2 Gemma
M y resolve to stay single and focus on myself lasts for two weeks, until I walk in on James making out with one of my coworkers in the printer room.
She’s mostly covered by him, but even so, I recognize Daphne Smith right away because, with her five-foot-eight height and long golden locks, she’s a total Greek goddess of a human being who looks like she could be on Bachelor in Paradise . James has her pushed up against the far side wall, in a corner that’s out of the overhead security camera’s field of view, a fact I know because James and I have made out before in that very spot.
My stomach drops, and I freeze from the sheer shock of it all. The three of us are alone in the small space, and James and Daphne would have totally noticed me walking in if they hadn’t been so disgustingly all over each other. Thankfully, they both still have their clothes on, but from the noises they’re making, they may as well be naked. Sultry moans escape from Daphne’s mouth, while James sounds like a cross between a caveman and a porn star.
I try to remember if he always sounded like that. If he did, I must have gotten used to it in my seven years of dating him. Suddenly, I feel very, very sorry for Past Gemma. And not only because she just walked in on her ex.
Belatedly, I turn around, deciding to get the papers I printed later. But before I can leave the room, the door opens, revealing Shane, one of my other coworkers.
Fuck.
Three things happen, in quick succession.
“Oh hey, Gemma,” Shane says. “Is the printer jammed—”
James yells, “Shit!”
“Oh God!” Shane cries out, covering his eyes.
James and Daphne jump apart, and I mentally scream.
“What the fuck, Gemma?” exclaims James. “Have you been watching us this entire time?”
I raise my eyebrows. So now he decides to acknowledge my existence. Trying my best to avoid his gaze, I peer back at Daphne, instead. Her face is flushed, and she’s glaring at me with utter contempt in her eyes. I can’t say I blame her. In this one horrible moment, my coworker, my ex, and my ex’s new… something all stare at me, eyes wide with confusion and disbelief.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say, trying to ignore the heat burning up my cheeks. “I was just trying to get some printouts. Speaking of which, excuse me!”
Zeroing in on the printer like a horse with blinders, I rush in, grab the still-warm papers from the tray, and dash out before anyone else can say anything. On the off chance that James will chase me down, I speed into the elevator and repeatedly hit close.
The doors mercifully shut without incident, and I press the button for the first floor. In the sudden quiet, I feel numb all over as I lean against the back wall of the elevator. The world spins, and when I look down at my hands, it takes me a moment to register that yes, those are my hands that have accidentally crumpled up the papers I needed for work.
I sigh. I’ll have to reprint those later.
Part of me wants to report James and Daphne to HR, but I don’t want to be that person. Plus, the last thing I want to do is deal with the investigations that’ll inevitably ensue from it.
How did I see them? Well, that’s a funny story…
I’d be worried about Shane exposing us all, but James, being James, probably has that department covered. Knowing him, he’s probably bribing the poor—or lucky?—guy with front-row tickets to a 49ers game right now. Tickets that James will easily get, thanks to Mom and Dad.
A part of me can’t believe I ever dated this man. And for so long, too. But then I remember all the adventures we had around the city. The countless nights we spent playing video games and binge-watching TV. All the unmet whispered promises of forever love and—okay, fine—good sex.
I’m trembling head to toe by the time the elevator doors reopen. Instead of going back up to the fifth floor, I exit the elevator and walk to the café. Since it’s around ten a.m., it’s mostly empty except for a handful of people eating a pastry or grabbing coffee to take back up.
I sit at one of the high tables. And then, pressing my palms into my eyes, I let out a shuddering breath.
Seven years of thinking I’ve met my perfect person. Seven years of thinking I had it all figured it out. All culminating in an extremely awkward encounter in the printer room , where he’s eagerly making out with another woman a couple of weeks after he upended my life.
I open up my phone and scroll up to a text that Kiara sent a few days ago with links to different dating apps. She’s been encouraging me to go out and meet new people, telling me I should have some fun since I’m a “free woman” now. I previously said no, because I didn’t think I was ready yet.
