Chapter 6
The Dim sum was better with the ginger sauce.
And everything was amazing.
The next morning, I’ve got a Chinese food hangover, but I’m feeling empowered to cross something off my list.
I grab my journal and a pencil and scan down to the list under number eight.
I want to do the things that scare me.
Have a meal by myself. In public.
Strike up a conversation with a stranger.
Try new foods I’ve never had or can’t pronounce.
Download dating app.
I hover my pencil over “Strike up a conversation with a stranger” because of my surreal chat with Miles.
I decide against crossing it off because semi-nude conversations in hedges don’t count. It wasn’t intentional, after all.
But the last one—“Download dating app.”
Hmm.
There’s nothing on this list about actually using it. Download it and cross it off.
Boom. Done.
I navigate to the App store and find the little icon with two cartoon hearts woven together—Matched—then click the button to download it.
And then I stare at it. My finger hovers over the icon, and I’m curiously aware that if I tap on this tiny little square, I’ll open up a whole new semi-scary, semi-exciting world.
Is this really how people date these days?
Never in a million years did I think I’d be back in the dating pool. I haven’t looked at another man with any kind of attraction
or interest for over twenty years. I pledged myself to my husband, and that was that. Because I’m a promise keeper.
John, however, is not.
In an okay, fine moment, I quickly tap on the icon. My heart races as the app opens, the two little animated hearts dancing while a cute,
jaunty song plays.
I enter the login info that Minnie sent, and when I hit Done, the edges of the screen fold over into a heart, then reopen
to my profile.
There’s a photo of me laughing, looking away from the camera. I’ve never seen the image, but based on what I’m wearing, I
know it was taken the day of Minnie’s college graduation. I was just so proud of her. It’s a nice photo.
I look happy.
Underneath, it says:
Claire—flirty, fun, and fabulous 40-something
“Oh geez,” I groan.
Starting over. Looking to make new friends and explore my new city.
One rule: No boring dates!
No boring dates.
Huh. I like it.
I have to hand it to my daughter—she’s doing everything she can to push me out of my comfort zone.
I click around on my phone for a few minutes, then find a way to scroll through images of men on the app. And as I do, I’m overcome with a strange sense of dread.
It feels so . . . weird.
For years, I taught Minnie not to go anywhere with a stranger, and now I’m swiping right to go out with one? On purpose?
My phone pings, and a message pops up on the screen.
Rob has hearted your profile.
“Uh. Okay, Rob.”
What am I supposed to do now? Like his profile back?
I click on his photo.
Rob—late 40s, looking for adventure
Outdoor enthusiast
I frown. Outdoor enthusiast?
A message pops up on the screen.
Rob: Hi Claire! You’re gorgeous! We should go out and see if we have anything in common! I can promise our date won’t be
boring! ??
So! Many! Exclamation points!
Without responding, I click the phone off and tuck it away. I’ll think about that later.
Today, I have other plans.
Today, I’m going to go find a job.
It’s number one on my list, and I haven’t really thought about it yet.
Selling the house set me up to be able to do what I’m doing—but not forever. Plus, I’m not naive enough to think that I can just live off that with no income. It’d be gone in six months.
I need to find something. Something for me. Something that fits like a glove.
I always thought I’d end up in advertising, like John. However, my creativity, he reasoned, would be put to better use planning
charity functions and dinners, serving on boards, and doing anything I could to keep myself busy. And I was good at those
things, even if they weren’t what I’d originally planned—or wanted—to do.
Maybe that’s where I’ll start.
Last night, MingHin’s Dim sum and I searched the job sites for ideas. While I do have a degree in communications, the last
time I had a paying job I was in college working at the library.
It seems everything about my degree is outdated as well.
When I was in school, social media marketing was not a thing. Heck, social media wasn’t a thing.
I’d been a sounding board for John and had even been a frequent idea generator for some of his most successful ad campaigns,
but I can hardly put “helped my husband come up with ideas” on my résumé. And while a younger version of me romanticized the
idea of taking control of a room full of ad execs in my slick black power suit, that life doesn’t appeal to me anymore.
Who do I want to be? And shouldn’t I know this by now?
I won’t figure it all out today. I’m determined not to let anything deter me. For now, I just need a job.
I made a list of places within walking distance, and I’m starting with those first. Walking to work, at least in nice weather,
sounds sort of dreamy. And very much a perk of living in the city.
