6. Ashley #2
She’s not wrong. He’s got dark curly hair, just long enough to look sexy and tousled, and an olive complexion.
His eyes manage to sparkle in a way that should honestly be illegal.
The photo doesn’t even show off his physique, which he keeps in great shape.
His muscled forearms are a thing of beauty. Damn, they’re distracting.
Tess continues. “You should get with him.”
Next to me, Stevie coughs loudly and Tess’s eyes widen. “Did you guys hook up? Tell me everything.”
I don’t want to go into the whole thing in Starbucks, so I leave it vague. “It’s a long story and we go way, way back. And yes, we’ve hooked up before. But now we’ll be working together, so it won’t happen again.”
“Introduce me to him! I don’t mind a no-strings-attached fling if he’s good in bed. It would be better than what I’ve got going on now, which is nothing.” She looks enviously at Cal and Laurel, making eyes at each other by the milk and sugar like they’re the only two people in the place.
“Ladies, it starts there, but in no time you’re watching TV on the opposite ends of the couch in old sweatpants and texting ‘Are you on your way home or are you dead?’ to your spouse,” Stevie breaks in, causing Tess to nearly spit out her coffee.
“That’s why I said no strings attached. Then we never get to the old sweatpants stage,” Tess replies with a wink.
“Amen,” Jason says, coming up behind us.
Thank God we’re done dissecting my love life. I drink my coffee and take off, eager to get some work done.
I love a good spreadsheet. My friends say I work too much, and they might be right, but marketing is not a nine to five gig, especially with social media.
I love getting into the numbers and playing around with how I might find the right approach to help pageviews and clicks improve.
I have a number of clients assigned to me through my marketing firm, and I often end up working well into the evening on their portfolios, especially during busy seasons.
Today, I focus on how Single In The Six has been doing, scanning the reports Sebastian and his assistant Cleo sent me, and digging around online. I look at which trends have been working for dating apps in general and which ones are tired or make it look like they’re ten years behind.
Next, I scour the app to find men that look like a good fit and provide a mix of content.
Not that I’m going to go out with someone I’m not interested in just because it might make a good story on social media.
But for this job, it might be fun to go out on a limb and take chances with matches that I otherwise would have rejected over minor differences.
One guy makes bad puns—normally a no thank you—but now I take another look at his not-too-shabby beach photo and add him to the maybe list.
Another has a ton of photos with his niece, which screams “I like kids!” a little too loudly, but hey, he also likes old movies. Maybe we could take in a classic at an independent cinema.
It feels a little weird to evaluate potential dates like auditions for a television show, but it’s also kind of fun.
Maybe I’ve put myself in a box on these platforms instead of opening up to someone different.
My image of my future husband might have gotten too specific—fit, built, dark-haired, gregarious but also smart, not intimidated by a woman who knows business and her own mind, adventurous with food …
I could go on. I try not to think of how many boxes Sebastian ticks on that list, but maybe that’s my problem. I need to cast a wider net.
After a few hours of work, I realize I’m having fun.
It’s almost surreal that Sebastian offered this job to me, of all people—the girl who never even kissed someone until university.
I remember playing it cool the first time he talked casually about some hook up from the night before, like this was a normal thing that I knew all about.
In reality, I once overheard a popular girl from high school joke that I was most likely to stay a virgin until I was thirty.
At least I learned how to channel my theater training and act like I was sexy and confident until I eventually figured out dating.
It’s only been in the last year or so that things have gone south.
I swipe right on a buff man holding a puppy in front of a rustic barn. Maybe he’ll be the one to turn my prospects around.
A text pops in from my dad and I stop to look at my watch. I’ve been at this for hours, so I should probably eat something. I pull some pasta out of the cupboard, then check my phone.
Dad:
Hey sweetie. Hope you’re taking care of yourself. Come visit when you need some sun!
Dad had knee surgery last year and decided to take this as the universe’s way of nudging him to spend his winter in Costa Rica instead of Waterloo, Ontario, which is decidedly less tropical.
Dad:
Check in on Sam when you get a chance.
I roll my eyes. My sister has been AWOL since her wedding last year.
We always vented about our love lives until she met her husband Chris, and they settled down quickly.
Since she got married, she’s been working extra shifts to cover expenses.
She’s so focused on fixing up their new house that she barely answers my messages. Dad must be getting the same treatment.
I could text her, but half the time she doesn’t respond, so I dial her number after putting some water to boil. Should I tell her about this Sebastian thing? She met Chris online, so she might have some tips, though it’s not like I’m new at this.
“Hey, Ash, what’s up?” Samantha sounds distracted even as she answers on the fourth ring. I hear hammering in the background. “Sorry, we finally got our wedding photos framed. Chris is hanging them over the mantle.”
Of course she’s in the middle of something.
“It’s no big deal. I wanted to see how you’re doing.”
“No, no, higher,” she hollers, and I hold the phone farther away. “Sorry, Ash.”
“No worries. I thought you were going to send me the photos. I know we took a few of the two of us.”
“I totally forgot. I’ll send them to you, plus the ones of all us girls.”
I’d prefer a photo of just us two. I was going to hang it across from the framed shot of us from our mom’s second wedding, back when we were a duo, Sam and Ash in matching floral print and oversized headbands. I don’t need pictures of Sam’s new sister-in-law and her work friends.
“Cool, thanks,” I say, pretending it doesn’t matter to me either way. “Guess who I hung out with the other night. Remember my friend Sebastian?”
She must remember him. She was the one who let me cry on her shoulder when I realized our no-strings hookup had in fact left me with strings. She fed me ice cream, then told me I was better than him and needed to pick myself up and look for someone worthier.
There’s a bunch of clatter in the background and I sigh, waiting for her to remember I’m still here.
“Sorry, of course I remember,” Sam finally replies, distracted. “Listen, we’re in the middle of something, but I can call you back. It’s been so crazy with these double shifts that we need to do the house stuff when I’m available. Unless it’s important?”
Is it important that I slept with my friend and have unresolved feelings about it? Does she care if I’m going to be a dating influencer? Or is her living room more pressing?
“No, it’s fine. Love you.”
“Bye, Ash! Talk to you soon.”
I hang up at the sound of more hammering.
As I wait for Laurel on Sunday afternoon, I text with a few guys from the app.
Brock seems like a good fit. He looks tall and athletic with reddish-blond hair.
We chat casually about running routes and potentially going on a jog or a hike together.
As an alternative, he suggests I try out his climbing gym.
I’ve never been great at that sort of thing.
I’m petite, so I can’t always reach the holds, but I try not to back down from a challenge. We make tentative plans for Wednesday.
At the very least, this should give me a few topics for posts—first dates, rock climbing, what activewear goes well with a fitness date. He’ll see my ass in a harness, and that is mildly alarming.
By the time Laurel arrives with a loaf of homemade banana bread and two lattes, I’ve taken all my leggings out to assess which might be the most flattering if my butt is fifty meters in the air. My bedroom looks like a Lululemon exploded.
Laurel raises her eyebrows when she catches a glimpse. “Are you decluttering?”
“Not exactly.” I take a sip of my latte, surveying the mess of scattered clothing. “Rock climbing date next week. I need to figure out which of these will accentuate my assets.”
She looks at me with a bemused expression. “Aren’t you afraid of heights?”
Afraid might be a little strong. I can hike up hills, but don’t enjoy not having my feet on the ground.
“Even if it’s terrible, it’s a good story.
And if it’s not terrible, we get to tell our kids that Dad suspended Mom from the ceiling in a harness on their first date and traumatize them for life. ”