Chapter 6
The problem with attempting to date in a small town—especially when I stupidly chose to go on a date with someone in my master’s program—is that there’s a one-hundred percent guarantee that you will see them again.
Sure enough, Brody and I not only have several classes together, but we also seem to run into each other every time I leave my apartment.
So far, I’ve successfully avoided speaking to him, but unfortunately that ended today when Dr. Torres paired us up for the midterm project.
It has been over two months since our coffee date… honestly, thank God we didn’t sleep together. That would have made this ten thousand times worse.
Our partnership, however, along with Ben’s stupid ability to infiltrate my thoughts at the absolute worst moments, is serving as a reminder that I need to stay the course in my quest.
The quest to find a partner before my birthday, that is.
Because after twelve years of leaving me the fuck alone, of course he’s becoming a regular annoyance right when he’s decided that he does remember the pact we made as teenagers.
And clearly, I am a grown-ass adult and, as much as I loathe him, I know Ben would never hold me to something that I don’t want.
It’s just that… maybe I do want it.
Not with Ben, obviously. But, maybe having a partner again would be nice.
Brody chooses that moment to plop down in the seat next to me. “Hi, partner.”
I can’t help my cringe, hearing him use the word I was just thinking about in a different context.
“Cole.” Brody sighs. “We went to coffee once. It was a really bizarre experience, but this doesn’t have to be weird. We can be partners in this project. I can be cool—can you be cool?” he asks, giving me a wink that I think is intended to soothe my nerves.
The problem is I am the opposite of cool. I mean, I work my ass off to present as cool—aloof even—but I’m like an iceberg. Well, not the cold part of the iceberg but the fact that it looks approachable on the outside, but if you get too close it will destroy you.
That’s not even speculation. That’s a cold, hard fact.
Instead of going down that rabbit hole with Brody, however, I just give him the answer he wants. “Yeah, I can be cool.”
And I’m probably not lying to him. I don’t particularly care about Brody, so I can be cool. Cool as an iceberg.
Brody nods, and I can see his shoulders relax a fraction of an inch. “Great. Let’s set a time next week to get started.”
We do just that, and I’m so proud of how totally and completely normal I acted around a man that I went on one date with, that I make the decision to download a dating app when I get back to my apartment.
I’ve never used a dating app before. Both of my previous relationships have been friends of friends—the type where you’re around each other so frequently that one day you look at the other person and think, Hmm, I guess I tolerate you. So using an app is… foreign.
Ernest snuggles next to me as I scroll through my camera looking for a profile picture.
It needs to show that I’m hot, but approachable.
The hot part is easy. My college roommate, Jess, let me know that I’m conventionally attractive.
Symmetrical, unique hair, full lips. Things I didn’t realize made me pretty but that’s what Jess said, and it didn’t occur to me to question her insight.
I also learned that other girls don’t like you when you are pretty.
Which might be part of the reason I’m not great at making friends…
I haven’t quite figured that part out yet.
It’s the approachable part that is more difficult to capture in a photograph. Or in real life.
I settle on the picture of Ernest and me that Ben liked on Instagram. Dogs, I’ve heard, make someone appear more approachable. Not sure if that logic applies to dogs like Ernest, but he’s the only one I’ve got.
Okay, picture is done. I think I’ve managed the perfect mix of approachable and hot. Up next… hobbies.
Hmm. I look around my apartment, the jigsaw puzzle three quarters of the way done spread across the coffee table. My small TV that I really only use to stream Dateline. A stack of text books mixed with my favorite fantasy novels.
My thumb hovers over my phone. Next to hobbies, I type: Puzzles. Television shows. Reading.
Done.
Now for the lifestyle questions…
Drink? Socially.
Exercise? Occasionally.
Night owl or early bird? Why isn’t middle of the day pigeon an option?
Interested in? Anyone.
Age range? 25+. Hopefully that will weed out any of the undergrads that I might accidentally match with.
About me… Ugh. Isn’t the point of this so people can learn more about me? Why do I need to write it down in a witty way that will most likely still be judged by half of the people on the app?
After staring at the screen for over a minute, I finally type: Former engineer, current psych student. Takes me a while to warm up.
Oof. Nope, delete that last part. Enjoys some light kink? That’s sure to bring out some overconfident men with small dicks. Trying to teach myself how to cook? No.
Wait!
Former engineer, current forensic psych student. Looking for a partner in crime.
Perfect. Albeit a little creepy, but I’m not mad about that.
I publish my dating profile and immediately set my phone down to process what I’ve just done.
Instead of thinking too hard about it, I pour myself a glass of wine.
Taking a sip, I work to ground myself. Stockinged toes feeling the firmness of the faux hardwood against my feet, the cool press of the countertop against my hand, the tart glide of the bottom-shelf Malbec down the back of my throat.
Groaning, I lay my forehead against the counter. I feel overheated after the events of the last several days… several months. There’s been a lack of control looming over me, something I haven’t felt to this degree since high school.
Since the days when Benoit Bardot would catch my eye after a track meet and wink as if we were in on some joke together. Though, I’m not sure what he found so funny about running.
Or that time in biology class when we had to create Punnett squares and Ben kept looking at my hair and telling me how rare I was. It caused a weird swooping low in my belly, one that I definitely—probably—didn’t like.
He has that infuriating effect on me. Scrambling my thoughts in a way that makes it hard to focus on anything else.
I need a bath. That will help.
Piling my hair on top of my head, I pad to the bathroom and let the water run until it’s boiling hot.
I don’t like the feel of bubble bath so I skip that, instead lighting three of my favorite Irish-coffee-scented candles to give the room a relaxing aroma.
Yes, three of the exact same candle. Because when I find something that doesn’t irritate me I have to hoard it like some pre-winter squirrel gathering nuts.
I sink into the water and watch as my fair skin turns splotchy red.
The next thirty minutes are spent contemplating what the fuck I’m going to do about Benoit Bardot. By the time I get out of the tub, I have a match on the dating app. Here’s to hoping that will finally reset my brain.