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It was an easy decision, moving out of that gross apartment and up to the little condo I rent from a woman named Cami. It’s twice the price of my last place, but I love it, and it came with the most adorable pink couch.
Once upon a time I had big goals. There were huge, gargantuan things happening in my life, a future as bright as the gold-sequin sweater my mom is sporting tonight. Funny how that changed in a flash.
It’s not really all that funny, actually.
“I fired you,” I tell Morgan.
I did fire her from my third-of-life crisis because the first thing she did after becoming the boss of me was make me an online dating profile. Something I’ve never, ever wanted. And yes, I know a lot of people meet online nowadays and it’s not that big of a deal, but it is to me.
But the real reason I fired her is because she let my brother make my profile.
“You can’t fire me,” she says.
“I can, since you let this soggy cereal box here fill out my profile,” I say, holding out a hand toward Ryan.
“Hey, I did a good job with that,” he says.
“You gave me the username NurseMeBaby.”
“Yeah?” He shakes his head. “You’re a nurse. I thought it was clever.”
I cock my head to the side, giving him my very best you can’t be this thick look. “Just think about it for a second. Really think about it,” I tell him.
Ryan looks to Morgan, clearly not getting it.
She pats his shoulder. “I’ll explain later.”
Oh, the amount of time I had to spend swiping left on all the creepers who swiped right on that profile. This is an assumption, of course. They may not all be creepers. Some could have been clueless morons like Ryan. Gauging by the profile pictures on some of these accounts, though, I think I was justified. I probably should have deleted it and started over. Actually, why didn’t I do that?
Whatever. What’s done is done. I took out most of what Ryan put on there, changed my job from nurse to accountant (so people don’t swipe right to ask about some weird rash on their body), and changed my username to PlainJane2, since my middle name is Jane, but mostly because I’d hoped it would give off the vibe that I’m boring, so please don’t swipe right.
I answered the profile questions with only the bare minimum, changed the picture to me, but with my face mostly covered, and changed my status to looking for friendship rather than love. Even after all that, someone swiped right on my profile. A few people did, actually.
One particular profile looked interesting enough, so on a whim I swiped right on GothamGuardian5. I had instant regrets, but he quickly struck up a conversation, first asking me what my favorite Taylor Swift album is, to which I replied Red, because, duh. He said that was the right answer and we’ve been chatting off and on for the past five days.
He offered about as much as I did in his profile (which wasn’t much), and his picture is a comic book–style drawing of Batman. Surprisingly, he’s clever ... and funny. We haven’t talked about all that much. He mostly peppers me with would-you-rather questions, and I answer them. Sometimes, like tonight, we ask each other for advice. Who knows if it will last, but for now it’s kind of ... fun.
He could possibly be an old man trying to reel me in, even though his profile said early-to-mid thirties, but I don’t get that vibe from our conversations. Besides, would an elderly man even know who Taylor Swift is? Actually, he probably would—who doesn’t at this point?
It doesn’t matter who this guy is anyway because I have no intention of meeting him, not now, not ever. Even though, according to his profile, we live somewhere within twenty-five miles of each other. But he doesn’t seem all that interested in meeting up either. Right now, GothamGuardian5 and I are just two people chatting. Despite that, it has become a kind of fun new thing in my otherwise mundane life.
It’s also my secret fun thing. I haven’t told Morgan, and I don’t plan to. As far as she knows, I’ve been doing nothing with her online dating idea.
“Well as the boss of your life, I’m hiring myself back,” Morgan says.
“You can’t do that.”
“Lucy,” she says, giving me a pout. “I actually worked on this.”
“You did?”
“Yes,” she says. “I made a list.”
I scrunch my brow. “You made a list?”
“Yes,” she says, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of the maroon miniskirt she paired with opaque black tights and a white, cropped cable-knit sweater. I’m wearing the same sweater—by chance; we both bought it and didn’t know it—but with jeans, and as usual, Morgan wears it better than me. She’s tiny and cute and I’m tall and more ... awkward, like I never got out of my gangly phase. I mean, I did, of course. It’s just that I’ve always felt like that little girl in my head. I did try to look more adult today by taking time to curl my hair and put on more makeup, which is not my usual MO. When you spend forty-plus hours a week in scrubs with your hair pulled back, it feels almost strange to get all dolled up.
“What’s on this list?” I ask, eyeing her with a hint of curiosity mixed with a dash of trepidation.
