285 Days
Rhea sat behind the counter at Topanga General Store. She’d given Louisca the day off; the weekend after Easter was always slow for reasons she did not understand. She had a date that evening but did not need Louisca’s help picking out a dress; she would not be buying a new outfit for Randall.
She’d matched with Randall on Bumble and was excited by neither his photo nor his personality. He was attractive enough, but seemed to have blank eyes and no sense of humor. Their first exchange proved she was about to endure a profoundly dull evening.
Randall: Hey
Rhea: Hi! How are you?
Randall: Fine
Rhea: Glad to hear it
Rhea wondered why this man had reached out to her. The next day, he reached out again.
Randall: Wanna get a drink?
Rhea: With you?
Randall: Yes. Was that not clear?
Rhea: Yeah, sorry, I was joking
Feeling the need to say “Sorry” this early on was not a great sign, but she plowed ahead through several more dry, boring texts, and they agreed to meet at a wine bar in Santa Monica.
As Rhea rubbed lotion on her legs that morning, she shuddered at the thought of Randall touching them.
She put on long pants to prevent that from happening.
Typically, before she left her house, she would contour her face by applying differing shades of foundation and bronzer that created an optical illusion, making her nose appear thinner and straighter.
However, that morning, she wore minimal makeup, opting not to execute the elaborate shading technique she had mastered over the years.
She was subconsciously hoping her unshaded nose would repel Randall, so she would not have to see him for a second date, but could at least comfort herself knowing she was still putting herself out there; she was still trying.
She did not want to be the sole reason she had not found the right man yet. She wanted to blame outside forces, and as long as she kept putting herself out there, she could continue to see herself as an innocent victim of circumstance.
She debated calling the date off, but recently, as she swiped through the Bumble app, she had started seeing the same old profiles popping up over and over again on her account, and she feared she had reached the end of Bumble.
She had swiped left on Randall three times before finally relenting and swiping right.
She swiped left far more often than she swiped right, and even Bumble had grown exasperated with her.
The issue with Bumble was Rhea’s age. When selecting her age range preference, she chose men between thirty-five and fifty.
However, almost all of those men would not be caught dead matching with a woman over thirty-five; this prevented Rhea from ever matching with a man in her preferred age range.
So, she was forced to expand her age filter and discovered the men who were comfortable matching with women over thirty-five were old enough to be their fathers.
And since these men were old enough to have an adult child, they would probably not be too keen on having a newborn child, but Rhea was left with no choice but to pursue aged gentlemen, hoping one might still be fertile and energetic enough to procreate with her.
Randall was twenty years older than Rhea.
She had to stop being so picky and take chances on men who did not immediately excite her but might prove to be soulmate material upon further inspection.
Sure, Randall seemed boring, but that was only a first impression; men had grown on her before.
She had to try. The tightening noose of 285 days propelled her forward.
She watched a woman browse. The woman came into the store every weekend and had never purchased anything, so Rhea didn’t feel the need to get off her stool.
Rhea was not bothered by this woman, knowing she used the store as a form of therapy, gently touching the expensive dresses and locally made ceramics, never trying anything on, and leaving a bit more relaxed than when she arrived.
Rhea empathized with the woman and wanted to encourage her to keep coming back, so she always greeted her with the same energy with which she would greet a woman who was definitely going to buy something.
She tried to appear alert and ready, as if she assumed the woman would require her services at any moment.
However, she did allow herself to discreetly pull out her phone and check her texts.
She told herself the constant text checking was not because of Danny, but herself knew she was lying.
Her imagination had created an outlandish scenario; Danny was going to text her, out of nowhere, and say something like: Hey, did you end things because of what I said about not wanting to be a father?
If so, I just want you to know, I changed my mind after I met you.
Because I love you and want you to be the mother of my kids.
Sadly, no such text appeared on her phone. She did have a new email alert, though, and was willing to believe Danny had tracked down her email address because he had an even longer and more romantic message to deliver. Alas, the email was from Zoe.
The subject: Fwd: Finding Your Soulmate from Within
The message: Hey, my love, I’m on their mailing list, so I got this and thought you should check it out.
The original email was from a place called Esalen in Big Sur.
Rhea scrolled through photos of a stunning cliffside retreat center overlooking the Pacific Ocean.
An upcoming weekend workshop was being advertised that involved delving into your psyche to discover why you were preventing yourself from finding the love of your life. Housing and meals were included.
Apparently, Zoe thought Rhea needed a special workshop to figure out how to do the thing that everyone else seemed to do in their sleep.
She needed two days and one night to learn how to be a human being.
Rhea suppressed the urge to throw her phone and instead clicked on a new Bumble message from Randall: C u soon cutie pie
She decided to put her phone in a drawer for the rest of the day.
—
Rhea shifted her car in and out of drive eight times.
The number increased with her anxiety. She drove to the wine bar with less enthusiasm than to the DMV.
She parked and entered the dimly lit, chic space and spotted a pair of humorless eyes sitting at a small table.
She greeted Randall and sat across from him.
He asked what she wanted to drink and got up to retrieve it.
She felt bad for judging him so harshly; he was gentlemanly enough to buy her a drink.
She had definitely experienced worse first dates.
He came back with a glass of orange wine for her and a whiskey for himself.
He wore ill-fitting khaki pants with sagging cargo pockets, the hems of which hung over his stark white New Balance sneakers.
His cellphone was clipped into a plastic holder at his belt.
When Rhea spotted the contraption, she had to stop herself from pointing at it.
“So, Raya—” he began.
“It’s Ree-ah,” she said.
“Oh. Really?”
