. This one is a real gem, although the photos of dicks are probably more offensive. This proves that not only isn’t he a match, but he didn’t even take the time to read my damn basic info. The test to pair me with matches took exactly a week. It’s supposed to be foolproof. It will find me the man of my dreams or I get my three hundred dollars back.

Not that I doubt their diehard promise, but I already have a pair of shoes picked out that cost two hundred ninety-nine dollars. I’m hoping they’re on sale when the refund comes.

I’m feeling frisky, so I type back, Older than your mom/yes please/Earth, and hit send. Giggling, I make my way into the closet to choose something to wear to a dinner out with friends. It’s my welcome back party. A couple weeks ago I returned from a year traveling abroad. My parents pointed out my linguistics degree could serve me well wherever the wind may blow. Blow it did. All over the map.

My workplace in America set up so many meetings and lectures that I was constantly on the move and being on my own in unfamiliar territory gave me a sense of freedom and security I never would have dreamed of in my bubble of a safety net in Southern California. I made friends that will last a lifetime. I tried foods I never would have given a second glance. I said yes. I went out dancing. I dated a man in Spain for two whole weeks. He took me to dinner, served me Sangria, dipped me back like men do in movies, and kissed me in the rain. He was beautiful and temporary and I was alive—my heart beating for the first time since it was destroyed completely.

I felt everything. Travel changed me. I spent hours lost on subway cars reading books and took bumpy rides in bicycle taxis. There were days of tears when living abroad made me crazy, and highs from learning something new. Oh, did I learn. Not just about languages and communication. I learned about myself. Harper Rosehall. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I found myself while traveling, but I will say I defined myself.

Ben and I speak on a semi-regular basis. It’s usually via a quick text to check up on one another, nothing too telling. We never speak about our love lives and our parents know not to bring it up. It’s back the way it was before, except completely different.

My laptop pings a new message, and I groan. “I should turn it off. Cancel this thing before I get one more cock shot,” I mumble, touching the track pad to wake my screen up.

The little pink star lets me know it’s from a match—a person the website says is compatible with me on every level. It’s the second match since I finished the test. The first one followed up a funny joke with, you guessed it, a dick pic. This new message is from [email protected] and the title says, Are you a robot?

There aren’t photos on the website, and they say it’s purposeful so you get to know the person before you see their face, but they do take into consideration about turn-ons and turn-offs and preferences in body type and size. If he’s a match, I’m trusting he has abs like Adonis, dimples, and a cock that doesn’t resemble a carrot. I figure this might be the one that gets me my pair of shoes. I’m in my panties and bra, a black dress draped over my lap. “What do you have to say, Mancandy?” I click his message.

“Hi RJamour7068,

I love the Internet. Porn is fun. So is social media. But those are visual things. Images. This website tells me that photos aren’t good to start off with, that we should exchange photos via email when we’re ready. They say you’re the one for me. A match so perfect, my mom will finally have grandchildren. What remains to be seen is if you’re a robot or not. I’m not a robot. I’m a pretty awesome dude. Check out my profile. If you like what the words say about me, send me a photo. I like what your words say about you. For the record. But…are you ugly? I told the computer I was only interested in dime pieces with brains. I’m not sure if we’re reading from the same dictionary, though.”

I laugh out loud, and I probably shouldn’t be as entertained as I am, but it’s a good message. I’m drawn to the quirkiness in his tone. He doesn’t know any facts other than what the test results give him. He knows I’m local, but that’s it. He doesn’t know my background, or my profession, or anything telling. Guess that’s the website’s way of keeping creepy stalkers at bay. After taking about ten minutes to read his characteristics and personality type, I type back:

I like the Internet too, to an extent. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I wouldn’t consider myself a dime piece, as wouldn’t any woman who also has an above average IQ (which you requested), but my dad says I’m the prettiest girl in the whole world. I’m trying to trust the process and keep photos and appearances hidden until the bitter end. I’d rather get to know you as a person first. Are you okay with that? It does look like we matched on every single tier of this stupid program. If a computer can choose a person for me better than I can choose a person for me, I might jump off a cliff. Just a warning. Not really, though. So, first question (if you want) it’s prompting me with, “Tell me your ideal first date?”

