Chapter 8
Luke
I’m pedaling down Rutledge Avenue as fast as my tired legs will spin, willing my muscles to go a couple more miles. I think my legs will survive. Not sure my bum will. I don’t have time to stop and stretch. It’s three forty-five. My radio spot with Cassie starts in fifteen minutes.
According to Google Maps, the bike route from my house to I107 was supposed to take forty-five minutes. I don’t know if I’m just slow or what, but I’ve already been riding for an hour. Plan was, I get to the radio station early, clean up a bit in the bathroom, enough to remove the sweat and the stink, but I don’t think that’s happening.
This impromptu bike ride has almost killed me twice, first when someone tried to pass in the bike lane. I veered right, nearly hitting their behemoth SUV, and then I rang the little bell on my handlebars for my own sake, not theirs.
Two minutes ago, I almost died when I circled a pothole into the path of a box truck. The guy braked and honked at me as if to mock my little Ding! Ding!
This isn’t my bike. I wouldn’t mount a bell on my bike. If I had a bike, I’d mount an air horn. That would have given Mr. SUV the what for. This is my mom’s bike that she trucked down from Chicago. Luckily it has more than one speed, barely, but it does have a Miss Gulch kind of vibe. Hopefully, Cassie won’t notice.
I have an ulterior motive. I want Cassie to take pity on me and offer to throw the bike in the back of her car and drive me home. Yeah, it’s pathetic, but I’m running out of ideas here. Mom would tell me to give up on her, but I can’t bring myself to do it yet.
I pass Rutledge Square Apartments and part of me wants to turn in, bang on the first door I see, and beg for water. I drank the last of mine five miles ago. It’s freaking hot out here. My arms feel like bacon in a frying pan.
I blink sweat from my eyes and pump my legs harder. I need a theme song. Miss Gulch’s song from The Wizard of Oz, the original movie. The one my mom forced me to watch as preparation for my role as the Tin Man in my sixth-grade play.
Seven minutes later I pull into the I107 parking lot, sweat dripping from every pore, gasping from my final push to make it here in time. There’s no rack to park my bike, no place to lock it. Someone could easily steal it which would be fine. I never want to see this bike again after that ride. So, I walk my bike onto the sidewalk and into the patch of grass in front of the building, and I lean it against an overgrown dwarf palm.
When I take off my backpack, the relative coolness of the air blasts me. I can tell I’m totally soaked, but I brought a towel for this. I strip off my shirt and then wipe down my face and body. As soon as the towel passes a spot of skin, more sweat spurts through. I wasn’t anticipating that.
One fresh shirt later and I’m inside the building flashing the receptionist my best “I’m lost” face. She points me down the hall and to the left.
Through the door’s window, I can see Cassie sitting at a bean-shaped table, headphones already on, her expression stiff. She glances over and sees me through the glass, bugging her eyes before desperately motioning me in. I creep through as quietly as possible; some tech guy hands me a headset; I slide it on, and then sit down. I’m not joking when I say “slide on.” I’m still sweating out of every gland, not a little, but in rivers. I wipe my brow to divert the flood away from my eyeballs.
Cassie looks at me like I’m radioactive. It’s a good thing this interview isn’t being televised. Next thing I know, the tech guy points to DJ Chris Sands and he starts hammering us with questions.
“You look like you just walked out of a sauna. Is it hot out there or something?”
“Yes. Hot. Very hot,” I answer.
“Do you need a towel? Man, you are glistening like the Hope Diamond.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“What’s your girl Cassie think? That’s what matters.”
“Oh. Um,” Cassie says. “Women glisten. Men just sweat. Like pigs.”
“Ouch,” Chris says. “Well, there you have it, Luke. She called you a pig. I think this interview is over.”
We all laugh. So far, I think this is going well.
“I’m just playin’,” Chris says. “Y’all know why we’re here, but the listening audience doesn’t. Miss Cassie Sears, why don’t you get us up to speed?”
Cassie introduces herself as the CEO of MatchAI, gives a sales pitch for the app, and then explains how the two of us wound up in this room together.
“I believe in my app so much, I wanted to be the first to try it,” she says.
“So, you pressed this little Choose button here,” Chris says. He’s fiddling with his phone. Must have downloaded the app in preparation for the interview. “On morning television. For all of Charleston to see. And this sweaty beast of a man popped up?”
Cassie looks at me, her face serious. “Yes, he did.”
“Whoah,” Chris says. “But I got to admit, if he was cleaned up a bit, he might not look half bad.”
Do I really look that terrible? Does it matter? This is radio.
“He looked better on our date,” Cassie says. “Which you can see on Instagram, by the way. We streamed most of it.”
Chris leans heavily on his elbow. “How do a man and woman have a romantic date live on Instagram?”
“You don’t,” I say.
Cassie’s eye twitches. “The video of our date has over twenty thousand views,” she says.
“It does?” I lean back to grasp the fullness of Cassie in my vision.
“And our Reel is going on a hundred thousand.”
“Folks, you can’t see this, but Luke’s mouth is hanging open.”
I close it.
“That’s cool,” I say even though the thought of that many pupils on me is making my skin crawl.
