Thirty Days: Part One (A SwipeDate Novella Book 1) Page 2

  She looks back and smiles, and I admire it for a moment. A nice smile is truly the first thing I notice. “Or a good one,” she says. “It bodes well for me at least.”

  “So, you’re a yoga instructor, right?” I ask as we approach the counter, the barista still busy with another order.

  “Yeah, I have my own studio in Chelsea,” she says, scanning the menu. I take the opportunity to trail my eyes from her gorgeous dirty blonde mane, collected up in a hair tie, down her neck and firm body. I look back up just in time to catch her turning to face me.

  Close one.

  “Know what you’re getting?” she asks, motioning to the board.

  “Coffee, shot of espresso, cream and sugar… always,” I say, smirking.

  “I like it. I’m a quad, nonfat, soy milk, one pump of sugar free vanilla kinda girl.”

  “Is that a drink or a Wi-Fi password?” I chuckle, but she’s expressionless, her attention on the returning barista.

  He takes our orders, and we grab a seat at a table with two stools along the wide front glass window, which looks out onto the busy street. I let her sit first and then take a seat of my own on the stiff leather stool as she leans her elbows on the table.

  “And you? What do you do?” she asks.

  I laugh, thinking how funny it is she asked that when it’s one of the first things a person sees when swiping. “Oh, I’m a struggling author,” I say, smiling.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she says, her eyes dropping to the tabletop.

  “No reason to be sorry. I’m not. For whatever reason, I volunteered for this abuse,” I joke and she lets out a quiet laugh.

  “Gavin,” the barista calls out and Jessie looks over, relieved.

  I motion to the barista as I stand and make my way to the counter. I grab the mugs and carefully walk them back to the table.

  “Have you written anything I may have heard of?” she asks, taking the drink from me and nodding with appreciation as I take a seat again.

  “Maybe. I have two in bookstores. One of them did really well and hit a few lists for a while.”

  “What are they called?” she asks, taking a sip of her coffee and peering at me through the steam. As an author, when you tell someone what you do, you often get this look of doubt.

  “The Honest Ones and The Wicked Ones,” I respond, my eyes roaming the café and a hand tucking my hair behind my ear.

  “And…” she says, raising her eyebrows and shrugging, “…what are they about?”

  “They’re kinda part of a series. The first was based off my grandparents’ story. My grandma was a nurse during World War II. My grandfather was a Navy pilot shot down in the South Pacific. The story obviously writes itself. That one did really well. I followed up with The Wicked Ones, which was pretty much a love story from the enemy’s perspective and it… well, it fucking tanked.”

  She tilts her head and passes me a disapproving look. “Language, please.”

  I look around the mostly empty café and then back at her, a smirk on my face that I fight to erase. “Yeah, sorry about that.”

  “You’re okay. It’s just—”

  “Actually, you know…” I say, unintentionally interrupting her. “There aren’t any kids here, and I kind of have this weird belief when it comes to curse words.”

  “Do you now?” she asks in a dry tone, her face reading anything but interest.

  “I mean, so who was it back in the day who decided these words should be restricted? I never got a say in it. They are only words, after all.”

  “Words have a lot of power,” she retorts.

  “Words have only as much power as you allow them to have. I’m an author so I could go on endlessly about this, but I just get way too many negative reviews based solely on the language used in my work to get on board with that concept. I will kindly refrain for you though,” I say, smiling and lifting my mug with hopes of a peace offering. She lifts her mug too and nods, but the annoyed look on her face remains.

  “So, do you work out much?” she asks.

  I clear my throat, wondering how best to tell a stranger I haven’t seen a gym in about two months.

  “Yeah, a few days a week,” I say. “At least.”

  She smiles wide and nods. “Yeah, me too.” She rolls her eyes and motions to her attire. “I mean, obviously. I pretty much live in Under Armour.”

  I let out an uneasy laugh and look around the café. “Yep,” I say, my eyes meeting hers. “Just do it.”

  “Are you thinking of Nike?” she asks.

