“Nope,” Charlotte says. “Eli works with Austin.”
Exactly. I’d see Austin all the time. “Is that so bad?”
“Bad. Very bad. Let’s exclude some friends so you’re not tempted.”
We make adjustments in settings to eliminate certain mutuals and resume the process. An older man with chestnut hair and light-brown eyes captures my attention. He’s into biographies and camping.
“Oh my God. Matthew is a sleep doctor. I bet he’s great at napping.”
Charlotte tsks and points her wine glass at me. “I need to address something. Your three picks all have something you associate with Austin.”
Silent, I slip Matthew a rock, and slide to the next person.
“I saw that.”
“And? I’m trying to build upon what I like.”
“Yes, you’re building a monument to Austin.” She commandeers the mouse. “Let’s find some variety. You need a buffet, Chloe. Load your plate with things besides basic chicken.”
I laugh. “Did you just call Austin basic?” He’s anything but basic. “In the poultry world, he’s Granny Mae’s famous fried chicken.” And I’ll never get to taste him. Now, I’ve sunk deeper into the melancholy phase. “I should give up and move home.”
“What? No way.”
“Nothing is going according to plan.”
“Sometimes you have to make a new plan.”
If only it were that easy. I didn’t plan to fall for a friend who doesn’t feel the same.
“Be right back,” I say.
I scoot away from the desk and bolt toward the bathroom, so Charlotte can’t see the stupid tears welling in my eyes. The hallway teeter-totters as I sway on what have morphed into Jell-O legs. I swing open the door, rest my back against the wood, and close my eyes. I’m not sure why this is freaking me out so much. It would be nice to have someone be my better half. The hand-holding. The inside jokes. Couple stuff.
It’s just that I always pictured that someone as Austin.
Kurt Vonnegut said, “History is merely a list of surprises. It can only prepare us to be surprised yet again.” Well, imagine my surprise to see I am not in the bathroom when I open my eyes. I’m in Austin’s room. I’ve never actually been in here before. It always seemed too personal.
His guitar rests in the corner, and on his organized bookshelf is the gift I made him for Christmas. A pottery dish to hold his picks. I try not to squee aloud. His fawn-colored walls are decorated with abstract art, but what’s really grabbed my attention is the headboard of his king-sized bed. It’s a masculine dark oak with a cutout below the curve of wood. And hanging from that cutout...are steel handcuffs.
In my inebriated state, am I seeing things? I blink a few times. I am not.
I tiptoe closer, and yep, it’s handcuffs.
He’s a chef, not a police officer. So unless he’s trying to fix a sleep-walking problem, Austin is kinky. I can’t even with this information. Am I into that? My body’s reaction says I am. It’s hot. And now I’m hot. And trespassing. Maybe he’ll arrest me. Okay, I need to get out of here.
I inch open the door, peek out, and dart across the hall to where I should’ve been all along. After splashing cool water on my now-red face, I return to the living room.
Charlotte is where I left her, typing away on the keyboard. “I’ve decided, we gotta do the exact opposite of Austin,” she says.
“Terrible and boring?”
“This is why you’re single. No, I mean, doesn’t play guitar at parties in his beanie. Isn’t a chef.” Doesn’t handcuff you to the bed. “Like, your guy listens to hip-hop and works in an office.”
“Sounds terrible and boring to me.”
“Well, I’ve messaged a half dozen who fit the description already, while you were in the bathroom.” She stands. “Let’s put the app on your phone and find more food.”
For whatever reason, while we forage the refrigerator, I don’t disclose my discovery in Austin’s bedroom. Once the app is downloaded, it’s decided I’m staying the night so we can continue our efforts. We settle on the couch and keep swiping through candidates until there’s no one left.
“Now, we wait,” Charlotte says. “First guy that messages back is the one you’ll go out with, no matter what.”
“Okay.”
“It’s like the universe decides that way. Right?” She holds up her pinkie. “Pinkie swear.”
On the third try, my finger loops around hers, and I agree.
Drinking too many glasses of wine means you have to deal with your horrible choices the next morning. Hazy memories of pinkies and handcuffs cloud my pounding head as I untangle myself from the blanket swaddling me on the coach. I sit up and rub my temples to ease the ache. My phone makes an annoying vibration against the coffee table every few minutes.
A notification from FriendsOfFriends informs me I have ten messages waiting. My curiosity leads me to the app. No matter what’s there, or how horrified I am at my drunken choices, I know you can’t break a pinkie swear. Please, let the universe have been kind.
Lucky for me, the first message in my inbox is not terrible. Or boring.
“Oh,” I murmur when I see the dark-haired, blue-eyed man smiling in the little circle.
His name is Finn, and I don’t even remember giving him a rock. Before I read his message, I look him up to refresh my memory and dang, but the Drunk C’s have amazing taste in hot bodies.
“Hi,” his simple message reads.
Okay. Short and sweet. It’s charming.
I take a deep breath and write back “Hey! Nice to meet you!” but immediately erase it. The exclamation points make me seem too excited.
I try again. “What’s up?”
Ugh. I erase that too. What if he says his dick? He may be ungodly attractive, but that doesn’t mean he’s not a pervert. Granny Mae has forwarded me a few articles about the scourge of internet peen pics.
After overanalyzing and erasing a few more responses, I finally type back, “Hi.”
While I wait for a response, I scroll through the remaining messages,
