Thanks for the tip.
Before I can reply, the glowing icon next to his name disappears. He’s gone.
Fuck.
I put down my phone and run a hand through my hair, trying to identify exactly why my mood has dropped several points in the last thirty seconds.
It doesn’t matter that SunshineGuy has a date. This hollow feeling in my chest is completely illogical. Therefore, I’m electing to ignore it.
Anyway, I’ve actually got my own date tonight.
Okay. So it’s a blind date. And it was set up by my pesky, interfering brother. But apparently, this Devin guy is a fan of Kurt Vonnegut, who is my favorite writer and philosopher, so at least he has good taste in literature. That alone elevates this above Brocker’s previous attempts.
According to my brother’s intel, Devin has strawberry-blond hair and could be “Domhnall Gleeson’s hotter little brother,” which allegedly makes him “exactly my type.” I’d argue with thatassessment, except my dating history does contain a statistically significant overrepresentation of light-haired men who are big readers.
He’s also a Giants fan and a vegetarian, the latter being relevant since dietary incompatibility has derailed two of my last four relationships. So, on paper at least, the variables align.
If nothing else, I’ll get a decent meal and a conversation about Vonnegut’s themes of free will versus determinism, which is more than most blind dates offer.
I pull up my spreadsheet titledBlind Date Probability Calculations. According to my formula—which accounts for shared interests, physical attraction potential, and Brocker’s historically unreliable matchmaking instincts—there’s a point seven percent chance this will lead to something meaningful.
But there’s a zero percent chance of anything happening if I stay home, refreshing the forum and waiting for SunshineGuy’s icon to light up again.
CHAPTER FIVE
DEVIN
I’ve tried not to get overly excited about this date, but it’s difficult. Travis is gorgeous, and he’s a vegetarian who apparently reads Kurt Vonnegut and supports the Giants.
But for some reason, as I put on my best date shirt, the one with blue and green stripes that brings out my eyes, TruthGuardian sneaks into my brain. It’s been happening more and more, my mind drifting to him when I’m not moderating.
What’s he like in person? For some reason, I imagine him tall and perpetually frowning at his phone while typing corrections to someone’s grammar. The kind of guy who has strong opinions about Oxford commas and optimal coffee brewing temperatures.
It’s ridiculous that I’m thinking about him now. I’m literally about to meet a real, verified hottie, and I’m daydreaming about an internet stranger who thinks romance is a collective delusion.
The Uber ride to Garden Table feels both endless and way too short. I check my hair in my phone screen eight times, which is a waste of time as the wind destroys it in the short dash from the Uber to the restaurant.
The maître d’ who greets me has silver hair and the kind of composure that makes me aware I’m sweating.
“I’m meeting someone? Travis?” I manage to get out.
“Ah, yes, your companion has already arrived. Right this way.”
I follow him through the restaurant, trying not to trip over my feet. Because face-planting isn’t quite the first impression I’m going for.
“Your table is over there,” the maître d’ states as we reach a back room, pointing to a table in the corner.
And then I see Travis.
My stride falters.
Because Iknow.
I suddenly understand all those posts where the storyteller describes knowing instantly that the other person was meant for them. Even I’ve been skeptical of those stories, thinking it was retrospective romanticizing, someone’s brain adding a soft-focus filter to an ordinary moment to make a better story.
But as I watch Travis frowning down at the table as he rearranges his fork and knife so they’re completely parallel with each other, recognition jolts through me.
This is my guy. This is him.
