Chapter 15
Someone, somewhere took two seemingly unrelated words and put them together, creating a craze for middle-aged people across
the nation.
Those two words?
Pickle and ball.
After another fruitless week of job hunting, I get a call from Lennon with the kind of invite I want to reject.
“Oh, you were serious about the pickleball?” I was hoping she wasn’t.
“Daniel’s mom watches Eve so we can play every Saturday,” she says. “We love it. Remind me . . . have you played before?”
“Uh, no,” I say, laughing. “I don’t really do sports.”
“Eh,” she says, “neither do I. But it’s super fun to get to hit something. And every once in a while we make the guys look stupid, so bonus!”
I chuckle. Lennon is so great.
Still, I don’t tell her that I’ve walked by the empty storefront every day this week, half hoping, half dreading the day the
chiropractor—or someone else—moves in.
I need to find a job because if I have something else to focus on, then maybe I’ll stop dwelling on outlandish ideas.
Like opening a small-town-inspired bakery in Chicago.
Named The Porch.
Never mind that I have a menu. And a color palette.
“You’ll love it, I promise,” she says. “Do you have a fourth we could ask?”
Without permission, my mind conjures the image of Miles. I’m bound to make a complete fool of myself, so why would I want to do that in front of a man who will relentlessly tease me when I do?
“There will be other people there,” Lennon says. “So we won’t have a problem finding a fourth.”
“Will the other people have a problem when they realize how terrible I am at it?”
She laughs.
“No, seriously. I’m not coordinated,” I say. “I’m not exactly athletic.”
“That’s part of the fun,” she says. “Pickleball was invented for the nonathletic to pretend they’re playing tennis.”
I laugh.
“Actually, that’s not true,” she says. “It was invented by three dads in Australia who were just trying to entertain their
kids.”
“You know the history of this sport?” I ask, a little surprised.
“I might be a little obsessed,” she says. “You might be too after you play.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose, certain there is no way I’ll ever be obsessed with pickleball, but unable to find a good enough reason to decline this invitation.
Am I really going to do this? I let out an audible groan. “I tried playing tennis once when I was a kid, and it did not go
well. I whiffed on hitting the ball back, then tripped and skinned my knee so badly it made the court look like a crime scene.”
Lennon laughs, like I’ve just told a joke, and says, “I’ll text you the details. Just wear comfy clothes and bring water.”
Right.
I’m going to write “pickleball” on my list because it terrifies me, and also just so I can cross it right off.
I’m also done with the app. As in done.
After the Scott debacle, I went on two more app dates.
First there was Mark, who does something with the stock market that honestly sounds a bit shady. He took me to one of Chicago’s
hidden speakeasies, which had the coolest interior—wood beam ceilings, a jazzy burnt-orange color scheme, leather couches,
and sketchy paintings of music legends on the wall—Jimmy Hendrix, Ray Charles, James Brown.
There was a live jazz band, which was just as cool as the setting, but was so loud Mark and I had to shout to hear each other.
When I opted for a mocktail instead of the Whiskey Lullaby that he suggested, he got a phone call and claimed he had to leave
because he “had to take care of an emergency.”
He left me there, but I ended up having the best time chatting with the female bartender. I even got to meet the band, sending
a selfie to Minnie with the words, “Date bailed but I’m thinking of becoming a groupie!”
A few days later, I met Barry in front of The Second City for an improv comedy show. I laughed the whole way through, but
Barry didn’t even crack a smile. He looked utterly bored and even groaned a few times like he was offended. Afterward, he
told me he studied acting in college and he “wasn’t impressed” and “could probably do better himself.”
When I didn’t come up with a response immediately (I am not trained in the art of improv), Barry said, “So, do you want to come back to my place?”
I frowned.
“You just can’t stay the whole night,” he said.
And that’s when I realized Barry was under the impression that I was going to sleep with him.
“Wow. Well, thanks, Barry, but I think I’m actually going to head home,” I told him.
“Seriously?” He did nothing to hide his irritation.
“Yeah, I’m tired and—”
“But . . . I bought your ticket.”
I could feel my jaw actually drop.
He was serious.
“I got you a drink in there too. What the heck?”
Roger I felt bad for. I even had some empathy for the food court Book Lady.
But this guy?
I thought of what Lennon would say. And I smiled.
But I bit my tongue.
He looked me over, making a show of it, then scoffed. “Probably would’ve been terrible anyway.”