“It sounds like you two are a hit on the interwebs,” Chris says, “but the big question is, did you two hit it off in real life?”
Cassie and I are both silent. I’m not sure if we’re playing a game here or telling the truth. I’m pretty sure it’s a game but I need Cassie to confirm it. She opens her mouth to speak, but nothing comes out.
“Nothing like dead air on the radio.” Chris laughs.
“Yes,” I jump in. “I think it’s safe to say we did hit it off. Cassie is amazing. I mean, look at her. But there’s so much more to a woman than looks, right?”
“Truth,” Chris says. “And to men too. Ladies, keep that in mind when you check out my Instagram account.”
“I’m an entrepreneur too.” I shift my focus from Chris to Cassie. “I know how hard it is to put yourself out there, to put your finances on the line, to be willing to risk it all. It takes a special kind of person, someone who is brave, adventurous, determined, amazing...”
Cassie looks down.
“She also happens to be kind, considerate, funny, loyal,” I add.
“You know all that from one date?” Chris asks.
“I’m a good judge of character.”
“All right.” Chris rubs his hands together. “This sounds promising. Next question: how does Cassie feel about you?”
Cassie’s expression tightens. “Well...Cupid worked exactly as designed. She matched us based on our extensive profiles, looking for commonalities in our backgrounds, interests, and goals.”
“Dude.” Chris levels his eyes at me. “Duuuude.”
“I think she’s working up to the good part,” I say.
“Of course. I’m just... Luke is very persistent and determined. We have that in common.”
“Do you think he’s hot?” Chris says.
Cassie glances at me. “He looks hot right now. I mean, he’s still sweating.” She laughs.
“But do you think he’s hot.”
“I think it’s obvious. He could be on the covers of magazines.”
“Man, I’m trying to help you here,” Chris says.
“I appreciate it,” I answer.
“Cupid is amazing. She did a great job matching us together. But true connection takes time. That’s really what MatchAI is about. Cultivating true, lasting connections. Based on our first date, I think Luke and I have potential. But I’d have to go out with him more than once to form an opinion.”
Chris leans over the table for a high five. “I got you a second date!”
My smile widens. Cassie’s face drops.
“I want to see this. You gotta stream it on Insta. Y’all are cute. I see potential here.”
“I’d love to go on a second date,” I say. “As long as Cassie agrees.”
“Um. Yes. Of course.”
“Live on Instagram,” Chris adds.
“Sure,” Cassie says like she just agreed to eat eight ounces of liver.
Suddenly having thousands of pupils staring at me online doesn’t bother me so much.
We walk out of I107 into a blast of hot air.
“I think that went well,” I say to the back of Cassie’s head. Her curls sway as she tromps down the sidewalk in her high heels. “Hey. Hold up.”
Cassie stops and crosses her arms but doesn’t turn around. I risk resting my hand on her elbow. It spurs her to spin around. She flashes me the stink eye.
“Whoah,” I say, arms up in surrender.
“This isn’t how this was supposed to go.”
“Which part?”
“The part where you make me go on a date with you, where you throw your money around to force me to do your bidding, and where you trap me into a second date.”
“I didn’t do that. You trapped yourself.”
Cassie lifts her chin defiantly. The fast, throaty call of an osprey sounds from a nearby tree. I can see the workings of Cassie’s brain through her eyes, the replaying of our interview, specifically the part where she talked herself into a corner.
“The internet loves us,” I say. “It’s great for business. Subscribers are climbing faster than a pygmy monkey.”
A smile cracks Cassie’s lips. The sight elates me.
“Why are you sweating like a sumo wrestler doing hot yoga?” she asks.
“Mine was better.”
“Only because pygmy monkeys are cuter than sumo wrestlers.”
“Fair point.”
“Seriously, are you on drugs or something?”
“No. I rode my bike here.”
“From where?”
“Benton Street near the hospital.”
“What?” She looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Yep.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“I did. There’s my bike.” I point to my bike that’s still leaning against the palm. Unfortunately.
Cassie rests a thumb under her chin and covers her mouth with her index finger. Her eyes are smiling. “Where did you find that thing, 1950?” she says.
“Roundabout that time period, I’d say.”
“Well, okay, then. Enjoy your ride home.” She turns to head to her car. We can’t end like this. If I try to ride that bike home, I might die.
“Hey,” I holler as she grabs her door handle. “I think if I ride back, I might dehydrate into banana chips.”
“Didn’t you bring water?”
“I drank it already.”
“Fill your bottle in the bathroom.”
“Honestly, I think I over-estimated my ability. I’m not cut out for the Tour de France. Also, I think I forgot to eat breakfast. And we need to plan our second date.”
Cassie raises an eyebrow at me. “You never stop, do you?”
“Never stop what?”
“This.”
I look around, brush my eyes across the studio’s sad excuse for landscaping, over the half-empty parking lot, before resting them back on Cassie. “What?”
She rolls her eyes. “Go get your sad girlie bike and put it in the back.” She jabs her thumb toward her SUV.
I limp over to the bike with one hand propping my lower back.
“Enough theatrics,” Cassie calls after me.
I spin around. “Too much?”
She nods.
I head to the bike, jogging this time, and roll it over to Cassie’s SUV.
Plan executed.