Dating-ish (Knitting in the City Book 6) Read online

  As though reading my mind, Elizabeth piped in, “Jeez Louise, Janie. It’s like, carrying Quinn’s baby has turned you into a replica of his grumpy ass. Pretty soon you’ll be giving us all the ice stare and quoting Dirty Harry movies.”

  “Quinn doesn’t quote Dirty Harry movies.” Janie wrinkled her nose at Elizabeth.

  “He doesn’t need to, because that’s how he talks in real life.” Elizabeth’s teasing statement drew chuckles from everyone except me.

  I tried, but I didn’t laugh this time. Couldn’t. Thankfully, the subject change provided an opportunity to dart out of the room to refill Janie’s water. Walking into the kitchen, I ran the faucet and sighed. I was having trouble swallowing, unable to move past Derek’s/Matt’s notion that nothing about me was unique.

  Nothing was special. I was nothing special.

  My eyes caught on my reflection in the dark window over the sink. I had blonde hair. My skin was beige. I was wearing my tan sweater dress.

  I was struck by my monochromatic blandness. Did the inside reflect the outside?

  4

  Kiddon & Brun's TWSS system

  A statistical machine learning algorithm to detect whether a sentence contains a "That's what she said" double entendre.

  Source: Funniest Computer Ever Open Source Initiative

  Several events over the next week transformed my melancholy into rage.

  First of all, men were idiots. Let’s just get that out of the way.

  Second, I was propositioned by my building manager. He was married. With children.

  Third, I’d neglected to deactivate my FindUrPartner.com account after the date from hell, so when I logged in five days later there were three new messages, all of them containing dick pics.

  Scratch that.

  All of them containing underwhelming dick pics. I mean, if you’re going to send a woman a dick pic, at least send something worth seeing. Not a gherkin dwarfed by hairy potatoes.

  And finally, my ex—who I hadn’t spoken to in over a year—invited me to his engagement party.

  His. Engagement. Party.

  To. Another. Woman.

  There I was, minding my own business, opening my mail while waiting for a conference call to start. I was at work, sitting at my desk. As a contract writer, I could work from home. I’d tried doing just that for a few years, but found the isolation to be counterproductive to my mental health.

  Therefore, I’d joined an office co-op near the Loop a few years back. Basically, it’s an office—like any other office environment—except most of us don’t work together or even in the same field. We shared the same public space, used the same copy machine, the same break room, etc.

  I liked the dynamics and environment of working in an office. Not only did it get me out of my pajamas, it gave me the opportunity to have normal discussions around a water cooler with other working professionals.

  Glancing impassively at the envelope, because it had looked like any other envelope, I noticed my address had been handwritten. I didn’t recognize the handwriting, nor had a return address been visible. Tearing into it serenely, I listened as others joined the call.

  It took reading the invitation five times before I fully comprehended what it was. And by the time complete understanding settled in, my rage was out of control, especially since the party wasn’t for another six months.

  Who does that? Who sends an invite for a party that far in advance?

  I focused on that minute and meaningless detail because the rest of my feelings felt too unwieldy to examine.

  Unfortunately, it was also time for the call to start.

  “Okay. Is everyone here?” Daniella, my editor, queried the line, forcing me to stem my decidedly unpleasant gush of emotions.

  “Marie, Chicago,” I said through gritted teeth when it was my turn, then muted my line just in case the urge to scream became uncontrollable.

  You’re Invited!

  David Carter and Gwen Livingston cordially invite you to attend their engagement party on November 17th.

  Please RSVP by August 17th with number of guests.

  Will you be bringing a date? Yes ___ No ___

  I flipped the card over and winced at the picture of David and his fiancée, my heart beating sluggishly for the span of several seconds.

  “We need content for the tech issue, it’s running thirty pages light. Anyone have a pitch?” Daniella tossed the question out to the group.

  Meanwhile, I was still glaring at the picture of my ex and his fiancée. They were looking at each other, gazing into each other’s eyes with blatant adoration, and they were so . . . so . . .