P.S.) This may sound odd and a bit forward, but I’m not looking for a friendship. I need passion to punch me in the stomach and keep me lying on the ground. Can you dig?

P.S.S) I’m a size 4. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Girl next door meets Minka Kelly circa Friday Night Lights. What about you, Mancandy?

I send the message and watch as the window tells me it’s been read. “I’m going to be late,” I whisper, checking the time. I throw the dress on and fire off a quick text to Martina, letting her know I’m on my way. Not really, but I’m never, ever late, so I’m sure they’ll forgive me for being fashionably late to my own party. It’s so euro. I que up an Uber and find they’re only ten minutes away.

Cracking my knuckles, I stare at the screen, waiting for his response. Maybe he won’t respond right away, I tell myself. He does, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I blame my lack of a sex life on my giddy, overzealous character these days.

You sound more like my type than I would have guessed. I won’t tell you what envisioning Minka circa Friday Night Lights did to, um. Never mind. You’re my type physically. I’m excited.

I’m tall, 6’3”, sort of goofy, muscles, straight teeth. Funny you mention friendship. I’m sort of allergic to it. Throw me in the passion pit any day of the week. I’m not saying that because I’m a man. I’m saying that because I want the all-encompassing hunger that can’t be staved off by a…friendship. I hope you don’t think I’m being too graphic. I’m really a pretty straitlaced guy in real life. It’s so odd you brought it up, though.

The ideal first date for me would be something low key, away from public, and quiet so there’s plenty of atmosphere for talking and getting to know one another. I’m not into wasting time, you see? I’ve done that in the past and I’m ready to find the one and make the rest of my days count. The beach would be a great first date. A blanket, a basket of snacks, and a day with nothing else in it.

Sound interesting? How about it?

I waste no time replying.

Are you asking me on a date to the beach or the passion pit? You didn’t even ask me my ideal first date yet.

I hit send. His reply is quick.

When you know. You know. Your choice on the passion pit, but beach first. Tomorrow afternoon? 4 p.m. Blacks Beach. Salk Canyon Road entrance. I’ll be wearing a baby blue T-shirt and a white smile.

Drumming my fingers on my desk, I stare at his short message. I could sit here and try to decipher it all night, or I could go with my gut instinct and trust the three hundred dollars I put into the computer’s hands. My cell phone chimes with a text from Martina asking where I’m at. I have to deal with this message now. The type of people who come back to stuff like this later confound me. It’s an impossibility to put this off. Plus, I’ll probably be drunk when I come home tonight.

It’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume I don’t have plans tomorrow afternoon. I don’t, though. I don’t have time to meet with an axe murderer either, so I really hope you aren’t some creeper. I’ll wear a long, tan dress. Also, I’m not a fan of baby blue. Wear red.

Before I lose my nerve, and also before I make myself later than I already am, I send the message and fold my hand over my mouth. I’ve shocked myself with this bold move. Maybe it is desperation, or perhaps I was able to bring some of my new, brave qualities home from overseas. Whatever it is, I have a good feeling about it. Mancandy sends another message.

It’s a date. Candy Apple Red.

I haven’t smiled this wide in a long time, not since I’ve been home. I close my laptop and fly out the door when the Uber driver honks to announce his arrival.

++++

“Tell us the story again,” Martina gushes, her chin in her hands on the other side of the table. They love my stories from Spain. Well, they love my stories about Ricardo from Spain, mostly. I’ve had several drinks and the night is winding down. Mancandy stayed safely tucked away—a secret until the very last moment when I have to tell someone lest I end up on the side of a milk carton, or the front page of the newspaper.

I rattle on about the time he scooped me up on the handle bars of his bicycle and rode me through the farmers’ market on a Sunday afternoon. It was romantic in the best kind of way. I’ll never mind repeating that story. He was suave, spoke with a slight accent because his dialect was from a smaller town toward the south, and I broke up with him before I moved to Japan. “I don’t know why you didn’t stay with him. He was so obviously into you.”

