Chapter 9 Margot
Margot
I’m expecting the worst when Ethan hands my phone back to me. My boss is no stranger to the world of dating apps, but we’re in entirely different leagues. I wouldn’t be surprised if Ethan’s profile is just one amazing professional headshot of him alongside the words “Take a number.”
Some of us have to work a little harder than that. We can’t all be Denver’s Most Eligible Bachelor.
Holding my breath, I glance down at the screen. A tiny, circular version of myself smiles back up at me. I look… good? I’m not sure how, but Ethan actually took a really decent photo of me.
Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m not hideous. With a little effort, I’m passably pretty. I won’t turn heads or stop traffic, but no one is going to mistake me for a troll who oversees bridge crossings either.
Being the center of attention has never been a goal of mine.
In fact, the mere thought of it makes me itchy and nervous.
I prefer to fly under the radar. To hide behind an oversized sweater and some quirky glasses.
And even though I think the look suits me well in person, it doesn’t always translate into flattering photographs.
When I glance up at Ethan, he’s taking a sip of his beer. I flash a quick, awkward smile, unable to find the words to thank him for the nice photo without drawing attention to my appearance.
My eyes drop back to the screen. I scroll past the small, green checkmark that just announced my desire for casual sex to my boss and feel my cheeks growing warm again.
Ethan and I may be friends, but first and foremost, he’s still my boss.
I’m sure he doesn’t want to know this much about my sex life… or lack thereof.
Everyone in the office is well aware of Ethan’s thriving sex life.
He has strict rules against dating women he works with, but their sisters, cousins, friends from out of town, and god knows who else seem to be fair play.
Word travels fast around the office, so naturally, everyone knows the nitty-gritty details of Ethan’s hookups.
I’ve heard the words “sex god” thrown around, along with a few anatomical comparisons that I absolutely do not want to think about in relation to my boss.
I scroll down the page to my new bio. It’s a short, tidy paragraph instead of fourteen rambling ones.
Just out of a long chapter and ready to write a new one.
I love all things literary, so if you can name a favorite book, you’ve already got my attention.
Looking for a real connection to start a new story, but I’m open to a few plot twists along the way.
Let's see if we can create our own bestseller or just enjoy a few fun pages together.
“Oh,” I say, slightly taken aback.
“You hate it,” Ethan guesses.
“No, it’s good.” I glance up at him. “It’s perfect, actually. You might have a bright future in marketing.”
He laughs against the rim of his beer bottle as he takes a sip then nods at my phone. “Have you gotten a lot of messages?”
I can’t imagine that I received any messages at all after the disaster of a profile that I crafted last night, but I’ve been too busy all day to check. When I click on the tiny mail icon at the bottom of the screen, my eyes go wide.
“Two-hundred and thirty-seven,” I answer, genuinely stunned. “How is that possible? My profile was so awful.”
“What do they say?”
I open the first message. “It just says ‘u fat.’ Is he asking if I’m fat or telling me I’m fat?”
“Which would be better?” Ethan deadpans.
“Good point,” I mumble. “Am I supposed to respond to all of these?”
“Absolutely not. Here, let me see.”
I pass my phone back to Ethan. He rests his arm on the bar between us and scrolls through the messages. His eyebrows dip and then lift repeatedly as he reads. Occasionally, he shakes his head disapprovingly.
“You can delete all of these,” he concludes.
“All of them?”
I deflate slightly. It’s disappointing that there isn’t even one worthwhile message out of the whole bunch. Ethan tilts the phone so we can both see the screen.
“These are all from guys who are just looking to get laid. They’re so desperate they’d fuck your door if you let them,” Ethan says.
His bluntness surprises a laugh out of me.
“Half the messages just say ‘sup.’ Those are just guys playing a low-effort numbers game. They message every woman who joins the app hoping that some of them will respond.”
“There you go again with the flattery,” I joke. “What about the rest of them?”
