Chapter 2
Winnie
“And that’s why I never use air dryers in public bathrooms. Just think about it. You’re basically blasting bacteria straight onto your hands.”
I stare at him over the rim of my unmercifully empty wineglass. I need another.
Jason leans back in his chair like he’s just dropped a TED Talk.
He has the smug expression of a man who believes he’s both enlightened and tasked with the duty to enlighten others.
He’s spent the last thirty minutes explaining everything from why rosé is overrated to the psychological benefits of being an only child.
I doubt I’ve said more than seventeen words since the appetizers.
“That’s… a fun fact,” I say politely, glancing around for the waiter. I’d really like another glass of wine.
He nods. “I like a girl who’s into hygiene.”
I force a smile, even as I mentally check the boxes I already know by heart.
References his ex more than once.
Talks over me.
Says I’m “refreshingly normal” like it’s a compliment.
Used the phrase “alpha energy” in reference to himself.
I reach for my water, not quite at a loss for words. I’m a great conversationalist, but I’m honestly afraid of provoking more out of him.
“So, your job,” he continues, like we’ve been mid-conversation instead of him monologuing for an hour. “Kindergarten teacher, right? Must be cute. Kids love you because you’re short.”
“Not just because I’m short,” I say mildly.
He grins. “Feisty. I like that.”
I smile again. It feels like chewing glass and not for the first time on a first date, I consider going to the bathroom and shimmying my way out the window.
“Plus, you’ve got that whole influencer thing. That’s wild. I watched one of your TikToks before our date—my sister follows you. Said you’re funny in a ‘girl next door with baggage’ kind of way.”
I blink. “Wow. High praise.”
“I mean, not everyone can go viral just by being… you know, relatable. That whole ‘average-girl authenticity’ thing you do—people eat it up.”
Fantastic. Somewhere between desperate and marketable.
I never planned on becoming an influencer.
Teaching has always been my passion, and the TikTok thing was an accident—a single viral rant after a truly terrible date.
I’d filmed myself in sweatpants, eating cold leftover pizza and venting about a guy who asked if I “identified as emotionally available.”
It blew up overnight and I was praised for my self-deprecating humor and the real talk that women were afraid to have. So, I made another video that went viral, and then another, and suddenly, I was a heroine for embracing normality.
I’m known as @WinnieTheNotWild and have about seven hundred thousand followers on TikTok and another couple hundred thousand on Instagram. My niche is basically average girl lifestyle with relatable humor and cozy content, or as I like to call it… humble dating realism.
Who knew that you could make a living off this stuff?
I earn around ten grand a month, depending on brand campaigns, affiliate clicks and how funny my videos are.
It’s enough to live on, but I’ll never give up teaching kindergarten because I love it—and well, because five-year-olds don’t care about algorithms. They are pure of heart.
It started with one video about the hellscape that is online dating, but people stuck around for the cozy normalcy of my life. Now I get paid to drink tea on camera while I talk to my pet rabbit, Buttermilk, about the facts of life while we hawk lip balm, homemade granola and soft girl sweaters.
And they pay me to do it!
My phone buzzes in my purse, and I nearly kiss it in gratitude.
“I’m sorry,” I say, and Jason looks completely put out that my gaze dares to leave his. I glance at the text and see it’s only from my brother and non-urgent, but I latch onto the lifeline of the timely text.
I frown hard at the screen. “Oh, shoot. There’s a parent situation and I’m afraid I have to go.” I glance up and try to look sad at the situation, but I know I’m not quite pulling it off. “Such a shame.”
He tilts his head. “Aren’t you off tomorrow?”
“Actually,” I say, my brain scrambling for something that sounds legit, “I do have to work.”
“Kindergarten’s open on the weekend?”
“No, but we’re redecorating for spring,” I say lamely as I stand from the table and heft my purse over my shoulder.
It’s a Chanel, one of the few luxuries I’ve bought for myself since I started earning far more than I could ever hope to earn as a teacher.