  Happy.

  Blar!

  Tearing my eyes away, I glared at the writing on the envelope, the decidedly swirly cursive. It must’ve been hers. Who does that? Who invites her fiancée’s ex-girlfriend to her engagement party?

  “What about dildos, vibrators?” This question came from Terry Ruiz, field writer at the Los Angeles office. “We could do a compare and contrast of what’s out there, latest technological advancements in the field.”

  “Give me something other than dildos and vibrators. Please. For the love of God,” Daniella moaned. “I’m so tired of dildos.”

  “What about online dating?” Tommy Jang asked, his tone hesitant. He was relatively new to the Los Angeles office. I’d never met him in person, but we’d spoken over the phone a number of times. One-on-one he was hilarious. But he hadn’t yet found his footing on the conference calls.

  “What about it?” Daniella pressed. “What’s the angle?”

  “Pew Research Center compiled a summary of surprising statistics about online dating, with growing numbers of people in a committed relationship or married having met online. We could take a look at how online dating—the technology behind it—has improved over the years and future directions for continued advancement.”

  “Hmm . . .” Daniella paused, and I knew what that pause meant. It meant she liked the idea, but didn’t want him to write the piece, at least, not by himself. “Marie? Are you on?”

  I unmuted my line, breathing out silently before saying, “Yep. I’m here.”

  “Can you partner on this with Tommy?” she asked, confirming my suspicions.

  Crap.

  It was no secret that I was Daniella’s favorite. If she had an idea for a story, she always passed it by me first. She’d told me many times that I demonstrated a commitment to understanding, to truly living an experience before writing about it that was rare these days, and that difference showed in my finished articles.

  I appreciated her compliments and her faith in me, but it often meant she wanted me to take the lead on someone else’s story.

  It’s not that I didn’t want to write the piece with Tommy. What I knew about Tommy I liked. Rather, it was that this piece was his idea. He deserved the opportunity to write it on his own, to prove himself.

  However, before I could pitch a different idea or make an excuse, Tommy piped up, “I’d love to work with Marie on this, if she has time.”

  I frowned at my phone and bit my lip, feeling torn. On the one hand, he sounded completely sincere. On the other hand, it was his idea. His story.

  Unable to delay any longer without inviting an uncomfortable silence, I said, “Yes. Absolutely. Sounds good.”

  “Great. It’s settled. Anyone else?” Daniella asked and the call moved on.

  Twisting my lips to the side, I muted my line and returned my attention to the photograph of David and his betrothed.

  Perversely, I wondered if they’d met online. And if he’d been her perfect match.

  Continuing to quietly stew for the remainder of the call, I felt relieved when it ended. Grabbing my wallet, I stood from my desk and darted out of my office. What this situation called for was nail polish.

  I owned too many nail polishes. It’s true. I freely admitted this. Worst of all, I hardly ever painted my nails. I’d use a bottle once, usually as therapy to get ove
r a funk, but then never used the color again. Yet nothing made me feel better quite like fancy nails.

  “Marie! Wait.”

  I twisted at the waist, checking to see who’d called my name, and found Camille Yardly jogging to catch up with me. Turning around to meet her, I smiled warmly.

  “Hey. Are you grabbing lunch?” Camille was a contract engineer and hardly made it into the shared office space as she frequently traveled all over the world for her job.

  “No. Nail polish. I packed my lunch.” I tilted my head toward the break room. “I’m on a budget, but I’ll eat with you if you grab takeout.” I tried to sweeten the deal with a large smile.

  “Ha. Sounds good. I skipped breakfast and my date last night was so terrible, I lost my appetite halfway through.” She rolled her eyes, and my big grin became a smaller one of pure sympathy.

  “I’m sorry. That’s sucks.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s okay . . .” Abruptly, she shook her head, heaving a sigh. “Actually, it’s not okay. Mind if we walk together?”

  “No, no. Feel free. I’m just going to the drugstore across the street.” We fell into step on the way to the elevator. “Do you want to talk about it?”