Ethan reaches up to scratch the stubble on his cheek. His finger hovers over a message that reads: Send a pic of your pussy.
“They’re, uh, probably not worth responding to either,” he says.
Our eyes connect for an awkward second.
“Noted.”
I nod and glance away. I can’t look my boss in the eye with the word pussy fresh in both our minds.
“Listen, you’re going to get a ton of messages. That’s just how it works. Men outnumber women ten to one on these apps. Wait for someone who actually puts in some effort. Someone who actually read your profile and can form intelligible sentences.”
“What about this one?” I ask, pointing to a message that reads: Holy shit, I want to buy you a pony, but maybe I could start with a coffee?
Ethan levels a doubtful glare at me. “You’re aware that promising cute baby animals is a tactic often employed by kidnappers, right?”
“Sure, but if I had a pony, I could gallop away at the first sign of danger.”
He shakes his head and smirks against his beer bottle as he takes a sip. “Message the guy back if you want. But if he shows up in a windowless van, promise me you won’t get inside.”
“Fine,” I say. “And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do I do after I message him?”
“Are you asking me how to date, Margot?” he teases.
“No, of course not,” I say quickly.
Okay, maybe a little.
I think back to our awkward breakfast conversation after the first night I spent at his house, remembering his remark about drafting up some notes. I know he wasn’t being serious, but I could seriously use those notes right now. “But you mentioned… notes?”
I can see the moment when the words click for Ethan. “Ah,” is all he says, drawing a long, slow sip of his beer. “Alright, give that new profile of yours a few days to work its magic then we’ll talk.”
***
By Tuesday, I have negotiated my way from a pony to a unicorn.
I’ve also been asked on an actual date: a movie on Friday night.
Brian is a self-proclaimed nerd, which suits me fine.
I’ve always liked nerdy guys. He only has one profile picture, which is a little blurry, but I can see that he has nice eyes and a short beard.
But most importantly, he seems funny and easy to talk to.
We’ve been messaging back and forth all week leading up to our date.
But on Friday afternoon, the dread creeps in.
It’s been a long time since I went on a first date.
In fact, it’s a stretch to say that I’ve ever really been on one.
Jeremy and I just sort of ended up together after a few weeks of bumping into each other around campus and hanging out together in the common room.
If we had a first date, it was a late-night pizza run at a little place near campus followed by making out in his dorm room.
But by then, we knew each other pretty well and were already headed for a committed relationship.
This will be different, and there’s only one person I can think of to ask for any last-minute advice.
After I finish my work and power down my computer on Friday evening, I stop by Ethan’s office. This is not unusual. We never leave for the day without a quick chat, but normally it’s about work, not last-minute dating advice.
When I walk into Ethan’s office, he looks up at me then down at the purse hanging from my shoulder.
“Taking off?” he asks.
“Yeah, I have a date.” I try to make it sound casual, as if I routinely go on dates after work, but it comes out more like a question.
Ethan pivots, leaning back in his chair and focusing all of his attention on me. Smirking, he asks, “With pony boy?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, with Brian.”
A low chuckle rises from Ethan’s chest. “Okay, just remember what I said about the van… and text me afterwards so I know you got home safe.”
Surprised by his request, I stammer, “That’s okay, you don’t need to…”
But he sits forward in his seat, expression turning serious.
“Margot, there are a ton of weirdos out there. If Emma were here, she’d want you to check in after your date to make sure you’re okay.
Since it’s my brother’s fault that she’s halfway around the world at the moment, that responsibility falls to me.
Just promise me you’ll let me know when you’re home safe, okay? ”
“Okay,” I nod. “I will.”
“Alright, have a good night then. Be safe.”
A tiny, unexpected flutter of relief washes over me. At least there will be a search party if my date turns out to be an axe murderer.
Ethan’s eyes linger on mine for a second before he turns his attention back to the computer. I wonder how much longer he’s planning to work. I wonder if he has a date of his own tonight. Most of all, I wonder why that thought sits a little wrong in my chest.