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They move over to the bench press, and even though I’ve put in ear buds, I can hear their guffaws as they cast glances at me, pointing fingers and no doubt feeling that they’ve really pulled one over on me. I’m not the kind of guy that cares what others think. If I were, I would be like my brother who’s absolutely perfect in my parents’ eyes. Matthew is their golden child. The one they take to galas. The one they brag about at their charity dinners where a plate costs $2,000. He looks the part, whereas I’ve never cared about playing a role that was assigned to me at birth. I wish I could work up the nerve to escape, but all I can muster up are these daily escapes to a nearby town.
I finish my workout early, but not because I’m tired. On the contrary, excited energy buzzes through my muscles as I rush through my post-workout shower and retreat back to my car. Once I’m alone, I allow myself to pull the phone out and look at this girl’s photo. Finally I can take the time to read her profile. And her name.
Liz.
The profile that the jacked Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum wrote for me didn’t mention that I drive a Mercedes Benz. They don’t know that my father is the Adam Harding of Harding Enterprises. This girl doesn’t know I’m rich, so she isn’t interested in me for my money. She’s not looking for a guy to bankroll her lifestyle like the other girls I’ve had the misfortune to date. I’m an unknown quantity to her, just as she is to me.
Plus she’s a redhead. And I’ve always harbored a secret obsession for redheads.
After only a moment’s hesitation, I swipe right on the notification asking if I’d like to connect with Liz.
Chapter 3
Liz
The profile Becky used to catfish some amazing guy has made me sound a lot more amazing that I actually am. For one, Becky claimed that I was the shipping manager at this warehouse, when I couldn’t be lower on the scale of employees. Hell, one of my duties is to clean the office bathroom. It doesn’t get less ma
nagerial than that.
Then there’s the whole ‘Hobby’ section that she filled out for me. My only hobbies are collapsing at home after a day working, too poor to go out and too tired even if someone paid for me. I watch too much Netflix, eat too many frozen pizzas, and have little in the way of interests that would make anyone look at me twice. I used to be so adventurous. That spirit gave me the strength to move cross-country by myself when I was only eighteen, but without money, there’s little chance for adventure.
Despite this, Becky has somehow taken all the little things we’ve talked about over lunch and expounded them into a collection that makes me seem like someone who should have her own show on the Discovery channel.
I once mentioned that I used to volunteer at this animal shelter, which is perfectly true, but Becky has built on that, saying that I manage this whole network of shelters and am singlehandedly responsible for saving thousands of little furry lives. Then she’s written that I’m a professional yoga instructor, when I actually have a hard enough job doing the downward dog, which is like 101 in stuff you learn when you start yoga.
The truth is that I grew up poor as trash in a trailer park in the Florida panhandle after my father wrapped his car around a light pole. And I ran away from home at eighteen to escape my alcoholic mother.
In summary, I’m the farthest thing possible from a catch. The only thing I’ve got going for me is my meager savings account that I dream will be big enough one day to buy a ticket out of here. I swing between imagining backpacking in Europe and making my way through Japan, China, and Korea, but the point is that at the moment, that’s all I can do: dream.
For this reason, even though I’ve had the app on my own phone for two hours now, I still haven’t done anything about it. As long as it’s there, untouched, I can just keep dreaming about this mystery man.
Plus there’s the fact that he’s just so intimidating.
First there’s his photo. He’s wearing a sleeveless shirt, gym equipment in the background, his muscles impressive but not off-putting. If anything, his smile is more impressive. Perfect teeth in a face that just radiates charisma. I bet he never stays in, eating nachos and drinking boxed wine. And with only the smallest effort from my imagination, I can picture him nude: his chiseled abs, his tight ass, and a cock I can’t help but thinking about sliding right up inside me.
He’s way out of my league, so do I take a chance that’s sure to end in heartbreak or do I let him slip painlessly away?
The latter would certainly be the easiest choice. Just delete the app and chalk this nonsense up to Becky having a little fun with her date. No harm, no foul. That is if I leave it. On the other hand, I could just send him a message. See how he replies. What harm could it do after all? It’s not as if anything is going to topple the little life I’ve managed to build up.
I’ve literally got nothing to lose.
My phone suddenly buzzes. I almost drop it at the unexpectedness of it, but when I look down, I see that the guy named Michael has just sent me a message.A simple swipe is all it takes before the message is up on my screen. Another blink and I’ve taken in all the words:
Would you like to grab a coffee sometime?
Straight to the point. No pick-up line that’s both sweet and cringe-worthy. Just an alpha-looking guy asking a less-than-average girl out for coffee. I don’t know what I was expecting to read when I opened up the message, but it wasn’t this. A cheesy come-on line would have been easy to ignore. But this is a question. An invitation to take a step outside the crummy circumstances of my day-to-day life and maybe gain something new. Gain someone new.
Then again, this could all come crashing down.
I swipe out of the message and look at his profile picture again. He’s definitely out of my league. Even if this coffee date is real, even if he shows up, it will only be a one-time event. He’ll figure out that I’m as two-dimensional as this app. Then he’ll be gone. But hopefully not before I have a chance to run my fingers down every inch of his skin.
I try to go back to my work, ignoring the knowing glances Becky keeps sending my way. I try to focus my mind on the radio playing one of my favorites from Radiohead, but the lyrics pass over me, leaving me to stew in my doubts. And when those doubts run their course, I allow myself to dream, if only for a moment. Of how this might be exactly the turning point I’ve been waiting for. That Michael might be everything I could hope for and more. About how this coffee date would be the first of countless moments sitting across from him, sharing our hopes and dreams.
Then I think of the worst-case scenario: a hot fling that fizzles out as quickly as it flared. I can’t remember the last time I had a fling, wild or not.
Before I can stop myself, I pull my phone out and tap out a reply. It’s as short as his, and I’m even so bold as to name a time and place. Because if this is going to happen, it needs to be soon. Otherwise, I’m going to lose my mind with stress as I wonder over and over again what this coffee date may bring.
Meet at the Coffee Bean at 12:30 for lunch?