  “Exactly,” I say, taking a nervous sip. “I do a lot of Crossfit,” I add, not quite sure why, as I don’t know a thing about it.

  She gives another nod of approval.

  “What’s your favorite WOD? I’m obsessed with the Murph,” she says, and she might as well be speaking Chinese.

  “I love the Mc—McCartney. It’s like…” my voice trails as I shake my head, trying to look as convincing as possible. “It’s my shit.”

  I have to laugh, internally, forcing it from showing on my face, as Paul McCartney, the inspiration for my word vomit, is jamming out on a poster behind her.

  “The McCartney?” she asks, scrunching her face. “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “It’s just like… wow… crazy,” I say. She looks around a bit, her hand fidgeting with her latte.

  “That’s cool. I’ve been doing Crossfit for about five years now. Fitness is my life. I’m actually vegan. Started five years ago, and lost a hundred and twenty pounds in the process.”

  “That’s really amazing! Congrats. I give you props on being able to go the vegan route too. I don’t know how you do it. I need my steak. And bacon. And hot dogs. And hamburgers. Yeah, I’m pretty much a caveman.”

  “Eh, you get used to it after a while. I don’t know how you meat eaters do it. It’s sickening.”

  “But delicious. I don’t like the process, but I can get down with the outcome,” I respond, rubbing my tummy, but she doesn’t seem amused. “So are you from here?” I ask, trying to change the conversation, but feeling about as original as a man bun.

  “Born and raised,” she says. “You?”

  “Chicago, originally, but I moved down here eight years ago with my best friend for college. NYU.”

  “That’s cool. I have friends that went there.”

  “It’s not too bad. I’m appreciative during the beautiful spring and fall, and cursing myself come wintertime. But Chicago’s not much better,” I say, drinking the last of my coffee.

  “So, what brings you to SwipeDate?” she asks, and my thoughts immediately trail to Bobby.

  “Is it bad to say ‘I don’t really know?’” I reply, flashing a timid smile. “I’ve never really done anything like this before… have you?”

  “Yeah, a few times. I find myself deleting it one month and adding it again the next.”

  “Any luck with it?”

  “Well, I’m sitting here, aren’t I?”

  “That you are. So, what’s the consensus… what brings you back?”

  “I wish I knew.” She scoffs. “Mostly boredom, I guess. And it’s hard to meet people as a single mother, business owner, et cetera.”

  “Makes sense. How many kids do you have?”

  “I have three. Two boys and a girl.”

  “Sounds like a handful.”

  She laughs, rolling her eyes. “You better believe it. Do you have any?”

  I shake my head. “No… no kids for me. Not even sure I want ‘em.”

  “No?” she asks, scrutinizing me with her eyes.

  “No, I’m kind of a big kid myself still.”

  “How old are you again?” she asks, a little judgment in her voice I don’t like very much.

  “Twenty-eight going on twelve. I can pretty much only feed and bathe myself. Sometimes I even have trouble with that.” She seems unimpressed. “Maybe one day. But right now, I’m just kinda figuring life out. Figuring myself out,” I add.

&n
bsp; “Well…” She lifts her coffee and swigs the rest of it before returning it to the tabletop. Standing, she continues, “I wish you well in that journey.”

  “Was it something I said?” I ask with a grin.

  “Oh, no… sorry, I just have a class coming up here in a bit and we’re finished with our coffees. I don’t believe in wasting time… you know?”

  “I can respect that. I assume it’s the kids comment, huh?”

  Her eyes flit to the door. “Well, I’m kind of at the point where I don’t have the time to waste. I know what I’m looking for. I know what I want, and I’ve got a busy schedule. But thank you for the coffee.” She smiles, and puts out her hand for me to shake.

  “Fair enough. It was great to meet you, Jessie.” I stand and take her hand, shaking it before she makes her way to the door. She’s nowhere to be seen by the time I sit back down, riffling my phone out of my pocket.

  Hell of a first go at it.

  By the middle of the third coffee date, I’m realizing how bad of an idea three coffee dates in a row was. My stomach grumbles and churns, willing me to the bathroom, but Danica, 20, from the Bronx, hasn’t paused long enough for me to get a word in edgewise. I’m not even sure she’s stopped long enough to breathe.

