I open up Jude Campbell’s questionnaire and read it. Then I reread it, again and again, until I memorize it. No more string quartet surprises for me. I click over to the three dating website profiles he’s linked out to and peruse them. I start to make notes on what we can change. He doesn’t have a lot of info out there, which is a rookie mistake. You don’t want to write a dissertation, but you do want to have enough content to show that you took time to fill the profile out. That demonstrates follow-through and dedication to the cause. Of course, there is a fine line between being thorough and TL;DR, which is a lot of where I come in. The words should be carefully chosen to reflect our clients’ (enhanced and copyedited) personalities; they should sparkle … but leave you wanting more.
I e-mail Jude, introducing myself as his Tell It to My Heart writer and asking him when he might be free to meet, letting him know I could do it as early as today. I’ve just hit send when music comes blasting from a corner table, warranting a glance in that direction.
It’s I Am Legend, whose face has turned bright pink, Bambi lashes fluttering as she frantically hits keys on her laptop. I’m pretty sure that’s a song from Fifty Shades of Grey. Is that what she’s doing here? Does hoarding free food while she watches soft-core porn in public get her off or something? I watch her for a second, curious whether I can discern if she’s turned on. Then I catch myself. Under no circumstances am I to be checking out women again, even if it’s purely anthropological.
A whoosh alerts me that I have an incoming message. An e-mail from Jude, who says he can meet at four p.m. today. Excellent. Eager and communicative is a good sign in a client. I e-mail him back with directions to Café Crudité.
Then I take out my phone to test myself on how well I’ve absorbed my client’s profile.
I open up 24/7, one of the scores of dating apps I have downloaded (as a work thing, of course, because I, myself, am obviously never dating again. The profiles aren’t even set up as me, but as a hodgepodge of background info I made up and pictures stolen from a Google Images search that I’m pretty sure are from a random Czech college brochure). I look over the twenty-four thumbnail images and short profile snippets that have popped up as the daily matches for “me.” And then I pick the five that I think Jude might be most likely to select. I hesitate, choosing between a financial analyst who plays softball on the weekends and a marketing coordinator who is a Pilates instructor. I end up going with Miss Pilates: probably has more free time along with being more limber. I’ll check my answers with Jude at the end of our meeting.
Now I just have forty-five minutes to kill before he gets here. I’m feeling a little hungry, but the biscotti are gone (obviously) and some desperate person even took the kale muffins. I glance over to the corner table and see that I Am Legend is on her way out too, throwing one last glare my way before she reaches the door. Fare thee well, Tampa Bay. You better toughen up fast or New York will break you within a week, sending you back to the sun-soaked swamps whence you came.
Despite my rumbling stomach, I decide against buying anything to eat. Even with my due diligence today, who knows if I’m still going to be employed next week, and I’ll be kicking myself if I have to skip out on dinner because I got tempted by a four-dollar cake pop. And now that Legend is gone, there’s no one interesting here to even look at/stare down as an unofficial tour guide on the Real New York Experience.
I take out my phone again. And before I know exactly what I’m doing, I’ve opened up Instagram and have navigated over to Jordan’s pregnancy post. This time, I only spend a minute or so looking at the picture itself before I get whirlpooled into the rabbit hole of comments.
In between the congrats and the OMGs are some real gems.
“Way to go, Miles and Jordan!” from Greta, the German foreign exchange student my parents hosted one summer. Aha! At least I’m not the only one who thought the baby might be mine. Though I should probably write her … not that I’m exactly sure how that e-mail is going to go:
Hey Greta,
Long time no talk. Hope you’re well. By the way, could you please defriend my cheating ex-fiancée from your social media?
Danke,
Miles
Then a simple “Congratulations” from … is this for real?! My aunt Fatma?
And then, as if she can sense both my impending breakdown and the incredulous thoughts I’m having about her own mother, I get a text.
How’s it going?
It’s Aisha, my cousin.
Is your Spidey sense on high alert? I write. Aisha has a knack—or I like to think we both do—for sensing the exact moment when the other person is in need of a check-in. It probably has something to do with both of us being only children. She’s the closest thing I have to a sibling, and vice versa.
I hope you are not looking at Jordan’s post. Or writing her. Or thinking about her, she writes.
Of course not, I type back. Why would I ever write her? I mean, aside from this morning, but obviously it was pure adrenaline steering that boat. But speaking of writing things, you might want to have a talk with your mother.
Oh God. What did she do now?
Oh, nothing, I type. Just congratulated my ex-fiancée on the baby she’s having with another man. On Instagram. NBD.
There’s a considerable pause before Aisha writes again. You know how they have parental lock features on phones? They should really have one that goes the other way too. FOR parents. I’ll talk to her. Again. I’m sorry.
I laugh despite myself. Honestly? It’s probably the first time I’ve laughed since Jordan’s “We need to talk.” So maybe you should thank her.
Do you need me to tell you Jordan doesn’t deserve you and you’re better off and you’ll be over her before you know it?
I type out No and then, thinking better of it, delete it and replace it with, It couldn’t hurt …
Well, then, she doesn’t deserve you. You are absolutely better off without her. And you’ll be over her much, much sooner than you think. It wasn’t meant to be.
I laugh, bitterly this time. I don’t believe in meant-to-be.
Yeah, right, she types back. This is Dumped Miles talking. Write me again in two months when you’re back to Secret Rom-Com-Loving Miles.
Hey, I write. It was never a secret.
True, she types back. Heart on Your Sleeve Miles. I’ll be waiting for you.
Yeah, yeah.
In the meantime … just delete Instagram from your phone.
I look down at my phone and hesitate. Can I really do that? I mean, can anyone really do that?
Yes, you can do it. Aisha responds to my brain signals again. And, trust me, I’ll be making sure my mom does too.
I sigh, and then click the buttons to remove the app. Fine. Anything else?
Yes. you.
you too.
And if I ever see Jordan again, I will 100% kick her ass.
I laugh. Aisha is about four foot eleven but does an intense kickboxing boot camp class three times a week. I wouldn’t take any bets against her. Thank you, I write back. Though maybe not in her condition.
You’re right, she writes. I’ll give her an IOU for … let’s say … 8 months postpartum?
Sounds fair.
The front door jangles and I look up to see a familiar face walking through it. Gotta run. My client’s here.