I stood on the street watching as he walked off, my faith in humanity thrown into a wood chipper.
I’ve gotten into the habit of talking about my dates with Miles and texting Minnie the rundown of each one. But I didn’t tell
either of them the truth about Barry. Just said it wasn’t a good fit and that I wouldn’t be seeing him again.
After that, I told both of them I needed to take a break.
Tonight I’m staying home to bake a few things, journal for a bit, and revisit my list.
I want a job or career I love.
I want friends. Real ones. (Lennon might count, jury’s out on Miles)
I want to live in a new city.
I want a dog.
I want to figure out who I am—apart from a wife and a mom.
I want a place where I fit in. I want a place where I belong.
I want a hobby.
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.
There are so many things left on my list. Big things.
In the midst of thinking about the big things, I start to doodle about The Porch.
I really can’t get away from this idea.
While I’m sketching out a logo, I hear voices in the courtyard. When I pull back the curtain, I see Lorraine and Miles standing
outside talking. Given the pained look on his face, the conversation is most likely about something Lorraine wants him to
fix or change around the building.
After a few seconds of gawking, Miles must get the sense that someone is watching him, because he looks right at me and waves.
I haven’t seen him in a couple days, unless you count peeking at him through my blinds, watching him leave last night for
what I assume was a date.
Lorraine turns, and when she sees me, she starts waving enthusiastically. I check to make sure she’s not filming before I
drop the curtain and walk out the front door.
She’s marching toward me, but Miles hangs back.
“Claire, we were just talking about you!” Lorraine grabs my arm and leads me back to where Miles is standing.
“About me? Uh-oh.” And why does Miles look bothered?
“Well, I heard you’ve been dating,” she says, like she’s been let in on a big secret.
Miles shoves his hands in his pockets and becomes the picture of nonchalance.
Today he’s wearing jeans and a light blue button-down with the sleeves rolled. The blue brings out the color of his eyes—as
if they needed to get any brighter. Miles is the kind of handsome that makes women on the street do a double take when they
see him.
I force myself not to be one of those women and focus on Lorraine.
“I’ve been out on a couple of dates, yes,” I say as casually as I can. “But I’m giving it a rest. Dating apps might not be
my thing.”
“Well, then, this is perfect!” she chimes. “Because it’s not a dating app. One of my followers wants to meet you.”
I frown.
“One of your . . . what?”
She keeps going without answering my question. “He didn’t see the video live, but he watches all my videos, so when he saw the one I made with you in it, he reached out,” Lorraine says. “I was just telling Miles about
it because I know he’s playing matchmaker.”
I shoot Miles a side-eye. “He’s not doing a very good job.”
“Well, that’s because he’s a man,” Lorraine says.
I grin as Miles rolls his eyes. “That’s why I’m the perfect one to help.”
“But you are committed to not being committed,” Lorraine says. “Not what Claire needs at all.”
Miles’s eyes meet mine, but he quickly looks away.
“This man—Duffy—is perfect for you.” She squeezes my arm.
“His name is Duffy?” Miles asks incredulously.
Great minds, I guess, I think.
“He’s a pediatric dentist,” Lorraine says, ignoring him. “He’s got his own practice, and he’s looking for someone who likes
quiet nights watching movies on the couch—oh, and he’s a wine collector. I think he’s very romantic, Claire.”
“His name is Duffy,” Miles says drolly.
“Can I give him your number?” Lorraine’s eyes are so hopeful. “I told him that if he’s going to plan a date with someone as
special as you, it had better be a very unique date, and he told me he already has a few ideas.”
The compliment embarrasses me, and I feel my face flush. I glance at Miles, who says nothing.
Lorraine hands me her phone. “This is him.”
On the screen, there’s a photo of a studious-looking man with sandy-colored hair and round glasses and a bright red clown
nose. And I get the distinct impression that he is far more decent than Barry, more engaged than Scott, and more sober than
Roger.
But it all could be just wishful thinking.
“Oh! The nose is because he works with kids,” she says. “Red Nose Day! The fundraiser? Do you know it?”
I nod.
“I promise he’s handsome,” Lorraine says.
I can see it. He’s got a sort of nerd-chic thing going on, but there’s kindness in his eyes.
Ten minutes ago, I was done with apps and men and dating. But now? Something inside me gives me a little nudge. I smile at
Lorraine and say, “Sure, give him my number.”