  She didn’t require any further prompting. “Yes. I do. I’m just so damn frustrated. Where are all the men? And I don’t mean man-children. I mean men. You know, the guys whose interests extend beyond playing Halo on their Xbox, and who actually make eye contact, and aren’t constantly scanning the room for a better option. This guy, last night, left me at the table to go hit on a woman at the bar.”

  I grimaced, because that was bad. Really, really bad. “Wow. What a jerk.”

  Camille heaved another sigh just as we stepped onto the elevator, and this one sounded watery. “I just—you know—would like to find a nice, normal guy. Someone who treats me with respect, like a person. I don’t ask for much. Don’t you think it’s mind-blowing?”

  I could definitely empathize.

  “What’s that?” I asked right on queue. I’d heard this speech from Camille before and knew what she was going to say.

  “Things that ought to be just a normal part of being a healthy adult are considered praiseworthy and that drives me bonkers.” She began ticking them off her fingers. “Being employed. Not being an addict. Treating your parents well. Not being in massive debt. Being considerate. Being educated, or at the very least, informed. I must know one hundred single women who check all those boxes, and one hundred men in relationships already who check all those boxes, but not one unattached guy. Not one!”

  I nodded, maintaining my sympathetic looks, feeling her pain.

  As much as possible, when relating my online debacles to my friends, I tried to keep my dating stories limited to those that were hilarious or outrageous. This was because the rest of my stories were disheartening. Depressing and sad. Like Camille’s story.

  And no one in a happy relationship wants to hear disheartening stories, nor did I wish to repeat them, because they only made me feel worse.

  “What am I going to do?” she moaned, wiping at her eyes and huffing a humorless laugh. “You know how it is. I feel like you’re the only one I can talk to about this without getting shitty advice or stupid questions. You know what my brother said?”

  “What?” I braced for this new tale of woe.

  “He said, ‘I don’t understand why you can’t get a boyfriend. You’re pretty.’” She looked heartsick, glancing at the mirrored elevator ceiling. “And that just says it all, doesn’t it? Like, that’s all men want. Someone pretty. That’s all it takes. Ugh! I’m just so sick of it.”

  “Maybe you just need a break?” I suggested, trying to infuse my tone with optimism. “Maybe you’re burned out on dating. Think of it like taking a vacation.”

  Her eyes slid to mine and her chin wobbled. “Yeah. Maybe I will. I think I’m just tired in general. Maybe I’ll take time off work, go someplace far, far away from here. Where there are no American men to disappoint me and make me feel crappy about myself.”

  I nodded, never knowing what to say at this point in the conversation, because—if it were me—I wouldn’t want platitudes and assurances. I wouldn’t want someone to tell me it gets better, because I knew for a fact it wouldn’t.

  So instead I stayed quiet, trying to offer moral support with my silence, but feeling every inch as discouraged as Camille.

  My foul mood stalked me for the next several days, a persistent shadow. At least, that’s what it felt like. So when Fiona called unexpectedly on Thursday night, asking if I’d be willing to pick up her kiddos from summer camp the next day so she and Greg could go to their prenatal checkup together, I readily agreed.

  Even better, Janie and Quinn were also scheduled for a checkup on the same day. Impromptu plans were adjusted, and I offered to make dinner for everyone at Fiona and Greg’s place after both couples’ appointments.

  Jack and Grace were great kids. They seemed to have inherited their mother’s moral fortitude and their father’s quick wit. Plus, at nine and six years of age respectively, they were capable of conversation. I wouldn’t be required to change any diapers or diligently keep them from self-harm.

  I’d once watched them when Grace was eighteen months; I swear, watching a toddler is like trying to keep a reckless drunkard from committing suicide. She almost killed herself at least seventeen times. The more dangerous a situation, or activity, or object, the more determined she was to participate in it, or possess it, or put it in her mouth.

  And she’d hated clothes, so that made putting on her pajamas a tortuous exercise in masochism.

