Chapter 10 Swiping #2
I let the app autocorrect “slapshot” to “slaphot,” because honestly, that’s probably closer to what would happen. I hesitate.
This is the point where you’re supposed to say “Sure, let’s meet up,” or, if you have boundaries, “How about coffee first?”
Instead, I leave him on read.
There’s a pause, maybe a minute, then he adds, “Or we could just talk about our feelings and cry. I’m emotionally available, fucker.”
I want to say, “You don’t want my feelings,” but instead I close the chat, go back to the endless sea of faces.
After three more swipes, there’s a new match: “Jay,” a nurse at Harborview.
His profile pic is him in scrubs, arms crossed, with a smile so sincere it almost hurts to look at.
His opener: “Hey. You have a nice smile. Sorry if that’s forward.”
I stare at the message for a solid thirty seconds. It’s not a line, not a trap, not even a disguised sexual advance. It’s just… nice.
I try to write something back but the words won’t line up. I force out: “Thanks. Are you always this polite or do you have a dark side?”
He types, “Depends. You want to hear my worst hospital story or my best?”
I answer, “Worst, always.”
He tells me a story about a guy who tried to superglue a cut on his own hand and ended up in surgery.
I try to picture myself sitting across from Jay at a bar, talking about gross medical stories, pretending I’m interested, maybe even letting myself feel it.
But the whole time I’m reading, my brain keeps doing this thing where it splices in the memory of Darius in the Ballard gym, arms glistening with sweat, voice low and brutal, “Push.”
I think of the steam room, the way he looked at me, the shower, the raw hunger in his face before he slammed the wall and shut it down.
I shake my head. Out loud, to no one, I mutter, “You absolute dumbass.”
The next time the phone pings, it’s the marine biologist again, asking if I want to meet up at Volunteer Park for a “low-stakes walk.”
I type “sure,” then delete it. Type “sounds good,” then delete that too.
I just let the message sit. I wonder if she’ll even notice if I don’t reply.
Back in the app, there’s a flash of “Super Like,” which is a bullshit feature, but I check it anyway.
It’s a woman in her thirties, profile photo with a dog, and her bio says “here for fun, not the drama.”
I want to reply: “You’re in the wrong fucking city, then,” but I don’t.
Instead, I swipe until my thumb is sore, every new face a lottery ticket I know won’t cash.
Somewhere in the middle of this, my brain serves up another Darius flashback, unprompted, me on the bench, watching him skate the crease, the way his jersey hung off his shoulders, the sweat stains at the collar, the casual violence of how he moved.
I remember the time he blocked a slap shot with his face, didn’t even flinch, just spit blood onto the ice and told the trainer to “do it quick.”
I wonder if he ever thought about me. I mean, really thought about me, or if it was always just about the game.
I click on the Grindr icon, open it, and brace for the flood of messages.
It’s exactly as bad as I remember, a wall of headless torsos, four guys with Eagles logos, one dude who only sends photos of his dog.
I get a message within ten seconds: “u masc?”
I type, “Masc as a flavor, not a gender. Is that a dealbreaker?”
The guy responds, “Lol no, u look hot. Wanna hang?”
I don’t answer. I scroll the grid, recognize two faces from the gym, one from the rink, and a third who I think once delivered my Postmates.
I close the app. I open Tinder again. The nurse, Jay, has written another message, “I’m off Friday. Want to grab a coffee?”
I type, “Maybe. Let’s see how the week goes.”
The second I send it, I regret it. It sounds like I’m too busy, which is a lie. The truth is I just want to be wanted by someone who doesn’t exist.
I toss the phone onto the coffee table.
It bounces, lands next to the red therapy receipt and the bottle of Advil that’s almost empty. I stare at the ceiling, which has a crack running straight from the smoke detector to the far wall.
I trace it with my eyes, over and over.
I remember the last time I saw Darius, the way he held the door for me at the gym, the way his hand landed on my shoulder, heavy and deliberate.
How for a split second I thought he’d say something real, but he just walked away.
I wonder what it would take to forget. I wonder if it’s even possible.
And then the thought I always come back to, the one that kills it every time: He has Nia. He's straight.
Whatever I saw in that shower, whatever I felt, it's not what I want it to be. He's not available, not like that. Not for me. I need to stop.
The phone buzzes again. I ignore it.
For a while, I just lie there, the blue light of the phone blinking in my periphery, a metronome of disappointment.
I try to picture myself at dinner with Jay, or walking the park with the marine biologist, or even just getting a drink with Aaron the tattoo bartender.
I try to make myself care.
But all my brain wants is to play the old tape. The shower. The hand on my chest. The way he said “Ash” instead of “Rosen,” like it mattered.
I close my eyes, try to will the thought away.
It doesn’t go.
I grab the phone, open the messages, hover over Jay’s chat, then over the marine biologist, then finally over the contacts, thumb trembling.
I scroll to Darius.
I stare at the name for a long time. I want to type something, anything, but my hands won’t do it.
Instead, I put the phone face down, push myself up off the floor, and shuffle to the bathroom.
I look in the mirror. I look tired, older, like I’ve aged a year in a week. There’s a bruise blooming under my jaw, the legacy of a puck to the chin from last practice.