“You know how it is. Got to keep the kids visually stimulated. Nothing like papier maché flowers to open the mind.”
Jason stands politely, confusion still etched on his face, but I wave him off with a tight smile. “No, please… stay and finish this lovely meal. I’m really sorry I have to go.”
Before he can reply, I hastily pull out some cash and set it on the table. “It’s the least I can do since I have to cut this short,” I say, not daring to look back. I bolt.
I envision that he’s following me out of the restaurant… on the hunt to convince me to go on a second date.
I’d rather eat slugs.
Dipped in ghost pepper sauce.
While listening to nails scratch down a chalkboard.
I pick up the pace. The night air is brisk, and the door shuts behind me with no Jason. “Thank you, baby Jesus,” I say, offering up the gratitude.
A light drizzle dots my coat and curls the ends of my hair as I walk through the parking lot. I slide into my car, shut the door and let my forehead fall against the steering wheel.
Then I scream. Just once. Loud enough to fog the windshield.
“Why,” I mutter to myself, “do I keep doing this?”
It’s not that I’m expecting magic. I’m not a twenty-year-old romantic. But is a little basic respect and emotional maturity too much to ask? Just once, I’d like to go on a date where the guy asks me a single question about myself that isn’t “So, do you make real money doing that TikTok stuff?”
By the time I get home, my headache has bloomed into a full-on tension migraine.
I pull into my narrow driveway on the fringe of Squirrel Hill.
It isn’t anything fancy—just a squat, sun-faded Craftsman with a crooked mailbox and a porch swing that creaks when it’s windy.
The siding could use a fresh coat of paint, which is next on my project list. The walkway is uneven thanks to the roots of a stubborn old oak tree out front.
Cozy, quiet, tucked just far enough from the buzz of the city to feel like a sanctuary.
In the spring, the wildflowers I never planted still find a way to bloom even if the flowers I actually plant struggle, which now that I think about it, seems to be a metaphor for my life.
The house is small but all mine. Three rooms downstairs, two upstairs, and a sliver of a backyard where Buttermilk occasionally gets supervised zoomies in a large freestanding pen I have for him.
The porch creaks when I step on it, the front door sticks unless you hip-check it, and the crown molding is probably older than I am, but it’s stunning.
“Just once,” I mutter, obviously still bent out of shape over that disaster of a date, “I’d like a man to call me sexy and too hot to handle.”
I walk through the door, kick off my shoes, and I’m immediately met by the dull thump of judgment.
“Buttermilk.” I sigh. “You’re supposed to pretend to care.”
My rabbit—round, fluffy and chronically unimpressed—glares up at me from his pen, where he has plenty of room to hop around but can’t cause destruction in my house.
He’s a Holland Lop, creamy fur with a tiny patch of brown on his nose, and he’s a solid eight pounds of pure disdain.
I adopted him on a whim after another bad date—clearly a recurring theme in my life—and now I couldn’t imagine life without him, despite his hypercritical nature.
I open the gate to give him free rein of the house.
As much as I like to complain about the fur-monster, he’s smart as a whip and trained to go potty in his litter box.
The only reason he stays penned when I’m away is that he gets pissed at me for abandoning him and then chews holes in my furniture to express his feelings.
Buttermilk hops through the open gate and up to his feeding bowl before turning his back to me. He chews hay with aggressive disinterest.
“Yeah, yeah. I’m late. I’m always late.”
I toss a handful of fresh arugula into his dish, then stroke a hand down his soft, floppy ears. He allows it begrudgingly. “You know, you might be the best relationship I’ve ever had.”
He responds by thumping once more, his version of a dismissive snort. “Yeah, I know. Depressing.”
I flip on a lamp, collapse onto the couch, and scroll mindlessly. Two new brand emails—one from my favorite ethical skin care company, Glow & Steady, and another from Morning Mirth Tea, reminding me to post about their new chamomile blend. I sigh, bookmarking those for tomorrow.
