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MIA
When I get homeafter Georgia and Sebastian’s wedding reception, my feet are sore and I feel oddly empty…and jealous, I realize. It’s an icky, scrabbling feeling in my chest, like some monster raking its claws along my ribcage. I don’t like being jealous of my friends. I don’t like caring that I’m single.
Sarah, Bailey’s babysitter, is dozing on the couch when I walk in, heels in hand. She wakes up and smiles at me. “Hey. Bailey went down about eight-thirty, nine o’clock. We watchedTransformers.”
“Thank you, Sarah,” I answer. I pay the seventeen-year-old and watch her get into her car and drive off.
I poke my head in my daughter’s room, see her sleeping soundly, and make my way to my own bedroom. I drop my heels in the closet and unclip my earrings, deciding my shower can wait until tomorrow.
Tomorrow.
A wave of exhaustion hits me. I just paid the first month’s rent at the new price, and it depleted almost all my savings. Tomorrow, I’ll have to somehow rustle up more business or find another job. My barbershop might not make it through to the end of the year. All those years of work for nothing. All it took was one self-important jerk to waltz in and bleed me dry.
I have no idea what I’m going to do.
My phone dings.
Digging it out of my clutch, I see a notification from Blind Date on my screen and groan.
Wonderful. It’s one o’clock in the morning. I’ve either gotten a lewd message or someone generously offering to come over and give me mediocre sex. No, thank you.
I’m deleting the app. I’m done with dating.
Then, when I’m about to swipe to unlock my phone, it shows me the beginning of the message waiting for me on the app—and I freeze.
Right there on my screen is a foot emoji. No one—not one single suitor—has sent me the emoji I asked for in my profile…until tonight.
Blame the fact that I was at an impromptu wedding tonight, or that I watched all my peers cuddled up with their gorgeous men. Maybe it was the look in Georgia’s eyes when Sebastian carried her out the door.
Whatever it is, I let a tiny, flickering flame of hope light inside me, and I open the app to check the message.
TallDarkAndHandy:??… If carrots got you drunk, rabbits would be messed up.
I bark out a laugh. Looks like at least one other person knows Mitch Hedberg’s genius when they see it. That little flame of hope grows brighter, and a flutter occurs in my stomach.
One more chance—I’ll give this apponemore chance. It takes me five whole minutes to craft a reply, but I finally send one, then quickly turn my phone off and set it on the nightstand. I willnotbe waiting for a message like some desperate ninny. Plus, it’s way past my bedtime, so I close my eyes and resolve to not look at my phone until morning.
Across town,in a darkened apartment, a phone buzzes. Desmond Thomas picks up the device from his coffee table, muting the television he’d been watching with bleary eyes. His lips quirk at the sight of the message on his screen.
NaturalBlondie:Finally, someone with a sense of humor on this app… It’s almost too good to be true. What’s the catch? Are you lying about being handy?
TallDarkAndHandy:Maybe. Are you lying about being a blonde?
He waits for an answer, but it never arrives. When Des finally climbs into bed, his thoughts turn to another blond woman, a little firecracker whose adorable, tiny ears get red when she’s angry. Maybe it’s time for him to go and get another shave.
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