Setting the profile up was easy enough. We used the acting headshots I had taken just before graduate school and mixed them in with some more casual recent photos. I’m not a stunner, but I’m decent. My eyes have always been my best feature. A sapphire kind of blue that stand out nicely against my untamably curly brown hair. I used to try to straighten it, but have since let the dream go. Sure, it sometimes looks like a family of squirrels lives in the unruly locks, but I like to think that they’re a happy family of squirrels.
“Arranging to meet someone today was a mistake,” I mutter. “I smell like an airport, and I look like death.”
“Nonsense. You’re adorable and exotic, and you’re only going for a stroll in the park.”
“A Manhattanite is hardly exotic.”
“Well, that’s all about perspective, isn’t it?”
I continue to glare at her, and it only seems to energize her more. “So,” she goes on, “have a bath, don’t overthink things, go for your meetup, and then come back with stories that will undoubtedly cure my dry spell and save my career.”
“No pressure, right?”
“None at all,” she says happily. “Off you go!”
Two hours later, I’m showered, changed, and feeling significantly more human as I walk through the Italian Gardens of Hyde Park with a fresh cup of coffee. I weave my way through the four main water features as I enjoy the calming mist and relaxing ambiance. I’m dressed in jeans and a white T-shirt, and my hair is wrangled back in a casual bun. I’ve always liked buns. They make me feel like an off-duty ballerina, plus whenever I did tech in theater camp, it was imperative to keep my beast of a mane safely tucked away.
All talk of buns aside, can I just say that I am loving this London weather? I tend to sweat a fair amount, so the end of May through August in NYC often feels like my yearly summer share in the seventh ring of hell. Yet here I am, in the middle of June, and I couldn’t be more comfortable. It has to be at least twenty degrees cooler than it is back home. My arms even feel the slightest bit chilled as I take a comforting sip of coffee. I’m still marveling at just how idyllic the day is when an attractive man appears a few feet in front of me with a little wave. He has messy black hair, plenty of stubble, and a devil-may-care manner. The red plaid shirt he’s wearing is just the right amount of vintage. He looks like an updated, younger version of Captain Hook, and I have to say, I. Am. Into it.
“Winnie?” he asks.
I lift up my coffee in greeting and smile as I step closer. “Colin?”
“That would be me.” We both stop walking with guarded smiles, now standing a couple of feet apart.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I quickly say. I reach out for a handshake, but he goes for a hug, and my left arm ends up trapped in the middle as my right, coffee-holding arm sort of strains around his back. He offers an awkward laugh as he backs away, and I end up doing the same.
“Alright, so not at all an uncomfortable greeting,” he teases.
Always a fan of someone who can poke fun at themselves, I immediately give Colin some extra credit. “Don’t worry. It’s almost physically impossible for me to be embarrassed, so whatever happens moving forward, don’t trouble yourself about it.”
“Really?” he asks. “I’m the opposite. I once laughed so hard that I weed my pants at a dance when I was twelve, and I still think about it at least once a week and try not to scream.”
I give him a pitying smile, and he seems to get embarrassed all over again. “And apparently, I also bring it up in conversations with girls I just met, so that’s great as well.”
“I promise you, it’s fine. It’s good that you’re honest.”
“Well, that’s very kind of you, and great to know in this circumstance.”
“Absolutely.” A pleasant silence spreads between us as we both turn to walk side by side. “So, Colin, why don’t you tell me a little bit about yourself. What were you like growing up?”
His brows jolt up in surprise as he looks down and over at me. “You really want to hear about that?”
“Sure, why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know. I just figured you would want to get to it straightaway.”
I take a small sip of coffee. “I’m sorry, get to what straightaway?”
“You know,” he says, his voice dropping. “Going back to my place, or to yours, if you prefer.”
And just like that, Colin sucks. This is what I get for lusting after Captain Hook.
“Oh, really?” I ask. “And what have I said or done that gave you that impression?”
“It’s just what this usually entails. Girls who come here on holiday and sign up for a dating app. They’re looking for a little adventure or just doing it for the story.”
“That’s been your experience, then? You do this often?”
