Page 19

Ten

After check in, I don’t have much to do; it’s not exactly like this is a bustling city. The small midwest town really doesn’t have much to offer besides that stamp. I did see a restaurant across the street, so I can get out and have dinner later.

Driven by boredom, and idle curiosity, I toggle the travel slider in my Tinder app to on; I must be mad in the head. But maybe out here in small town America it’ll be less of a shitshow, maybe ladies here will be who their pictures say they are. Lord, even if it’s a dirty little one nighter, what have I got to lose? The hotel is already paid for. I begin swiping; the profiles seem less pretentious and more likely to be real. Thank the lord for small mercies. No one likes eating dinner alone, and even if all I get is some company, maybe one of these ladies can make me smile.

Nope.

Nope.

Swipe right.

Hmm, a couple looking — nope.

Julia, okay, she looks nice. Normal, considering the shitshow Tinder is, and she doesn’t have puppy-dog ears or a filter on her pictures. She also says, ‘casual, DTF, and doesn't mind I’m on travel mode…’ It’s a very quick match. My phone vibrates and chimes. I open the chat and sit there thinking about what I could possibly say. ‘Hey want to come over?’ Delete.

‘Would you have dinner with me?’ Delete. ‘Are you busy tonight?’ Delete. Before I come up with anything I want to send, she’s messaged me.

Uhhh, do I? I do. I think. This all of a sudden feels really stupid.

I look out the window to get the name of the restaurant.

I check my watch, there’s plenty of time before then for me to go collect my registration for the auction, get back here, and take a shower.

It’s eight-fifteen and Julia still hasn’t shown up; I keep checking my watch. My phone hasn’t vibrated, and I have checked for messages at least ten times. When I text her, she doesn’t reply — in fact they’re not even read.

“Sir, are you still waiting?” the waitress asks me, because I’ve been here a while. “Can I bring you a drink at least, while you wait?” I read the wine list that has exactly five options on it.

“Bring a bottle of—” they’re all a bit suspect, “house red, please.”

“Sure thing.” She bounces off, her ponytail swinging with each step.

By the time it’s nine, I am tapping my foot under the table and want to call Julia and yell — only her phone doesn’t ring. In fact it says, “The number you have dialed does not exist.” My face obviously reflects my mood.

“Your date, she stood you up?” the waitress asks, coming to check on me again.

“It seems that way,” I say, open the menu, and order. “Please, can I have the fillet, medium, with mash?”

“Right away, would you like another bottle?” She points to the almost empty wine bottle. It’s fucking horrible, but I have drunk almost all of it out of pure frustration.

“No, I don’t think so.” I shake my head; vinegar tastes better. “You can take that and bring me a water.” Tinder strikes again. It’s the app that keeps on kicking you — why do I fucking bother?

I am livid by the time I get on my flight home. I was outbid and I didn’t get the stamp, so this whole trip was a complete waste of time. To top it all, I have had a number of texts and calls asking me about Selene and me — like one dinner has made us an insta-couple. Lycan says even the golf club is buzzing with wild gossip, that we have been secretly dating since her husband died.

These people should write books or something, their imaginations are wild. How they cook up the stories I would love to know, because none of it is ever based on actual facts. I asked Tala to pick me up at the airport because I know she’ll be there sooner. My sons would leave me waiting out on the sidewalk at the pickup zone like a cheap hooker for hours.

I also wanted to talk to her; I feel a bit shit over the way I reacted to her boyfriend bomb being dropped. She’s never really dated — two brothers and a father that looks like me. Guys are usually afraid to try. Well, Lycan and Fallon made sure they all stayed away through school. Now they’re separated and she has a bit of freedom, I should have expected it.

My anxiety has calmed down to a mild panic since I turned off the notifications for that stupid Tinder crap. I am still mad at my kids — all of them. I thought about checking it a few times, just to message Channing. I also talked myself out of that madness really quickly — she’s young, and obviously not at all interested in me. I mean, I was right there in the room and she didn’t even acknowledge that she knew who I was.

Dating is madness, people ignore the ones they like, chase — or crotch grab— the ones that don’t like them. It is like everyone is on acid. I did that shit when I was young. I was cool, I had the wild youth and all that stuff. I don’t need to do it again now; I’m an adult for fucks sake.

My flight is delayed three times before we even board, and my irritation levels are at the point where I actually ask the flight attendant for a whiskey. I wanted that fucking stamp. I can’t get the pretty fashion designer's face out of my head, and I am the talk of the country club.

By the time we land, the three whiskeys have mellowed my mood, and I drag my tired body through the terminal to where my daughter is waiting for me.

“Dad.” She hops out the car with a bright smile; she’s still in her polo kit. My car is going to smell like a horse, and be full of dust and hair. Just what Porsche had in mind when they made an SUV, I’m sure.

“Hey, sweetheart.” I give her a hug and swap so that I can drive. I don't need a heart attack, whiplash, or a dead pedestrian to cap off my day. Tala might be able to ride the hell out of a horse, but she’s a shit driver.