And I’m still definitely not ready to date or anything like that now. But after seeing James with Daphne today, I want to get drunk and meet a bunch of hot people. Ones that don’t make weird caveman noises.
Thankfully, when I’m back at my desk, everyone’s working again. I can’t see James’s face from where his desk is on the opposite side of the room, but I see him hunched over his computer. Daphne and Shane are also at their respective desks, typing away as if absolutely nothing happened twenty minutes ago. What a bizarre day.
I send the documents I need to the printer again, and, while waiting for everything to print, I download a few dating apps. But once they’ve finished loading, I can’t bring myself to open a single one.
Dating apps are daunting, especially since I know most people my age have already been on and off them. Meanwhile, I haven’t used any before now, to the extent that whenever someone writes into Dear Karl asking for advice on dating apps, I automatically forward the question to another writer who’s used them before. I wasn’t old enough to use them when they first became popular, and in college, I met people in person, like Celeste and James.
Given my track record, maybe I’m better off letting an app help me meet someone.
I end up leaving the office later than I intended to, mainly because I throw myself deep into work to avoid thinking about my own shit show of a romantic life. I’m still reading long email chains I’m cc’d on as I ride the train back to my friends’ apartment.
Things seem to be progressing slower than expected, as they often do in this industry due to the usual concoction of staff shortages, declining funds, and bureaucracy, so I have no idea who the mysterious photographer Kiara mentioned is yet. I’m not even remotely delusional enough to hope that the photographer they pair me up with will like other women, like Val had jokingly hoped. But it’ll be nice to meet and spend time with someone new, even just platonically. I love Val and Kiara, but after two weeks of living with them, I’m tired of third wheeling. Hopefully the photographer and I can at the very least bond over memories of our alma mater.
Even if she does happen to be queer, I’m not sure if I’ll even have the bandwidth to start anything because the stakes, as they often are these days, are high. According to Evelyn’s emails, if we don’t generate enough clicks or print sales in the next quarter, there’s a good possibility that our parent company will rebrand the magazine altogether to focus on more profitable sectors like tech or real estate. Evelyn hasn’t explicitly said what’ll happen to us local lifestyle writers if and when this kind of rebranding happens, but I can guess the outcome. And because I don’t know anything about computers or houses, I’ll be out of a job.
Since everyone—or at least, a decent amount of people—loves love, Evelyn is hoping a big project like “Modern Love in Focus” will catch a lot of attention and will generate the necessary numbers to save our section. And I hope so, too, because I love my job. And the last thing I need right now on top of all the other turmoil I already have going on in my life is unemployment.
Despite the pressure, I’m excited for this project. “Modern Love in Focus,” as Evelyn pitched it, will feature interviews with San Franciscan couples of three different generations, starting from college students to senior citizens, about their various experiences with love. The printed magazine will have interview transcripts and gorgeous portraits of the subjects, while the digital edition will have video recordings of the interviews. It’s a cute, dream-come-true project that’s right up my alley. The biggest opportunity I’ve ever had at Horizon . I make a mental note to thank Evelyn for assigning it to me.
By the time I get off the train, I’m so stoked about the project that it doesn’t even bother me that my own personal life is a mess right now. If anything, focusing on other people’s love lives sounds like an excellent distraction from my own.
Val and Kiara’s apartment has a mostly open-plan layout, so the front door directly leads into not only the kitchen, but also the living room and Val’s office space area in the far-right corner. The only walled-off areas are the single bathroom and my friends’ bedroom, so when I step through the front door, I make direct eye contact with Val, who looks up from her multiple computer monitors.
“Hey,” she says. “Missed you at lunch today. Everything all right?”
I only then realize I’d been so determined to distract myself from what happened this morning that I’d totally skipped lunch. As if on cue, my stomach growls.
“Not really,” I reply. “But I’ll tell you the full story later.”
“’Kay.”
Val goes back to her game, leaving me to marvel at her current setup. My friend is playing a first-person shooter game on one screen while also watching what looks like Jujutsu Kaisen , an anime, on the other. A stack of pizza boxes is precariously perched on the side table next to her computer.