  “So then my mom’s like, ‘okay, Danica, you gotta figure out what to do with your life,’ and I’m like ‘Mom, I’m only twenty. I’ve got, like, a million years to figure things out’ and she’s like, ‘now, Danica, that’s no way to look at life. Time catches up to you.’ Blah. Blah. Blah. And of course, I was like, ‘Mom, you had, like, three kids by the time you were twenty, we aren’t on the same path’… like, not at all.” She finally pauses, her face scrunching in confusion. “Are you okay? You don’t look so good.”

  “No?” I ask, trying my best to make the I-gotta-poop face go away. “I do need to use the restroom though, if you don’t mind.”

  “Be my guest,” she says, and I make my way to the bathroom as casually as I can, though the countdown has begun. The sweat building on my forehead, and in my palms, tells me so. I nonchalantly swing the door open and take my time entering, but once it closes, I’m in a race against time. Date poops aren’t easy. You must time it like you’re taking a piss. Nobody wants to be that guy taking a shit in the middle of a date. It’s not like I’m a senior citizen here. The worst part of the process, of course, is the fact that toilet paper always likes to come off one square at a time when you’re rushing to line the seat. Who the fuck only uses a square at a time anyway? Why do they make it like that? Why?

  Eyeing my phone, I know I only have another minute or so at best before she figures me out. I finish my business, and as I go to wash my hands, my reflection in the mirror startles me. I’m legitimately in an all-out sweat.

  Yeah, that’s not obvious or anything.

  I grab a wad of paper towels and dab my face the best I can before tossing the soaked towels in the trash and exiting the bathroom.

  The walk back is like I’m making my entrance on American Idol or something. I feel all eyes on me, including hers, as I cross the Starbucks to our table. It’s like I’m in slow motion, the spotlight is on me… they all know. Of course, in reality, no one is paying any attention to me and Danica is too busy Snapchatting or selfie-ing on her phone to notice my approach, but that’s a moot point. I’ve got a writer’s brain, and with that, there’s a whole imaginary world going on around me at all times. It gets real exciting when I’m on a plane and envision it nose diving into the side of a mountain, everyone screaming and frantic as I sit calmly in resignation… or walking down a dark isolated alleyway and seeing my violent death play out before me.

  It’s been like that since I was a kid. My parents were never really the type to care very much. Me and my brother were often left to our own devices as our parents worked and spent their remaining time trying to avoid each other and taking shit out on us. It formed, in me, an intense desire to escape. And seeing as an adolescent doesn’t have too many logical options at that point, an imaginary world was necessary for survival. I remember building a little fort in my closet. Somewhere I could get away and disappear from the world. I’d sit in there under a dim lamplight and read epic adventure tales. The stories were my own, lived out every step of the way through my imagination. Though not real, it very much seemed so growing up. Those stories were all I had.

  Funny how so little has changed.

  “Everything come out okay?” Danica asks, looking up from her phone as I pull the chair out and take a seat. Her knowing glances make the back of my neck burn. I flash a timid smile and shrug.

  “As best it can, I guess.’

  “That’s always good. I have an uncle with irritable bowel syndrome,” she says, nonchalantly.

  “Wait, what… no… what? What are you saying?”

  “You’re sweating,” she points out, nodding toward my forehead. I swipe an arm across it.

  “I—I run hot. A gift from my dad,” I stutter nervously.

  “That’s cool.”

  Now, she’s got nothing to say.

  “No, it blows. New York City summers and me don’t get along very well. It’s ugly.”

  “Are you not from here?” she asks, sipping her coffee, her focus shared between me and her buzzing phone on the table.

  “No, born and raised in the South Side of Chicago. What about you?”

  “Well, that’s kind of a long story.”

  Fuck me.

  “So, how did the dates go?” Bobby asks, eyeing me over his glasses, a pint of beer in his hand. I take a drink of my own beer and set it back on the bar, shaking my head.

