“For posterity.” She doesn’t look up. “And possibly TikTok.”
Marin finally yanks herself loose and spins, breathless and exasperated.
“I don’t know how I feel about this outfit.”
Viv beams. “You’re welcome.”
That’s when it hits us—none of us actually know what this man looks like. Not really. Just a blurry profile picture where he’s holding a golden retriever and standing in front of a suspiciously majestic mountain that may or may not be Photoshopped. He’s also wearing a very flattering flannel, which frankly could be doing most of the heavy lifting.
“Birdie!” Viv hisses, eyes wide. “Go stand guard!”
I freeze mid-sip of my iced tea, lowering the glass slowly. “Why me? I’m the only one here who hasn’t even seen the profile picture. How am I supposed to know if it’s the same guy?”
“You’ve got great Mama Bear energy.” Marin’s already peeking through the blinds from my upstairs window like she’s in a rom-com stakeout. “You’ll feel it in your gut if he’s a serial killer.”
I stare at her. “That is so much pressure.”
Viv waves a hand dismissively. “Trust your instincts. If your hackles go up, run.”
Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I stand and can’t resist muttering, “My hackles haven’t been activated since 2009, but sure, let’s roll the dice.”
So I’m sent outside to “casually monitor the perimeter,” which is how I end up crouched in a flower bed with no actual flowers, pretending to weed in the dark like I’m part of a poorly budgeted spy movie.
It’s not even a real flower bed. It’s mostly bark mulch and a weed-blocking mesh that’s holding on for dear life. There’s nothing here to weed. I tug at invisible stems anyway, doing my best to look casual while blatantly staring at the road. If Marin’s mystery date turns out to be a murderer, I at least have to get a good look at his face first. That’s friendship.
I glance at my phone. No messages. No sightings.
Inside, I can hear Viv coaching Marin through a second outfit change. Something about the first blouse being “too stepmom at curriculum night.” I try not to laugh.
I’ve started talking myself down, telling myself this is all ridiculous, that serial killers don’t want to drive for dates into idyllic suburban neighborhoods, when a silver Prius glides up to the curb.
I straighten up instinctively, brushing nonexistent dirt from my jeans. The Prius eases to a stop, and the door opens.
Out steps a man in a tucked-in polo shirt and khakis. He’s holding a single daisy and wearing an expression that’s equal parts hopeful and terrified.
And then I see it. The bumper sticker.
Floss Like a Boss.
Oh. Oh no.
“Hi.” His voice is warm, deep, and familiar. But it comes out all warbled, coated in nerves and an awkward smile. “I’m looking for Marin?”
I squint at him, stepping slightly closer. “Wait, Dr. Reynolds?”
He blinks, surprised. “Birdie? Oh, right, the crown. No, cavity! Lower left molar. Great enamel, by the way. What’re you doing here?”
My mouth opens and closes like a confused goldfish. “You’re here… for Marin?”
“Yeah, we matched on the app. She said to pick her up here?” He shifts from foot to foot. “I brought a flower. I didn’t realize this was your house.”
Just as my brain is short-circuiting with this new information, the front door creaks open.
Marin steps out, moving slowly. She’s wearing dark jeans, a soft button-down blouse that says “responsible citizen” more than “available bachelorette,” and the unmistakable face of a woman who assumed we were kidding.
Viv follows her out, kombucha in one hand, popcorn in theother. “You’re welcome!” she calls out to Marin’s date as if she’s delivered her to a red carpet instead of my cracked concrete stoop.
Marin’s eyes widen when she sees Dr. Reynolds.
