Page 50 of Your Pace Or Mine

Rajesh, a teacher who takes me to a downtown speakeasy where we order old-fashioned cocktails.

No second dates. I would have gone out with Rajesh again, but he doesn’t reply to my message. No more sidecars for me. I do, however, have a couple of rendezvous with Sebastian on nights we’re both available or one of us has been disappointed with a night out. The sex is great, and we don’t talk about the fact that we’ve been cuddling more or that we text each other good night. I’m pretty sure that’s not what friends with benefits are supposed to do. He doesn’t make it back to the running group again, to the chagrin of Tess and Stevie, who want to interrogate him.

Other than way too much time spent scrolling through dating profiles, my days are full of work. My firm lands a new account, and I dive into research for their marketing plan. Plus I have to film more content for my Miss Midtown account.

A few days after Easter, I get a message from a new contact on the app, a guy I would have overlooked in the past—he doesn’t even have a photo, and his username makes me cringe. However, my filtering system failed with Clint, so I decide to give this guy a chance. In the worst-case scenario, I can turn it into a few posts about how to make your profile stand out.

GenericUsernameDude:

Hi there! I’m kinda new to this app thing, so I don’t know how it works, but your profile caught my eye, and I had to reach out. My name is Jared and I’m a dentist in the Forest Hill area. I love dogs (I have two) and I’m into soccer and murder mysteries. I’d love to hear more about you!

I scan his profile, which is mostly blank. Could mean he’s clueless, but also could mean he’s hiding stuff, like maybe his murder mystery stuff is for research purposes. He’s listed his age as 30-35 and has added a few photos of his dogs, but none of him. This seems dodgy, but I know from experience that some people don’t know how to use these platforms, and maybe clueless is better than a snake like Clint who knows how to make himself sound perfect. I’m also intrigued because Forest Hill is where rich people live. Why not try?

RunnerGrrl92:

Hey there! I’m Ashley and I live in midtown. I’m a runner (duh) and I work in marketing. I’m also a theater geek and love karaoke. Would be interested in hearing more about you and, more importantly, your dogs. Also Forest Hill? Are you loaded and driving a Bentley? Just kidding. Maybe.

I don’t expect a response right away, but he writes back within fifteen minutes.

Ah, you got me. I’m all old money. I drive a Cadillac and my house is covered in ivy. No, actually it’s a one-bedroom condo off Spadina. I grew up in the suburbs, but I’ve been in the city for a while now. How about you?

Bummer, I was looking forward to a ride in your Caddy. I’m from Waterloo, but I live near Yonge and Eglinton now. The city sucked me in.

It does that, kind of like a black hole.

We message back and forth all day, our conversation flowing. Jared seems easy-going and funny, but also earnest. Of course, he could be a teenager in his basement or a middle-aged man stepping out on his wife, but for some reason, he strikes me as genuine. I’m tempted to ask him out right away, but he seems new to this sort of thing, so I say goodbye after a while and promise to message him tomorrow.

Laurel, Tess, and I meet for an evening run later. They both look curiously at me as I join them.

“What’s with the smile? Has Lover Boy been around again?” Tess teases. She’s a little obsessed with the Sebastian situation.

“I’ve seen him a few times, but not this week since I’ve had a lot going on.”

Laurel raises an eyebrow in surprise. She must be under the impression that our little arrangement was a bit more regular. It seems to happen whenever one of us is bored … or just needy. I don’t want to think about why that is.

“It’s a busy season,” I add. “Let’s get moving. You don’t want to stand here talking about my sex life all evening.”

“It’s like you don’t even know us,” Tess quips, but she starts us off running eastward.

I decide to throw Tess under the bus. “What about you, Tess? Do you have anything going on in that department?”

She groans. “Don’t ask me. It’s a dead zone. It’s like my bedroom signed a DNR order. What even is sex?”

We make sympathetic noises as we run, then Laurel says, “I notice you didn’t ask me.”

I try not to roll my eyes. Since Cal moved in, Laurel’s given me way too much information on that subject. She’s been gushing about how much she loves the new large bed. Like, really loves it. I shouldn’t complain, since I asked about a zillion intrusive questions when they got together. But I may have reached my limit—I’m tired of hearing how wonderful it is being together all the time or how cute it is that they keep arguing about storage for all their running shoes. They’re turning into a sitcom couple, and I’m part of the supporting cast.

Tess snorts, the noise cutting into my spiraling thoughts. “We don’t need to. Your constant look of satisfaction says it all. If you tell us any more about your sex life, I might have to kill you.”

We both giggle and move on to other topics, then I tentatively say, “I’ve been messaging with a nice guy today. He seems genuine, but you know, he could be a serial killer.”

Tess stops suddenly. “Why didn’t you lead with this information? Show me his photo right now!”

“He doesn’t have a profile photo.”

She and Laurel both shake their heads.

“No profile pic is bad news,” Laurel says. “Could be an old guy hiding his age.”