The stubble is patchy, a reminder that I never got the “rugged man” gene.
I splash cold water on my face, stare at myself until the image blurs.
Back in the living room, the phone is still buzzing. I ignore it.
I climb onto the couch, pull a blanket over my head, and hope that when I wake up, the world will be reset.
It won’t be. I know that.
But for now, I can pretend.
For now, I can swipe right on oblivion, over and over, until the phone dies or I do.
Either way, it’s better than the alternative.
Which is remembering.
———
The first hour after midnight is the hungriest.
Every part of me wants something, salt, sleep, the sound of someone else breathing in the room, but I make do with the aftertaste of Advil and the faint hum of the fridge.
My stomach makes a sound like a dying animal. I ignore it.
The phone keeps lighting up, even after I’ve sworn to ignore it, little badges of “1 new message” from people who want to be “friends first” or who have already sent three selfies and a voice note.
I know I should care, but all I feel is a kind of dull irritation, like when you wake up from anesthesia and realize you’re still in the same body, same brain, same unsolvable puzzle.
I lie on the couch, arm over my eyes, the blanket half-tucked and slowly soaking up the day’s sweat.
For a while, I just listen, the tick of the kitchen clock, the dull thump of a bass line from a car outside, the guy upstairs who never learned to walk like a human.
Every sound is a reason to not fall asleep, to stay just awake enough that I don’t drift into the kind of dream where everything is sharp and present and full of people who aren’t coming back.
It’s so pathetic, how I end up checking the phone again.
I tell myself it’s for closure, or because maybe one of these strangers will have a better line, or because the bartender with the tattoos might have sent something funny enough to crack the shell.
But really, it’s because I want to see if anyone, not even Darius, just anyone, can make me feel something that isn’t the absence of them.
The matches are still there, little digital trophies. Marine biologist. Bartender. Nurse.
Plus a dozen more, each with their own neon-pink hair or grainy gym pic or “dog mom” disclaimer. I scroll through them, reading the same lines over and over, “You seem cool,” “You’re cute,” “We should hang.”
None of it sticks.
I flip back to Jay, the nurse, who has sent a selfie this time, a goofy grin and a thumbs-up.
The kind of guy you want to root for, who probably tips well and calls his mom on Sundays.
I try to picture myself at breakfast with him, or at the park, or even just making out in the back of his car.
But every version of the fantasy ends up interrupted by a flash of memory I can’t delete, the gym, Darius’s hand on my shoulder, or the steambath, the weird pulse in the air, or the time he drove me home and didn’t even try to say goodnight, just let me get out of the car and walk into the darkness alone.
It’s like my brain doesn’t want me to move on. Like it’s built to self-sabotage.
I scroll again, and again. It’s not even about the people anymore.
It’s about seeing if I can get a rise, any rise, out of the universe. Can someone say something fucked up enough, or true enough, or even just mean enough to make me want to reply?
The answer is no.
Eventually, I thumb over to the old group chat, the one with O’Doul and Raz and half the team.
It’s still active, still full of memes and ugly jokes and the kind of gallows humor you only get in a room where everyone is dying a little.
I type a reply, just a GIF, nothing real, and instantly regret it. I set the phone back on the coffee table, this time screen-down, like maybe that will stop the world from getting in.
I stare at the ceiling. The crack has grown, or maybe it just looks bigger at night.
I imagine it splitting all the way through, the whole building collapsing, my body entombed in a sarcophagus of drywall and junk mail. It’s a peaceful thought.
My eyes sting, probably from lack of sleep or just the blue light poisoning.
I close them, hope for blackness, but all I get is a slideshow of things I should have said, or done, or not done.
The time I almost kissed Darius, the time I almost told him how I felt, the time I almost told myself to get over it and failed.
I open my eyes. It’s still dark. The world is exactly the same, only I’m more tired.
I grab the phone one last time. This time, I don’t bother with the apps.
I just go to the home screen, watch the little bubbles of notifications pile up, then swipe up and close them all, one by one. Tinder, Grindr, Messages. Gone.
It’s not satisfying, not really, but at least it’s a choice.
I toss the phone onto the far end of the couch. It lands with a dull thunk, rolls until it’s teetering on the cushion. I let it fall.
I lie there, hands folded over my stomach, eyes unfocused.
The fridge ticks over, the radiator pipes let out a shudder. Somewhere in the building, someone yells at someone else, a voice sharp and brief as a whistle.
The loneliness is heavy, but at least it’s honest.
For a minute, I wonder what Darius is doing right now. If he’s sleeping. If he’s even thinking about me. If he ever did.
I try to imagine a future where it doesn’t matter.
Where I can just exist, swipe and match and go through the motions until the next big thing happens, or until I decide to get off the merry-go-round for good.
It’s not a future I want, but it’s the one I get.
I let my eyes drift closed again.
This time, I don’t fight the darkness. I let it press in, heavy and certain, the only thing in my life that hasn’t let me down.
The city keeps moving. The world keeps spinning.
And me, I’m just here, filling space, burning time, waiting for the next chance to get it right.
Or at least, to not fuck it up worse.