“Potayto, potahto.” Viv shrugs and starts snapping pictures. “Now give me brooding. Now give me accidental joy. Oh, look like you saw your high school ex, but you’re hotter than ever.”
Marin laughs, which turns out to be the best photo of the bunch.
Within minutes, Viv’s got a profile built with an opening line that reads:Recovering snack mom seeking man with sense of humor, respect for boundaries, and a working knowledge of composting.
Viv’s already swiping like it’s an Olympic sport. “Okay, this one has a fish, sonope.This one’s holding a baby tiger, either emotionally unstable or vacationing in Thailand in 2013. Pass.”
Marin leans over. “What about that one?”
Viv zooms in. “He’s holding a sword and calling himself a ‘dragon of desire.’”
I squint at the screen. “That feels like something you pick up in a humid renaissance fair tent, not a life partner.”
Marin laughs nervously and does her first real swipe. Right. Then another. And another.
“Okay, okay!” Her cheeks are pink and she’s beaming. “This one looks normal. He’s got a beard and I don’t know. Something about his flannel is speaking to my inner suburban lumberjack.”
Viv nods solemnly. “That beard could solve at least two-thirds of your emotional issues.”
“Swipe right,” I call from the other side of the kitchen where I’m prepping popcorn.
“You should look at him, Birdie. He looks like he owns toolsandlistens when women talk.”
“Popcorn calls and I believe you!”
We fall into a rhythm. Every profile comes with a mini roast session.
“Too many mirrors in the background. He lives at a gym.”
“Is that a python? Swipe left before he invites you to his ‘reptile room.’”
“Oh no. This one has a quote fromThe Wolf of Wall Street.Left, left,LEFT.”
Marin claps her hands over her mouth and gasps.
“What?” I almost drop the popcorn seasoning, preparing to fight whatever intruder has broken into my kitchen.
“I think I matched with the hot flannel guy.”
We crowd around the screen.
Viv squints. “Ohhh. He’s hotandlocal. We love a responsible king.”
Marin stares at her screen like it’s about to bite her. “Do I message him? What do I say?”
Viv snatches the phone and types. “‘Hey, what’s your go-to comfort meal?’ Boom. Flirtyandpractical.”
She hits send before Marin can protest. And Marin stares frozen at the screen, a small smile pulling across her face. “Viv!”
“I accept your hatred and your future wedding invite,” Viv replies.
My phone dings with an updated delivery notification, and I remember the party.
“Back to business, ladies. Owen’s piñata isn’t going to design itself.”
We start tearing open glitter packets and paper fan decorations with renewed energy. Marin’s still holding her phone like it might catch fire, but there’s a little sparkle in her eye now. We mock up an invite with glitter borders, the phrase LET’S GET LIT (FOR OWEN) across the top, and a quote from Owen’s favorite karaoke song in Comic Sans, because I’m still salty.
I clicksendon the invitations, and not two minutes later, my phone buzzes.