I drove everywhere in Colorado. Things were spread out, making walking anywhere nearly impossible.
I get dressed—a simple pair of black chinos with a lightweight sweater and a black jacket that hits me at mid-thigh.
One of the benefits of having wealthy friends all these years is that one of them, Dana, taught me how to accessorize.
Never mind that I don’t live a wealthy life anymore—I can still look put together.
At least until everything I own goes out of style.
Claire 2.0 is a little more casual than Colorado Claire, and I think I like it.
I fix my hair, using a healthy dose of root cover-up, apply my makeup, then give myself a quick once-over. I walk over to
the full-length mirror hanging next to the door of my bedroom and snap a full-body photo and send it to Minnie.
Claire: Heading out to find a job! Think anyone will hire an experienced woman with no work history?
Minnie: Heck yeah! They’d be crazy not to!
Thank God for my daughter. I can’t rant about her father or drag her into the depressing parts of starting over, but she’s
an excellent cheerleader.
And currently my only friend.
In return, she sends me a selfie of her standing outside a gorgeous old brick building at Oxford.
Minnie: Do you believe I get to go to class here?
I smile and tap the photo.
Claire: That is stunning, and so are you! Have an amazing day!
I tuck the phone away, grab my bag, keys, and the giant sugar cookies I baked this morning, and walk outside. I pull the door
shut behind me, and yep.
It locks.
Across the courtyard, Lorraine stands. “Claire!” She waves and rushes toward me, holding up her phone like she’s recording
something. I look around the courtyard and behind me, wondering why in the world she’s putting me in her video.
“This is my neighbor Claire,” Lorraine says to the screen. “Smile and wave!”
I do as I’m told with an “Uh, hi!” unsure how to politely excuse myself because I really don’t need to be in on this call
to her grandkids or whoever she’s talking to.
Lorraine smiles at the screen, holding it a little closer. “For any gentlemen out there, Claire is recently divorced, new
to the city, and looking for a good time.”
“What the . . . ?!”
“Not that kind of good time,” she says, holding the phone closer. “I just meant you want to explore Chicago.” Then, back to the screen,
“In case any handsome fellas out there want to be her tour guide.”
She pans the phone at me, up and down. “Isn’t she adorable?!”
“Lorraine,” I hiss. “Who are you talking to?”
“YouTube,” she says gleefully.
My frown deepens. “Who are you really talking to?”
“I told you.” She flips the phone around so I can see the screen. “Smile! We’re live!”
I stare at her phone, slack-jawed. “Live?!”
“Yes, I have a channel,” she says, turning it back around.
A serial dater who owns the building and an elderly YouTuber. Who am I going to meet next—a brother and sister who lead a
soul funk band? A quirky child prodigy attending Columbia at age twelve? This building could be a half-hour sitcom.
“What are those?” She nods down at the container I’m holding.
“Oh, I, uh, baked cookies,” I say.
“You bake?”
I nod. “Helps relieve stress.”
She looks at the screen. “And she bakes!” She flips it to face me, and I smile weakly, holding up the cookies.
“Ta-da,” I manage with a shrug.
What am I doing?
“I have to go,” I say. “I’m going to find a job.”
Lorraine beams. “Oh! Maybe someone on my channel can help you find a job!”
“Oh! I mean . . . sure? Maybe?” I hold up a hand and wave to who I’m envisioning are a handful of people watching this video,
then smile at Lorraine. “Have a good day!”
“You too! Keep us posted on the job hunt!”
As she turns around and starts back toward the bench nearest her apartment, I hear her say, “If you’re interested in my sweet
new neighbor, just send me a message . . .”
I smile. I like Lorraine. Even if I might need to establish a stronger boundary.
As I walk over to Miles’s door, I’m struck with an unexpected wave of nerves. Why am I nervous?
Also, why did I bake him cookies?
He’s going to think I’m weird.
Though . . . last night probably already solidified that.
He’s a very good-looking guy. The first one I’ve even noticed since my divorce was final nine months ago. Maybe subconsciously,
I want him to see me without the dumpling bags and the green face. Maybe I want to give a better second impression to make
up for the nightmare of the first.
But that’s ridiculous. From what I’ve seen, he could be dating between two and four different people at the same time.
What do I care what this man thinks of me or the way I look?
Then, suddenly, the door of his apartment opens, and Miles appears. He’s wearing jeans, a dark green henley, and an expression
that seems to ask what I’m doing out here.
I never knocked on the door.