I always get Lighthouse Grill. It’s my addiction. They have my credit card on file there, since I order once a day, and Postmates delivers. My mouth waters when I think about their BBQ. I’ll have to order it in a bit since I’m suddenly hungry.
Scrolling through the searches, I skip all the typical ones. I’m not looking for love. Maybe I need more like a pen-pal or something instead of a dating site.
Dating websites.
Pen pal websites.
I sound so fucking lame doing this. Maybe a dating website is better because it isn’t so stupid. I can be honest and upfront in my profile and say I’m looking to make new friends and I’m not capable of love or whatever.
“One step at a time, Grayson. One fucking step. Just click on one.”
I click the back button, and the dating sites fill the screen again. I shut my eyes and scroll, then double-click.
Snapping my eyes open, I curse when I see I landed on a pornography site somehow. There are two pink outlines of naked women on the upper left and right corners of a webpage. “Live Cams available.”
Not even tempted.
I exit out by clicking the back button, and this time I learn my lesson and keep my eyes open to decide on a site. I click on one, and it takes me to the main page of LoveFocus.com. As I read the ‘about us’, I learn their site offers more than romance, but the chance to build friendships too. I move to the section to fill out my profile and click on the options that interest me and what I’m looking for in a partner or friend.
“Jesus, Grayson. Stop being a bitch. Just fill it out. Who cares if you end up dating someone?” Just the thought has my stomach turning. “If you don’t like dating or the idea of it, why are you doing this? You can meet a friend at a bar. You obviously want more.” I bang my head against the desk, frustrated with how annoyingly indecisive I am.
Deep down, I do want love. Right now, I’m not ready for it. Love is too big and requires too fucking much of me.
Maybe if it’s the right person…
“Do you hear yourself?” I mumble to myself as I click on the link that takes me to my profile page.
There are the basic demographics. Name (not giving my real one). Age. Likes. Dislikes. Blah, blah, blah.
“My name is Isaac Gray,” I speak out loud as I type. It isn’t a lie. Isaac is my middle name and Gray is part of my first name. “I am thirty-two.” I wince, maybe I should lie about that. “No, no lies.” I take a deep breath and click the arrow at the bottom of the page. It takes me to the next series of questions. “A hundred questions? What the hell do you people want from me?” I rub my eyes and decide the hell with it. I’m not doing this. It’s fucking pointless. Who will want to get to know an ex-con, committed for rape—wrongfully—and lives in a commune?
It’s not a regular life.
I stare at the screen again, the questions laughing at me. “Pick up your damn balls and fucking fill it out. There won’t be any hits on your profile anyway.” For some odd reason, that only has my confidence dwindling. I’m a basket case. I don’t know what I want. I want love, but I don’t want it.
I want kids, but I don’t.
I want to try to move on from this loneliness, but in order to do that, I have to learn to trust again. I don’t know how.
I want someone, but I don’t want anyone.
How can I feel all of this at the same time? I’m a contradiction. I want more than being infatuated with the idea of having somebody. Isn’t there a difference? Truly wanting love versus having it and realizing the idea is so much better than the reality?
By my experience, reality loves to fuck you over.
With a quick tap of my fingers against my thigh, I roll over to the computer desk again and pick up my phone. I place an order for delivery for Lighthouse Grill and lick my lips at the thought of sinking my teeth into a BBQ pork sandwich.
If food gets me more excited than this dating profile, what the hell am I doing?
“You’re being a bitch. That’s what you’re doing,” I judge myself and lace my fingers behind my head and read the first question out loud. “What is your most bizarre talent of quirk?” I haven’t thought about talent since elementary school, when I auditioned for the talent show, which I did not win. Apparently, doing magic tricks at eight and failing at them isn’t as special as a baton twirler.
Is it wrong to still hold a sliver of bitterness against Amy Wilson? She dropped that damn baton a hundred times. The only reason why she won was because she wore a tutu and looked cute. I bet if I wore a tutu, I would have gotten strange looks.
Imagining that god awful image, I shake my head and get to the task at hand.
I honestly have no idea what a talent of mine is. A quirk? I don’t know. Am I really that boring? Wanting answers for my first question, I head to the door and open it to see if anyone is coming down the hall. I grin when I see Jaxon.
“Jaxon!” I call to his retreating form, and he turns his head over his shoulder when he hears my voice.
“What’s up, Gray?” he asks, walking backward to meet me at my bedroom door.
I lift my arms above my head and grab onto the door frame. How honest do I want to be with him? I don’t want the guys to give me shit. If Heaven ever finds out