  “It was a dream come true, buddy. Let me fucking tell you.”

  “Oh, it couldn’t have been that bad,” he says.

  “Dude, I haven’t been on a first date since Joanne. You know that. If my game was Michael Jordan playing baseball before her, it’s Tim Tebow playing baseball now. I’m fucking awful.”

  “Just takes time to get back into it.”

  “Says the guy who’s jumped in and out of relationships his whole life. You never have trouble finding women,” I scoff, grabbing my thick brown hair and pulling it back into a ponytail. “It was awful. Pure, unadulterated shit.”

  “I think you’re just being hard on yourself.”

  “Bobby, my second date felt like a fucking CPA convention. I’m pretty sure I put her to sleep.”

  “Did you really even try with these women?”

  “Yeah, certainly.” He must sense my hesitation because his brows draw close and he crosses his arms.

  “Bullshit. Where did you take them?”

  “Coffee.”

  “Just coffee?” he asks, tilting his head to the side. “All three of them?”

  “Yeah, what the hell else is there to do?”

  “Seriously, bro, do we need to sign you up for dating 101 or something?”

  “Probably wouldn’t hurt,” I muse.

  “You took them all out on the same day, didn’t you?” he asks, narrowing his eyes on me. I turn and take a drink. I’m a terrible liar and considering how long I’ve known Bobby, he can see right through me.

  “No way,” I say, my voice cracking.

  “You lying sack of shit! Three coffee dates in one day?! How did you not shit yourself?”

  “It was a close call,” I say with a chuckle.

  “Dude, Gavin, that’s cheating.”

  “How is that cheating?”

  “You didn’t give them a real chance. You were just trying to get me off your ass.”

  “No shit, Magellan, there’s the discovery of the year,” I say, cocking an eyebrow. “You think I wanted to join a stupid dating app? Besides, you never said they had to be on different days. You gave me three days for three dates and I just took the most efficient route possible.”

  He lets out a heavy sigh. “What am I gonna do with you, Gavin?”

  “Leave me to live my life, alone and comfortably numb?” I ask, my brows danc
ing.

  “Not a chance. What are best friends for if we can’t force each other into uncomfortable situations for betterment and growth purposes.”

  “Okay, Tony Robbins. Well, I held up my end of the bargain. You have to leave my love life alone from here on out,” I say, letting out a sigh of relief before downing the last of my beer and motioning for another.

  “And what if I said I had one more challenge for you?” he asks, a smile slowly building.

  “No! No fucking way, man. No more. I’ve been sufficiently out of my comfort zone for the next ten years at least. And a bet’s a bet. You lost. I win. I’m free.” I shrug, taking the fresh beer from the bartender and nodding in appreciation.

  “Hear me out. I think you may be interested in this one.”

  “I highly doubt it,” I mutter.

  “If you follow through with this one, I’ve got a check for twenty-five thousand dollars with your name on it.”

  I shoot him an incredulous stare, my mouth gaping. “You fucking with me here?”

  He shakes his head. “Not one bit.”

  “Why does this feel like an attempt to throw your money and success in my face?”

  He tilts his head, his lips pressed tightly together. “You know me way better than that, my friend. My only concern here is one of two things, and in a perfect world, both. For you to meet someone who helps you to forget about Joanne, and to get you out of your writing funk.”

  “What funk?” I ask, and can’t help but laugh. Funk is a nice way of saying it. I’m floating, my head barely above the water. And truth be told, twenty-five thousand would be a game changer for me. Bobby, a three-time New York Times bestselling author, doesn’t blink twice at that kind of change. Me? It’d be like winning the lottery. I’m not doing too bad for myself with decent residuals still coming in from my first book and scraps from my second, but things could definitely be better. The residuals help keep the bills paid, but don’t go much further than that. Unfortunately, when it comes to writing, my will is broken, and as a writer, you can only take a beating from sales, reviewers, and critics so long before it eventually ruins you. I haven’t even written a paragraph worthy of publishing since Joanne left me. My computer’s trash bin is stuffed to the gills with half-finished manuscripts about nothing relevant or meaningful.