  But she’d also been sweet and cuddly, so that made all the torture worth it.

  That was then, and this was now, and Grace had grown into a joyful, silly, smart little girl. I was looking forward to playing their Harry Potter board game and hearing all about what they’d been up to.

  After picking the kids up at the community center promptly at 4:00 PM, we walked the six blocks to their building, stopping off at the store to grab ingredients for homemade pizza.

  Chicago-style pizza was one of the main reasons I would never be svelte. I worked out in fits and starts, seldom consistently. However, I was very active overall. I walked to work every weekday; I loved to hike when I had the chance, especially if I could canoe or kayak as well; but I’d never enjoyed going to a gym with any regularity.

  Therefore, in the absence of a consistent exercise routine to combat the deep-dish deliciousness, my roundness was equal parts soft and firm. Bottom line: I loved pizza too much to care about my bottom’s line.

  “Grace, please set up the game and grab our costumes. Jack, please help me in the kitchen.”

  The kids happily complied, with Grace running to her closet to retrieve our wands, wizard hats, and house scarves. I was a Hufflepuff, to the surprise of no one, Grace was a Slytherin, and Jack was a Gryffindor. It was my rule that we always dressed in costume when we played Harry Potter. Always.

  Soon, we were gathered around the coffee table, having just defeated Draco Malfoy in Diagon Alley while the first pizza baked in the oven, filling the apartment with the lovely aromas of tomato sauce, Italian seasonings, and mushrooms.

  And that’s when a knock sounded on the door.

  “I’ll get it,” Jack said, jumping up.

  I stood as well. “No. I’ll get it. You stay here and plot our next move.”

  “But it’s Professor Simmons,” he protested, edging backward toward the door. “He usually comes over for dinner on Fridays.”

  I stiffened, the hovering shadow of discontent growing darker, more omnipresent at the mention of not-Derek/Professor Matt Simmons.

  “Stay here, I’ll be right back.” I gave Jack a look that left no room for argument, though I could see he was tempted. Once satisfied the nine-year-old would stay put, I moved to the hall, mumbling under my breath, “He’s not coming to dinner tonight.”

  Bracing myself, I counted to five, then opened the door.


  “What?” I demanded.

  The smile melted off the professor’s face, replaced with an expression of startled surprise, as his eyes clashed with mine.

  “Oh,” he said, blinking once, and stuffing his hands in his pockets like he needed to hide them, or put them someplace to restrict their movements.

  “Hello.” I didn’t smile either, instead leveling him with a glower. “What do you want?”

  “I, uh . . .” His gaze shifted to the wand in my hand, the hat on my head, the scarf around my neck, and then back to me. “Hello, Luna.”

  I hadn’t realized I’d been holding the plastic play wand raised between us until it drew his attention. Grinding my teeth, I lowered the wand and scowled at him. “Luna was a Ravenclaw. Not a Hufflepuff.”

  His lips tugged to one side, like he was fighting a smile. “Is that so?”

  “Yes,” I snapped, whipping off my hat and scarf and tossing them with the wand to the table behind me. “What do you want?”

  He stood straighter, and he appeared to be trying to contain his grin. “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  I crossed my arms. “Life is full of surprises.”

  “It certainly is,” he agreed quickly, his gaze latching on to mine and growing oddly hazy.

  A few seconds passed. The moment stretched. I waited. And still he gazed at me, looking a little lost and a lot conflicted.

  I decided he probably felt guilty and wanted to apologize for being a douche canoe. But I wasn’t interested in his apologies. Or, for that matter, hovering in the hallway with Matt the douche canoe.

  My patience at an end, I huffed an aggrieved breath and wrapped my fingers over the edge of the door. “Good talk, Matt. See you around.”

  “Wait.” He jumped forward, as though abruptly coming out of a trance. “Wait, wait a minute. Can I . . . can we talk for a minute?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “No. I need to get back to the kids. I’m watching them.”

  “Oh. I can help,” he offered with a friendly smile.

  “No.”