It’s a miracle that Kiara hasn’t murdered her yet. I look around and don’t see any signs that she came back to the apartment after work yet. She must be out getting dinner with some of her other friends today. Out of the three of us, Kiara is the social butterfly, having so many different friend groups that it’s hard for me to keep track.
As I watch, Burrito, their ginger cat, gets ready to pounce on the boxes.
“Val,” I say. “Burrito is—”
“Yikes, got him!” Val pauses her game to scoop the cat up into her arms, just as he tries to jump. “Oh no, you don’t! Nice try, bichito .”
Burrito, at five years old, is now a massive male cat. But when my friends first got him, he was “about the size of a burrito.” Thus, the name.
“Plus, we read this article once about this cat named Burrito who got tragically eaten by a Florida man’s pet python,” Val also told me. “Kiara named our Burrito in honor of that Burrito, too. So that in this life, Burrito the Cat can live a long, happy life.”
I personally love both reasons because they’re very much Val and Kiara.
Val sets Burrito back down on the ground and says, “There’s still some pizza left if you want some. I got carried away and ordered too much.”
“Thanks.” After gladly grabbing a slice of pepperoni, I sit on Clementine to eat. The excitement I felt on the train is gone now, and without the adrenaline, I feel disconnected from my body. I can barely taste anything. But my hands are visibly shaking from fatigue and hunger, and it feels like I have a gaping hole in my stomach. So I grab another piece.
When I finish eating, I gently nudge Burrito aside to grab my toiletries and pajamas from my box in the corner of the room.
Like many apartments in San Francisco, my friends’ place is expensive yet tiny, and their closets were already full with their own stuff. So I got myself a new, dry box where I could temporarily store my things. Sure, living out of a literal box gets annoying sometimes, but I haven’t found any real reason to complain yet, especially since my friends are letting me stay at their place rent-free. I tried paying them, but Kiara and Val wouldn’t allow it.
“Collecting rent from someone who’s already at rock bottom is what a predatory landlord does,” Kiara had said. “And that’s not who we are at all. Besides, you don’t even have your own room! Just a couch. Save the money for the deposit at your new place. We already paid rent for the month of November anyway, so if you want to, you can pay us whatever you can manage next month, if you haven’t found somewhere else to live by then.”
I get in the shower and make the water as hot as I can without burning myself. Only then does some of the numbness go away. By the time I get into my pajamas, my entire body is flushed red from the heat, but in a way that actually feels nice.
I resolve to not tell my friends about today. At least, not yet. I only just started feeling normal again. I don’t want to completely shatter when I try to tell them about what I saw at work. Everything’s still so raw.
Instead, when Kiara comes back, I announce, “So I downloaded dating apps. I’ve decided to try casual dating.”
“Yay!” Kiara exclaims, at the same time Val asks, “You what ? And how’s that going?”
“Oh, um, I haven’t tried any of them yet.” I’m taken aback, since I’d assumed both Kiara and Val wanted me to get out there and meet new people.
“Wait, I thought you wanted me to date around,” I say to Val. “Since you said that thing about the hot photographer.”
“I do, but I was talking more in terms of in-person hookups. Dating apps … however.” She winces. “Let’s just say you’re in for a wild ride.”
I don’t know what she means until I finish making my profile and start swiping on the first app. For the first hour or so, it’s fun. I select the setting to show me people of all genders, and I have fun flipping through everyone’s profiles. Then, I try another app, marveling at the similarities to and differences from the previous one.
By the time my friends retire into their bedroom, though, my fingers hurt. My vision is blurry. Head pounding, I flip through the people I’ve already matched with. Some have already sent me messages, but most of them are unfortunately very cringey. I openly mentioned I’m bi on my profile, which seemed like a good idea at the time. But I deeply regret it now, since a good chunk of the messages in my inbox are asking about threesomes.
I’m not necessarily opposed to threesomes, and maybe if I were more adventurous or still in my early twenties, I’d actually have joined one. But there’s something very icky about the fact that people just assumed I was into threesomes because I’m bisexual, like my sexuality is a porn category and not intrinsically part of my identity.
