3
MARGARET
OH SHIT! OH shit. Shit shit shit. What is Super-Liked? How do I take that back? What is happening? My panic is overriding my ability to function. The hottest guy on this app just heart-ed me and I Super-Liked him back, though I’m still not sure what the hell that means.
Why is that even a thing? I can’t find a button that says ‘undo’ or anything like that, and the guy at the other end of this connection is probably chucking his phone across the room. I mean, Super-Liked is serious, at least it sounds serious to me.
I throw my head back on my pillow and groan. The first decent guy on here and I screwed it up within a second of seeing him. Of course I did. I shouldn’t be so damn surprised, yet here we are.
I throw my phone on the floor, determined to leave the app alone. I can’t imagine what that guy is thinking—probably that I’m crazy. I am certainly feeling that right now, thumbing through profile after profile of prospective dinner companions.
It’s not that there’s anything wrong with it. There are hundreds of people who meet online. In fact, 19% of brides met their spouses online (Yes, I looked it up), so obviously it’s not totally bad. Maybe it’s not that online dating is bad; maybe it’s that I’m bad at online dating…or dating in general. Sometimes I’m even difficult to talk to if you don’t want to date me.
I mean, seriously, ONE guy hit like and I acted like he was asking me to be his wife. Oh honey, you want shrimp cocktails for an appetizer at the wedding? (Insert giggle here.)
Damn you, Super-Like button.
A ping from my phone alerts me, and I grudgingly heave my head off of the pillow, rolling out of bed to retrieve my thrown phone. It’s probably my mom sending me another cat video. You show your mom YouTube one time…
My eyebrows rise when I see a notification from the dating app, more specifically, from Dan, the Super-Liked guy—the hot, hot, hot guy.
I quickly, carefully open the app and navigate to the message.
Dan: Hey there.
Hey there, yourself. Trying to be casual, as the app suggests, I type a quick Hi and leave it at that. I can’t have him thinking I’m actually crazy. Wait, was responding so quickly a good idea? Maybe he should think I actually have a real life.
Oh, who am I kidding.
Dan: You free tonight?
I quickly think of the night ahead: it’s four o’ clock on a Friday and I’m already in my pajamas. The real question is: how fast can I shave all the bits?
Margaret: I am. What did you have in mind?
Damn, that sounded suggestive. I’m suspecting this guy won’t mind that, but it’s definitely not the way to meet the man of my dreams.
Dan: How about some dinner? O’Callahan’s Pub at eight?
O’Callahan’s is only a few blocks from me—perks of living in the city. It’s also the hangout of many of my miserable co-workers, but it might not be a bad idea to prove I have a life if someone happens to witness it.
Do I do it? Do I let this guy into my life? Jeez, Margaret, he didn’t propose.
But then there’s the other thing—can I do a one-night stand? Can I give myself over and say goodbye at the end of the night?
Knowing how I’ll answer those questions without really needing to ask them, I send a quick reply agreeing to his suggestion and rush off to start the process of shaving. If it’s only going to be one night, I’m going to make it count.
The pub is busy, and it’s hard to get in through the dense crowd. Maybe meeting here was a good idea because we won’t have to deal with awkward silences. I don’t recognize anyone, don’t see Mr. Handsome anywhere, and decide to snag a seat at the bar.
I order a drink and wait for Dan to show up. I’m nervous, and it shows. My hands are sweating and I keep taking deep breaths, which, I know, looks absolutely crazy from the outside.
“Meeting someone?” I whip my head away from the front door, which I was obsessively staring at, and look at the bartender who just set down my drink. He’s a nice-looking guy, a little on the preppy side, down to the dang bow tie at his neck.
“Uh, yeah, at least I hope so.” I giggle nervously and take a gulp, immediately regretting it when it hits the wrong pipe and I’m choking up vodka. Someone hits me on the back, trying to help me get whatever is in my throat out, and it’s not helping.
Shit, that burns.
“Thank you,” I say to whomever is behind me. Turning, I blanch upon laying eyes on the person standing behind me. It’s Dan.