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He used to get in on that side when he first moved here, thinking he was getting into the driver’s side, but he’s gotten used to how things are different now. Doesn’t stop me giving him shit about it though, pretty much every time the two of us drive somewhere.
“So, we have four new guys starting today,” I remind him.
“I know,” he says, as he flicks through the folder in his hands.
“You wanna take them through the brewing process you have planned or start with the fruit picking?”
Jack shrugs, almost as if he’s only half listening. “Let’s do fruit first.”
“Okay,” I reply, as we head over to the other property.
I park outside the main shed, glad to see that all four of the new guys have arrived and are standing around getting to know one another. We get out and introduce ourselves to them, even though we all met during the interview process. I let Jack take them through the plan for the day because despite how hands on I am around this place, it’s still his property.
After, Jack reminds them all to pay attention to my instruction, before turning to me. “By the way, I installed that new app you were asking about on your phone. Username isblue balls, all lowercase and password istommy needs pussy, again, all lowercase.” Then he turns and walks off, whistling as though he doesn’t have a care in the world.
I want to go after him, grab him and ask what the fuck, but I’m too busy trying to figure out if these new recruits have heard what he just said to me. Thankfully they are all too busy shooting the shit and looking around at their new workplace and by the time I turn back, Jack has disappeared inside.
“Motherfucker,” I mutter to myself, before turning and taking these boys out to the fields.
By the time I get back to my house, the sun is just starting to set, the long summer nights balmy and calm. Kicking off my boots and throwing my dirty work clothes into the laundry, I take a long hot shower before grabbing a beer and heading out to my back porch.
I built this house on the far edge of Ellen and Lauren’s property about four years ago, on a hill that looks down over the vines and the lake that sits in the middle. There are more vines on the other side of the lake and at the end of those are the two cottages on the property, one of which Jack and Lauren now live in.
The orchard and cider house are beyond that, which means I’m far enough away from everyone that it’s quiet and peaceful. Caitlyn never lived out here with me, claimed it was too quiet, too boring. She’d had a place in Napa, but wanted to move to San Francisco, claiming she needed more of a life.
When she’d asked me to decide between Somerville’s and her, I knew that meant deciding between staying here or moving with her. Like I said, it hadn’t felt like much of a choice at the time. Still didn’t now. And last I’d heard she’d left Napa, so I guess it hadn’t been a tough choice for her either.
Just as I sit down on one of the wooden deck chairs, my phone pings. Not recognizing the sound, I pull it from my pocket, taking a sip of my beer before opening up the home page.
And there, sitting right in the middle of it, literally mocking me with its presence, is the dating app Jack installed. Shaking my head, I move to delete it, but before I do, it pings again, a notification flashing up on my screen that saysyou have a new match.
“What the fuck?” I mutter, my thumb hovering over the app. Quickly glancing around, as though Jack is somehow fucking with me, I hit the app and open it. When I do, the profile Jack created for me fills the screen. As my eyes scroll over it, I see the asshole has actually been pretty nice in what he’s said, despite the username and password he used when he created it. There’s no picture associated with it though and I realize it’s actually a picture-free app, supposedly designed to match people based on their personalities.
But more surprising than that is the number six that’s next to the button that saysmatches. “Six matches?” I ask myself, taking another sip of my beer.
Glancing around again, I swallow hard before saying fuck it and clicking the button to open it.
Chapter Three
Penny
By the time I arrive home after work, I’ve forgotten I’d downloaded the dating app Jack suggested. Not only did I download it in my lake-induced calm, I created a damn profile, albeit not really an honest one, but still a profile. They recommend creating a username rather than using your actual name, and obviously there are no pictures, but even more interesting is it asks you to build a relationship with other users without discussing the normal small talk related things. No job titles listed or your age, only an age range. And it’s pretty damn broad.
The app is designed to almost encourage secrecy, to allow people to get to know each other before moving forward with the whole in-person meet up. Nothing ever has to come of it and the added bonus is it’s free for the first month. If it’s a total bust, I’ll cancel and call it done. I’ll swear off dating again for the millionth time like always.
I collapse on the couch, exhausted and ready to have a glass of wine rather than being the one serving it, but before I get up again, I take a quick look at my phone.
And there it is, right there on the first page, the Mystery Matchmaker app and glowing bright red in the corner is the number six. Six fucking matches already. This thing is either magic or a total nightmare.
I hover my finger over the app, daring myself to click it and check out what lurks behind that little red number. It’s not like I’m going to be hit with shirtless guys taking selfies in their toothpaste splattered bathroom mirrors or some self-absorbed asshole posing next to “his” Porsche only to find out later he used to work at a Porsche dealership. “Used to” being the operative words here.
This app eliminates all those cringe-worthy moments; those ones that make you embarrassed by proxy and make you question what the hell you’re actually doing.
As much as I want to know what or who is hiding behind that little number, I can’t bring myself to find out just yet. I’m hungry and tired and I feel like a glass of wine and some food will pair well with some scrolling and matchmaking.
I grab a bottle of rosé from my fridge, annoyed that my tiny pasta sauce smelling apartment doesn’t have room for a wine chiller, something I never thought I’d ever find myself thinking, and I pour myself a glass. Heating up some leftovers, bound and determined not to jump right into the app the moment I sit down.
I let the microwave run longer than necessary in the hopes it quells my obsessive need to get rid of that little devil of a red number. Something about it creeping there on my phone, reminding me and annoying me, makes it nearly impossible to ignore.