She didn’t know how to respond. Was he asking if she was absolutely sure about the correct way to pronounce her own name?
“Anyway, Ree-ah, tell me about yourself, what’s your story?” he said, and she noticed he had food in his teeth.
Another side effect of her teenage PTSD was an odd terror that took hold of her when she noticed food in someone’s teeth.
If she was eating with the person and they got food in their teeth, that was fine, but when she did not know the source of the food or how long it had been in there, it made her throat close up.
She needed to remove the food from her sight or she would not be able to stop thinking about it.
What kind of food was it? When did it get lodged?
He now appeared clueless, completely unaware that a small piece of a past meal was displayed for all to see.
She could not tell this man she barely knew that he had food in his teeth; that was far too intimate an act.
Currently, he didn’t know he was ridiculous and vulnerable; if she told him the truth, the evening would be ruined.
Also, why had he not brushed his teeth before a date? How could he leave his house in this disheveled state with his cellphone in a holster like a child in a sheriff costume? She knew she was blinking but could not stop.
“Um, my story? Well, I work in fashion and I live in Topanga.”
She never knew what to say when someone asked for her “story.” She knew they didn’t want to hear her whole life story. It was just a thing people said when they didn’t know how to participate in an organic conversation.
“Oh, I love Topanga. I live in Woodland Hills,” he said.
Dammit, they were geographically compatible and lived, at most, ten minutes apart.
The better this man was on paper, the harder it would be for her to justify never speaking to him again.
With each positive quality, he was slowly revoking her victim status and making her responsible for her empty bed and womb.
“You ever hike Dead Horse Trail?” he asked.
“Yeah, I live right near it.”
“Oh, cool. I love hiking, I’m out on the Malibu trails every weekend.”
Dammit, they had similar hobbies.
“We should go hiking next weekend, it’s supposed to be gorgeous weather.”
He was proposing some kind of future, but her heart did not lurch like it had with Danny.
Instead, it fell, bumping along her rib cage and landing at the base of her spine with a thud.
He mentioned he liked paddleboarding, which Rhea also enjoyed.
He loved traveling, as did Rhea. They had a great deal in common, and this was devastating news.
“What do you do for work?” Rhea asked.
“I’m an architect.”
Dammit, he had a great job.
Rhea tried to figure out what it was about him that was so unbearable.
Sure, he was humorless, but she didn’t need to end up with some clown constantly cracking wise with sweaty desperation.
Maybe she could be with a man who didn’t even make her smile.
Maybe she would smile at other parts of her life, but never at home.
She imagined their dry, boring future together: a constant stream of shared hobbies without even the most modest of chuckles, her mouth in a straight line across her face as she hiked all over the world staring at her husband’s cellphone holder.
He told her he had never been married. “I was engaged once, though. But we broke up ’cause she didn’t want kids….” He looked at her meaningfully.
Rhea was sitting across from a man who could give her everything she wanted.
He was physically active, he had a stable job, he was responsible; he always knew where his cellphone was.
Logic told her to see this through. But, as the night went on, Rhea realized she was unfunny in his presence.
She had no sparring partner, no one to play with, so she became dull right along with Randall.
Was having a family more important to her than joy?
At one point, she made a joke, and instead of playing along, he asked, “Are you being funny?”
To which she said, “Sorry.”
Rhea flashed to her body at the morgue; on the coroner’s report, the probable cause of death: boredom.
“So…Randall, that’s kind of an unusual name. I only met one other Randall and—get ready for a brag—it was Justin Timberlake’s dad.”
He looked at her, confused.
“My mom took me to an *NSYNC concert in Tampa when I was ten. I was obsessed with them. I have no idea how she was able to afford the tickets. But at the time, I had a sinking feeling she put them on a credit card. And now I’m like, Ten-year-olds shouldn’t even know what credit cards are, much less have ‘sinking feelings’ about them.
Anyway, we happened to be sitting way far off to the side of the stage, right next to Justin Timberlake’s dad, Randall Timberlake.
I freaked out, got his autograph…and I still have it to this day. ”
Randall took a long pause. “I can’t tell if you’re being funny or not.”
“No, I’m serious, that actually happened.”
“Is your mom still in Florida?”
“She died.”
Rhea tried to guess what he would do next—Sorry for your loss, then move on? Make a sad face and hold it?
He nodded, then said, “Florida has changed so much over the years. I have a time-share in Miami.”
Rhea listened to him talk about his time-share for five more minutes, trying not to judge him for saying nothing about her dead mom, trying not to compare him to Danny, which was impossible because Danny was better than Randall in every way.
After they each had two drinks, Rhea feigned an early workday.
He went to the bar and paid their tab. Rhea felt guilty; he was a perfectly nice person.
She tried to will herself into being attracted to him.
She repeated the thought I am attracted to this man over and over again, attempting to brainwash herself.
He walked her to her car and went right in for a kiss.
Rhea was startled. How could he have possibly interpreted her body language as a kissable posture?
Her arms were folded, and her shoulders were hunched as if she were trying to roll herself into a ball.
She didn’t resist but prayed it would not be French.
It was French. He jammed his tongue far too deep into her mouth.
He grabbed her lower back and pulled her close.
The sharp odor of his body wasn’t wholly unpleasant, but it wasn’t pleasant either.
The mystery food wedged between his lateral incisor and canine appeared in Rhea’s consciousness, and she stifled a gag.
He was breathing passionately through his nose as if it was the hottest kiss of all time, and, in a way, it was, because he was wearing a jacket that was far too thick for spring and sweating profusely.
Rhea was finally pardoned from the experience and flung herself into her Prius.
She threw the car in and out of drive eleven times and sped away.