Raising my brows, I say, “Yeah. If you’re into that sort of thing.” My sort of thing is a little more stable, but it was fun while it lasted. The red straw between my fingers, I swirl my drink that’s mostly ice water at this point. “Thanks for welcoming me back. You know how to make a woman feel special. Somehow my mom baking a pie just wasn’t as fun as this.” Everyone at the table giggles and we toast, some glasses a little more sloshy than others.

A song, one of my favorites starts thumping through the speakers. We all stand to dance, or as the alcohol dictates, sway along to the beat. I’m hot when the song finishes, a sheen of sweat glistening on every part of my body that isn’t covered by the black dress. The cute bartender stops by our table to clear our empties. All it takes is one look at each other to know we’re all on the same page.

“Until Janine’s birthday next month, then?” I ask.

We make plans for the weekend after next. Janine is turning thirty-five and wants to make a big deal of it, figuring it’s really the best birthday to go all out for. It’s the age where you’re definitely not a child anymore, but you’re still fresh faced. It’s a good birthday. We make our way to the front door of the club, holding on to each other as we go. When the cool SoCal air hits us, I see my Uber, the same one who dropped me off.

“It’s no Ricardo. But he’ll do for the night,” I joke and tip my imaginary hat in Martina’s direction.

A sad smile plays on her lips as she holds me by my shoulders. “It’s going to happen for you soon, Harper. I can feel it in my bones. You glow in a world of darkness.”

She hugs me and I wave her off. “I’m not a lightning bug.” I think better of it. “Maybe I’m a different breed of lightning bug. I shock potential mates. To death.”

“You’re sick, Harp.”

I get into the backseat of the white car and roll the window down. The neon lights of the bar shine behind Martina’s head. “I’m joking. I bet you’re right. Thanks for tonight. Lo pasé muy bien. Ricardo would have approved.”

Shaking her black curls around her head, she smirks. I wave, and we set off for home. There are at least twenty emails that need my attention. Even still, after years, after our lives have passed us by, I find my thumb hovering over Ben’s number in the wee hours of the morning.

I don’t call him. I like to think I’m stronger than that. Tapping his name, I send him a text: They played your song at my party tonight.

It’s 2 a.m., so I don’t expect him to reply.

His response: I am everywhere. And then another right away. I hope you danced.

We’ve held fast to the decision we made two years ago. Friendship only. The year before I left to travel was difficult—my body and heart wanting nothing more than to stay wrapped up in his arms. Right around the time when I felt like there was no way I could keep my promise, and honor the only decent decision I’ve made regarding Ben, my mother told me to get the hell out of here. In the nicest, I’m your mom, and I want what’s best for you, type of way.

Then the year away changed everything and I knew I’d finally gotten over my hang-up on the man, the myth, the Benny. I don’t need him to complete me like I once thought. I never needed any man for that. The best thing you can do when you’re lost in a sea of doubt? Get lost in another country by yourself. If you can’t travel to another country, drive a few cities over, park your car, and wander. Listen. Open your heart to the possibility of being enough on your own.

See you at Ma’s on Sunday? Ben texts again. I glance at my lap and smile. Ma is my mom, not his.

I’m making dinner Sunday! Come early and help me. I send back.

Done. I need to get some sleep. Gotta be up in a couple hours. Text me when you get home. Is the Uber driver a creepy fuck?

We round the corner to my neighborhood as I reply. Ha. Ha. No. Seems a nice lad. Tall. Dark. Handsome. Wait! How did you know my boyfriend wasn’t driving me home?

The gray bubble pops up as he types his response and then disappears when he deletes whatever he was going to send. I wait. We pull into my drive and Ben still doesn’t text back, so I pocket my phone. Thanking the driver, I wait for him to pull away to unlock my front door and go inside. I shower because my hair smells like stale cigarettes and I have raccoon eyes. It’s almost 3:30 a.m. when I finally down some Tylenol and crash into bed. My sheets are cool against my bare legs, and the temptation to check my laptop for a message from Mancandy is strong.

Luckily the vodka is stronger, and I fall asleep a few seconds later.