“If you want me to meet a woman, there are a hundred ways to do that that don’t include being the pawn in a ridiculous farce called Bachelor Mystery.”
“Bachelor Anonymous,” she corrects me on a giggle.
“Whatever.” I sigh. “It doesn’t matter what it’s called. What matters is that there are plenty of other, not ridiculous ways for me to find someone.”
“Fine. You’re right,” she agrees. “But if you were going to do any of them, you would have done them years ago. Just give this a chance, Dad. Please.”
“Why is this so important to you, Chlo?” I ask, a knot of unwelcome emotion clogging my throat as I think back through the movie reel of our lives. So many memories. So many tragic moments. So much beauty and love and happiness. “Why do you think I need a woman so badly? Have I cheated you by keeping you to myself all these years? Did you miss out by only having a dad to look up to?”
“I didn’t miss out. You did.”
I shake my head. “My life has been exactly what I’ve made of it, Chloe, and I made it that way for a reason. I wouldn’t change it.” I laugh a little. “Hell, I don’t even know if I’m equipped to compromise with someone on everything anymore. I’ve been on my own, in charge of my own decisions for a long time. Sometimes it’s hard to unlearn living that way. And I don’t know if I want to.”
“With the right person, you won’t have to compromise all that much.”
I shrug, sighing internally at myself for having all those conversations about empowerment in a relationship over the years. I wasn’t prepared to have her feeding all my own crap back to me so soon.
“And you think this—whatever this contest is with the paper—is going to produce the right person?”
“I think you miss a hundred percent of the shots you don’t take,” she fires back, quoting me from yet another parental speech.
It’s like I loaded the gun for her, for God’s sake.
I sigh heavily and consider her closely, and she does the same to me. We stare at each other with the weight of our lives—years and years of counting on each other and trusting that even if it seems crazy in the beginning, it’ll all make sense in the end.
“This is nuts, Chlo. You realize that, right? You entered your forty-year-old dad in a dating contest run by a newspaper.”
“A dating contest in which readers voted and chose my forty-year-old dad to be the most eligible bachelor in San Diego.”
I stare at her in confusion, and she shrugs.
“I might have written the ad, but the SoCal Tribune readers voted you in.”
“This just gets better and better, doesn’t it?” I mutter, and a soft giggle pops from her lips as she turns to preheat the oven.
“Just do it, Dad. What’s the worst that could happen?” she questions with a glance over her shoulder. “You meet an amazing woman who catches your eye, and you actually enjoy spending time with her?” She feigns disgust. “Ew, gross.”
Am I really going to do this fucking thing?
Silver lining? You’ll get to see the intriguing woman that is Holley Fields again…
“I can’t believe I’m agreeing to do this.” I shake my head and bring it down to the counter, and she shrieks a cheer into the air.
Hell, just what am I getting myself into?
Holley
Papers flutter into the garbage as I toss another heap from my desk into the trash can near my desk. Hundreds and hundreds of personal ads and application information to go through, and still, finding another viable option for Bachelor Anonymous seems impossible.
The instant I left Coronado Beach, I stopped at my house for a quick shower and a change of clothes and headed straight back to my office to try to figure out a game plan that won’t end in me losing my job.
I’ve been working on said game plan for the last several hours, and I’m only certain of two things: Jake Brent is a no-fucking-go and, besides the cleaning staff, everyone in the office has headed home for the night.
Basically, I’ve yet to move past square one—find a new Bachelor Anonymous.
I can’t do another vote—there’s no time. Not to mention, having Tribune readers know the process has been fucked from the jump isn’t the kind of image I’d like to portray. As a general rule of thumb, I try to make decisions that won’t get me fired.
I pick up the next sheet from my pile and read the ad aloud.
“Single male with a good couch looking for a woman with a house in Palos Verdes. If interested, please send picture of the house.”
Oh, for goodness’ sake, this dude doesn’t want to find love! He wants a sugar momma with a sweet house!
Without even looking at any of the other information, I quickly ball that one up between my hands and chuck it over my left shoulder in the direction of the trash can.
“Holy flaming fuckups, I’m going to end up writing obituaries. I can feel it.”
I grab the next paper, holding my eyes closed tight until I feel ready and then pop them open to read. This one’s a little longer and starts off way more promising.
“Divorced white male, 6’1” tall and a muscular 210 pounds, looking for love with a single female of any ethnicity,” I read quietly to myself. “Looking for someone I can make laugh. Recovering addicts, a plus.”
I scan back over the last sentence again. “Wait, what?”
My mouth moves numbly as I read over each word carefully. Recovering addicts, a plus.
A plus?
Why is this guy looking for recovering addicts? Does he, like, want to prey on them or something?
Lawsuits against the paper and me, and basically everyone in greater Southern California swirl in my mind, and I cringe.
I don’t even bother balling up the paper before tossing it behind me this time. It drifts to the ground like snow on Christmas morning. Geez Louise, why is this so hard?
I pick up the next one and scroll my eyes over the title.
Widowed Male Seeks Curvaceous Sexual Attention.
Ugh. Next.
Single Male Seeks Hot Girl Summer.
Eye roll.
Single Male Seeks Love.
Okay. This one doesn’t sound so bad…
I cover my eyes and look between my fingers as I continue to read silently.
Single and ready to mingle, ladies. At eighty-six years young, I know the meaning of love.
Holy prune juice and melba toast! Eighty-six? This isn’t going to work at all, though I can’t help but keep reading.
Must like watching Flea Market Flip and riding in golf carts. Send pictures first.
I let my head loll back and try not to cry. Am I living in some sort of alternate dimension? I mean, wasn’t almost drowning this morning in the real ocean enough? I have to drown in the metaphorical deep end of work, too?
Gah.
I pick up the next paper from the stack hesitantly. Who knows what snakes in this pile of ridiculousness have yet to strike?
Single Male Seeks Virgin. I’m looking for a woman between the ages of 18 and 30 who will glorify me and God forever. I am willing to teach her all the things she doesn’t know. Virgin preferred but will consider someone revirginized after one-time lover.
“Oh, for the love of everything holy—”