Sheesh.“That bad, huh?
She reaches for my hand. “It’s understandable with everything you’ve been through.”
I know she doesn’t pity me. She only ever shows me compassion and empathy, which is part of the reason why she’s my best friend. My only friend. But sometimes I feel like she reiterates the same song and dance just to placate my feelings. Sometimes I wish she would just yell at me and tell me to get over it.
“On the bright side,” she continues, “when you do smile, the whole room lights up and you become the object of everyone’s attention.”
“And now I know you’re lying.” I roll my eyes. That’s a lie if I ever heard one.
“You really don’t know, do you? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re like every man’s wet dream. Your green eyes and pink hair are like catnip for the male population. And on top of that, you have the perfect little body. I would totally fuck you if I swung that way.”
I scoff because she’s absolutely delusional. I’m average at best. My skin is dry, my hair is more frizzy than smooth, andI’m a touch too thin from having to prioritize rent over food. “Well, you’re one to talk. You're a blonde bombshell,” I fire back, “you’re Daybreak’s very own Pamela.” And she really is. But it’s not just her blonde hair, blue eyes, and perfect curves that catch everyone’s attention, she has a heart of gold too. She’s the full package.
“So, what you’re trying to tell me is that we are the two hottest babes north of San Diego and we’re single. We need to remedy this…now.” She grabs my phone off the coffee table and then tosses me hers. “You fill out my profile and I’ll fill out yours. Just don’t mention that I have a kid. It’s a deal breaker for ninety-nine percent of the male population.”
“What if I make you sound like a crazy cat lady though?”
“It’s better to be a crazy cat lady than a crazy single mom.”
I shrug because she might be onto something. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that guys our age steer clear of women who have kids. I know she would like to date more, but as soon as men find out she’s a mom, they ghost her before they can even get to know her. She’s not ashamed of Autumn in the slightest, but she knows she has to be careful with who she brings around her daughter too. She’s being a realist.
Twenty minutes and a million questions later, I finally finish her profile.
She grins, “I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.”
She takes a look at her profile first while I sip on my wine. “You set my dating age range from twenty-eight to thirty-eight?” She furrows her brows after taking a peek at what I filled out on her phone. “Why would you do that? Don’t you think thirty-eight is a little old? I’m only twenty-four.”
I knew she was going to say that. “For starters, thirty-eight is not old. Plus, older guys love MILFs. You need to expand the age range so you’re not stuck with the same assholes you stray towards.”
“You might have a point. Did you see what I filled out for you?” she squeals with a little too much enthusiasm for my taste.
I start going through the list. The basics are good. The age range is set from twenty-five to thirty-two. Likes: coffee, photography, and longboarding. That’s perfect. It’s all a little too perfect. And then I see it. “Wait a fucking minute, you can’t put on here that I’m a ‘feisty little firecracker who’s single and ready to mingle,’ and ‘I may capture photos but are you ready for me to capture your heart?’ It makes me sound like a stage five clinger who’s about to baby-trap some poor suspecting soul.”
She starts laughing hysterically while I chug my glass of wine and wait for her to be done. When she finally comes up for air, she emphasizes, “It makes you soundexperiencedthough. And it makes you sound funny. Would you rather I put ‘queen of resting bitch face?’” She snickers.
“No,” I grumble. “But I also don’t want to sound like I’m only on this thing to get laid. I’m more of a tortured artist, not a feisty firecracker anyway.”
“You’re just you. Sometimes you're naughty and sometimes you’re nice.” I send her a glare. “You know what I mean. You’re naughty in the sense that you have no filter and aren’t afraid to tell people how it really is. And you’re nice because you will do absolutely anything for the people you love.”
Cue the waterworks. I’m also highly fucking emotional when she says sappy things like that. The wine isn’t helping either.
“Just leave what I put on there. If anything, it will be good entertainment in the DMs.”
I agree to keep the profile the way it is, and we waste the rest of the night finishing our bottle of wine and having a good laugh at what all these guys have put on their profiles. Some of these people are a lot bolder and way more cheeky in their ‘about me’ section, so it makes me relax slightly.
On my way out the door, with my backpack on and my longboard under my arm, Penny says, “Don’t forget to swipe right on more of the guys so they can match with you and chat. And text me when you get home.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I will. You have to swipe right too,” I demand, knowing full well that she only swiped right on one guy the whole time we sat on the couch. A guy who only showed his tattooed body and not his face. To be fair, she only put a picture of the back of herself sitting at the beach. Not her face either. Could be a match made in heaven. Who knows?
I hug her goodbye and start the five-minute walk towards my apartment. I can hear the waves from the ocean only two blocks west, and the sound always helps me clear my head. Icouldride my longboard, but sometimes I need the extra few minutes to relax and breathe in the fresh air.
When I make it to my ground floor studio apartment unscathed, I immediately message Penny so she doesn’t worry.
The silence is all consuming as I change into my sleep shorts and crop top and brush my teeth.
I get lonely in this little apartment by myself even though I’ve made it into my own little oasis. The bed is dressed in white pillows and a white comforter, I have two thrifted wood side tables that I sanded down to their original light natural oak finish, and a few plants in the corners of the room to add some color to the space. Twinkle lights surround the small TV and its second-hand vintage stand, blown-up black and white photographs my mom took tastefully adorn the walls, and the kitchen countertop remains spotless but for a few cooking gadgets that were gifted to me. A single pink rose, my twice-a-month “splurge”, sits in a water glass to bring a little joy into the space. It’s minimalism at its finest and it’s been my home for about a year and a half now.
Sure, I have a semi-affordable space that I’ve made a home and a best friend worth the price of gold, but all I see when I look in the mirror these days is a sad, lonely, and scared twenty-two-year-old woman. Someone who was supposed to have her whole life ahead of her but got sidetracked in the process with grief and anger. I’ve been this way for so long that I don’t even know what a truly happy me looks like anymore.
