Chapter 7 - Sara
SARA
It’s been two weeks since the soup delivery, and every time I look at my sloth, I’m reminded of Dave’s gentle gestures.
The way he took care of me when I was sick.
Sir Sloths-A-Lot has become my emotional support buddy.
He’s on my lap when I’m gaming or on the couch binge-watching trashy reality TV.
I even bring him to bed with me every night.
I keep getting the urge to text Dave, but don’t know how to reach him other than through a DoorDash order.
A small part of me feels ridiculous for obsessing over someone I barely know, especially someone I’ve only ever interacted with through text messages and grocery bags. I don’t even know what he looks like.
I’ve checked my front-door cam more times than I’d like to admit, trying to get a sense of what he looks like. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to see his face. I’ve only caught glimpses of his hands and shoulders when he’s delivered my order. And yet… there’s a pull I can’t explain.
On the last delivery, I was able to make out the shape of his face, a bit with the moonlight illuminating a defined jaw.
He looks shorter than my brother Owen—maybe five-eight at best. It’s hard to tell through the camera with the way my house is situated; the driveway is one the side, so I can barely make out the color of the car, let alone the model.
If I had that information, I could hand it over to Sydney to investigate.
That girl has the detective skills of a CIA agent.
I bet she could figure out his name, birthday, and mother’s maiden name in less than fifteen minutes.
I really should get out more often. Maybe Sydney and I can go out this weekend; it’s time to get back out there.
Especially if I’m trying to use DoorDash like a dating app.
This hermit-style living doesn’t bode well for my sex life.
My battery-operated boyfriend (BoB) practically lives on the charger nowadays.
I reach for my phone, shooting off a text to Sydney while getting my snacks ready for tonight’s stream.
Sara
I’m thinking about going out this weekend.
Sydney
I’m calling the authorities because who are you and what have you done with my best friend?
Sara
Don’t be dramatic. I just think it’s time to get back out there, meet a guy, possibly, retire BoB, you know?
Sydney
Yesss! Girl, I have been saying you need to get out there. It’s been approximately three fiscal years since you’ve touched another human voluntarily.
Sara
That’s not true. I held the barista’s hand that one time.
Sydney
You held his hand because he was having a panic attack over a bad joke you made about being allergic to dairy. He thought he was killing you.
Sara
To be fair, technically, if I have dairy, it does kill me a little. Those twenty minutes on the toilet are like death.
Sydney
Okayyyyy, we’re getting off topic. To summarize, touching a barista doesn’t count; we need a real man. One that pushes you against a door and dusts off the cobwebs, if you know what I mean.
Sara
Yes, I know what you mean.
Sydney
Perfect! What are we wearing?
Sara
Something that says “approachable but mysterious.” But also “will leave by ten.”
Sydney
Wrong. You’re wearing something that says “I look like a good girl, but I’ll be your good little slut.”
Sara
I regret texting you.
Sydney
No, you don’t. You love me because I’m right. We’re not leaving the bars until you’re going home with someone or you get a quickie in the bathroom stall.
Sara
Those are some high-ticket items.
Sydney
I will make sure it happens; those cobwebs are trembling.
Sara
Alright, alright, I know you’re right. I’ll meet you Saturday at Eagleton Saloon around seven.
Sydney
Sounds great. Love you!
Sara
I love you too. Thanks, Syd.
Sydney
Anytime, babe.
I pocket my phone and pull out rice, tuna, and seaweed wraps—perfect little late-night snacks. Easy to grab, easy to eat between sessions.
As I make my way back to my computer, I spot Sir Sloths-A-Lot waiting in my chair, and my thoughts drift—inevitably—back to Dave. To the quiet thoughtfulness behind his purchases.
The urge to place another order, just to talk to him again, hits so hard I can’t deny it anymore.
I grab my phone and open the DoorDash app before the logical side of my brain can talk me out of it. My fingers hover over the screen as I scroll through the grocery lists I had preselected; my heartbeat is unusually fast. It’s like playing Russian roulette, but with my DoorDash shopper.
I fill the cart, add the essentials, and then I pause, staring at the “Submit Order” button. My palms are sweaty as I hover my thumb over the screen. I can’t help the nervous excitement buzzing in my chest.
Come on, Dave. Be my shopper. Please.