A text from my mom flashes. How’d it go? Is this the lawyer or the investment banker?
I ignore it because my answer right now would be self-pitying. What does it really matter, Mom? What does it matter?
Instead, I open the TikTok app. Scroll. Think. Then pause.
An idea strikes for a video. Not about the bad date itself, because I’ve done that on too many occasions. But maybe it’s time to use the power of my platform to give myself some better options.
I glance toward Buttermilk, who’s now nestled into the corner of the couch like a small, furry deity.
I tell him my idea. Yes… I talk to my rabbit. When I’m finished, I ask, “What do you think? Too cringe?”
He thumps twice.
“Helpful.”
I drag my ring light out of the closet and set it up in the living room, clipping my phone in the center.
I check my face in the bathroom mirror. Most of my makeup is intact, but I do wipe a smudge of mascara from beneath one eye.
I might espouse normality in women, but I do have some vain vices, and makeup is one.
I wear it to give myself a slight transformation from average to a tiny bit pretty.
But that’s a mask and it would defeat the nature of my experiment.
I run the water until it’s warm and wash my skin free of makeup.
I slather on hyaluronic acid and moisturizer, then put some balm on my lips.
I stare at my fresh-faced reflection, quietly praising my best features.
Shoulder-length warm brown hair with natural golden highlights that I usually wear in a scrunchie while teaching, and hazel eyes that seem to shift from green to gold.
“Let’s do this,” I say, glancing at Buttermilk as I walk back to the couch. He’s sound asleep, back little thumper leg twitching as if he’s running from a fox in his dream.
I settle into the cushions, turn on the ring light and hit record.
“Hey, Pittsburgh besties… grab a cup of tea, pet something soft, and mentally prepare yourselves, because I’ve got another dating disaster for the archives.”
I reach over and pull a sleeping Buttermilk onto my lap. He’s strangely docile, happily curling into me. I stroke his fur for courage.
“Tonight’s date? Buckle up. He spent thirty minutes explaining the microbiology of public restrooms. Thirty. Minutes. I now know more about hand dryers than a Dyson engineer.”
I give the camera a long, impassive stare.
“He also called me ‘refreshingly average’—which I’m pretty sure was meant as a compliment?—and referenced his ex seven times. I counted. It was like she was on the date with us. But invisible. And judging me.”
I pause for dramatic effect, smoothing Buttermilk’s ears like I’m trying to stay emotionally grounded.
“And the kicker? This all happened before dessert. I didn’t even get to eat my crème br?lée. Which feels criminal.”
Another beat. Then I lean in.
“Here’s what I’m thinking… maybe I’ve been aiming too high. Looking for a unicorn when I should be out here searching for, like… one decent man who knows how to shut up about bacteria and doesn’t use the phrase ‘my ex and I’ like it’s punctuation.”
I sigh dramatically. “I’ve dated lawyers, doctors and bankers. I’m talking men who are successful and seem to be what a woman wants. But… it’s not panning out for me. Maybe it’s time for an experiment.”
I square my shoulders, voice stronger and chin lifted in abject defiance of the dating game.
“Thirty days of dating to find a normal guy. Someone… refreshingly average like me, apparently. He doesn’t have to be perfect.
He just has to not make me want to crawl out a restaurant’s bathroom window.
And I’m guessing that this platform is big enough to open my dating pool.
So, I’m appealing to all you besties… help a girl out. Let’s see if he exists.”
I stop the recording and hit post. No edits. No filters. No plan. And certainly no changing my mind. Now that it’s out there, I’m committed to following through.
I slouch into the cushions with Buttermilk stretching against my stomach, warm and heavy, like an annoyed hot water bottle.
“You think that’ll do it?” I ask him, stroking his soft fur.
He yawns, unimpressed, and closes his eyes again. Typical.
I close mine too and pretend none of it matters.
Even though it does.
So much more than I’d like to admit.
I want to find my happily ever after but it’s proving to be almost impossible, and I’m not sure why.