My thumb hovers over my phone. Next to hobbies, I type: Puzzles. Television shows. Reading.
Done.
Now for the lifestyle questions…
Drink?Socially.
Exercise?Occasionally.
Night owl or early bird? Why isn’t middle of the day pigeon an option?
Interested in?Anyone.
Age range?25+.Hopefully that will weed out any of the undergrads that I might accidentally match with.
About me… Ugh. Isn’t the point of this so people can learn more about me? Why do I need to write it down in a witty way that will most likely still be judged by half of the people on the app?
After staring at the screen for over a minute, I finally type:Former engineer, current psych student. Takes me a while to warm up.
Oof. Nope, delete that last part.Enjoys some light kink?That’s sure to bring out some overconfident men with small dicks.Trying to teach myself how to cook?No.
Wait!
Former engineer, current forensic psych student. Looking for a partner in crime.
Perfect. Albeit a little creepy, but I’m not mad about that.
I publish my dating profile and immediately set my phone down to process what I’ve just done. Instead of thinking too hard about it, I pour myself a glass of wine. Taking a sip, I work to ground myself. Stockinged toes feeling the firmness of the faux hardwood against my feet, the cool press of the countertop against my hand, the tart glide of the bottom-shelf Malbec down the back of my throat.
Groaning, I lay my forehead against the counter. I feel overheated after the events of the last several days… several months. There’s been a lack of control looming over me, something I haven’t felt to this degree since high school.
Since the days when Benoit Bardot would catch my eye after a track meet and wink as if we were in on some joke together. Though, I’m not sure what he found so funny about running.
Or that time in biology class when we had to create Punnett squares and Ben kept looking at my hair and telling me how rare I was. It caused a weird swooping low in my belly, one that I definitely—probably—didn’t like.
He has that infuriating effect on me. Scrambling my thoughts in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
I need a bath. That will help.
Piling my hair on top of my head, I pad to the bathroom and let the water run until it’s boiling hot. I don’t like the feel of bubble bath so I skip that, instead lighting three of my favorite Irish-coffee-scented candles to give the room a relaxing aroma. Yes, three of the exact same candle. Because when I find something that doesn’t irritate me I have to hoard it like some pre-winter squirrel gathering nuts.
I sink into the water and watch as my fair skin turns splotchy red.
The next thirty minutes are spent contemplating what the fuck I’m going to do about Benoit Bardot. By the time I get out of the tub, I have a match on the dating app. Here’s to hopingthatwill finally reset my brain.
I’ve committed to playing the long game with Cole. I mean, obviously twelve years is quite possibly the longest game I could play, but I kind of figured once I moved back here things would escalate quickly.
I was wrong.
Despite reaching out to her for help with Thea, despite revealing my stalker-ish tendencies on her Instagram, Cole continues to pretend like I don’t exist every time we cross paths. Which is frequently. This is a small town, after all.
We ran into each other at the grocery store last week. My eye caught hers as soon as she turned down the pasta aisle. She was wearing sweatpants and a matching sweatshirt that said “I could be meaner” across the front. I, however, could not help the quirk of my lips at that. Cole immediately clocked it, scowled, abandoned her cart, and walked straight out of the store.
That’s when I realized she wasn’t kidding about her hatred of me. My hands tingled, my blood rushed, and my heart literally skipped a beat—finally, a challenge. Finally someone who actually makes mefeelsomething.
Walking over to her cart, I looked in to see the ingredients for carbonara. Not surprising, Cole would pick one of the most complicated pasta dishes to perfect. Because there was no doubt in my mind that she makes a phenomenal carbonara. I paced the pasta aisle before picking out a fusilli noodle, buying her entire abandoned cart, and dropping the bags at her apartment door.
The last part was the most difficult part of my plan. I ended up asking Ethel if she knew where Cole lived, which, of course, she did. Ethel knows everything. I knew I’d probably have to answer her probing questions later, but it was worth it.