Somehow, being bi makes dating apps worse. Sure, I get to flip through hot people of multiple genders, but that doesn’t necessarily mean I get more quality matches.
With a frustrated growl, I toss my phone to the opposite side of the couch. Is this really what modern technology has come to? All these innovations and we still haven’t found a more effective way to meet people? No wonder we get so many questions about online dating on our advice column.
I’m about to call it a night when my phone buzzes. It’s a notification from one of the apps. Most of the messages that aren’t directly asking for a threesome are just “hey” or “how’s it going?” but this one looks promising.
Hey, love your smile , it reads. Would like to take you out for drinks sometime if you’re down? The guy’s name is Craig, and I’m so tempted to crack a joke about Craigslist in my reply. But I don’t, of course.
I scroll through his profile. He’s a redhead, five feet ten, and works in tech, like many other guys do in the area. His pictures tell me that he likes football, has a good mix of guy and girl friends, and has a cute but generic Labrador retriever.
I shoot him a reply, Hey, Craig! How’s your night going? I’d love to meet up sometime. When are you available this week?
His reply is almost instant. How about Saturday?
Sure! Here’s my number.
A few seconds later, I get a text from an unknown number.
Hey, beautiful , it says.
Okay , I think. A little direct, but not the worst first text I could have gotten.
Hey! I type. After a moment of hesitation, I add on a smiley face before I press send.
And then, Craig sends me a picture of his dick.
When I open the message, it takes me a few seconds to even process what I’m seeing. I’m no stranger to dicks, but the sheer ridiculousness of my current pink-and-hairy situation renders me speechless. My day keeps getting more and more ridiculous.
I text my friends, I think I got my first dick pic.
The door to my friends’ bedroom immediately slams open.
Kiara storms out first, wearing the satin scarf she wraps over her hair whenever she goes to bed. “Oh my God . Are you serious?”
“Yup,” I reply. “I’d show you, but I know how you feel about dicks.”
Kiara makes a gagging sound, like she’s about to throw up. “Yeah, no, please don’t.”
Val follows Kiara, shaking her head. “Cis men can be so immature sometimes. A dick pic, really? In this day and age? This is why I don’t date them anymore.”
We all laugh. Before Kiara and I met Val, she used to date men. Or, as she said once, “play video games with them and then end up fucking.” She doesn’t consider herself bi like me, though. Just a late bloomer lesbian that was previously yet another victim of comp het. Now, as a long-running joke, she likes to say, “This is why I don’t date men anymore,” whenever she sees a guy doing something stupid.
“I don’t think I’m cut out for dating apps,” I bemoan as my friends sit down next to me on Clementine.
Kiara looks down at her smartwatch. “Well, it’s been less than six hours since you downloaded them! You’re totally valid for wanting to quit after what happened with Craig, but maybe try going on at least one date? With someone else, of course. Not Craig.”
“No shade if you do decide to go with Craig, though. If you liked what you saw,” Val adds jokingly. “But also, as an IT professional, I must warn you that the dick pic he sent might not even be his. It could be a random image he found on Google. Or worse, an AI-generated one. Those are getting more and more realistic by the day.”
Kiara shrieks, and we all laugh.
“Maybe I should try meeting people out in the wild, first,” I say. “So far, dating apps don’t seem like they’re for me.”
“That’s a great idea,” Kiara replies. “We’re free tomorrow night, aren’t we, babe? Since it’ll be a Thursday. Why don’t we all go out to a bar or something?”
“Sure, sounds good,” Val says. “Gemma, do you know anywhere that’s still doing those spiced fall cocktails? I’ve been getting my annual pumpkin spice latte craving but haven’t gotten the chance to get one yet this year since I hardly ever go out.”
Kiara and I snicker as we look at each other. Val likes making fun of what she says are “basic bitch” things, but the one thing she can never resist is a good pumpkin spice latte. Or PSL-inspired cocktails. And of course, given what I do for a living, she asks me for recs on where to get one every year.
I smile. “I know just the place!”