Minted, p.3
Minted, page 3
Dave arches one eyebrow. “Let me have her? Or knew that she already liked me?”
“I’ve been looking for Mrs. Right ever since, but all I keep finding is Mrs. Right Now.”
Dave shakes his head. “Did you think some woman was going to show up and present an engraved invitation that said, ‘Bentley’s Future Bride’?” He snorts. “Think again. Life doesn’t work like that. You’re going to have to work for it.”
“What does that mean?” I lean back against the wall, a little annoyed by the direction this conversation’s headed.
“Are you dating?”
“Where would I even meet someone? I can’t date someone at work. You saw what happened to Barbara.”
“There are other ways,” Dave says.
“Like what?”
“Online dating profiles for one,” he says.
I explode away from the wall, more irritated than I usually get around him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not,” Dave says.
“You never online dated.”
“I got lucky and met Seren before I had to, but. . .” He opens his hands, palm up. “I’d hate to see you alone forever.”
“Because marriage is so perfect?” I arch one eyebrow. “Tell that to Barbara.”
“It’s got its limits,” Dave says, “but if you find the right person, yeah. It’s pretty close to perfect.” The soft look he has when he looks at Seren makes my heart contract. It’s times like this, when I’m the loser who just can’t find anyone, that really sting.
“I better head home,” I say. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Tell your uncle bye,” Dave shouts.
Even with his headphones on, half-dancing while talking to his friends, Killian hears his dad and steps toward me. He pulls one side of the headphones back. “Sick gift. Thanks, Uncle Bentley. You’re the best.”
I wave and smile, and then I’m headed for my sportscar. I finally got one that’s not a Bentley a few years ago, and then I went a little crazy and bought two more. They’re all actually pretty nice. As I climb into my McLaren 720S, I think about Dave and his doom and gloom threats. “What does he know?” I mutter.
But by the time I get home and walk into my empty apartment, I can’t help wondering whether he’s right. I’m over forty now, and I kept thinking I’d just meet someone. . .but I haven’t. I’m still alone. I hate the idea of online dating, but. . . Was he right? Do I know nothing about women or finding the right one?
When I go over the whole incident with the gift in my mind, I have to concede that he might have a little bit of a point. Sulking in the corner after wresting the gift out of Barbara’s hands might not have been a Prince Charming move, even if she’s just a friend. I text Barbara, because I was too cowardly to do the right thing, but I have to do something.
YOU’RE A GREAT AUNT. I’M SORRY FOR SNATCHING THE GIFT AND MAKING YOU FEEL BAD, IF I DID. YOUR GIFT WAS GREAT.
She doesn’t reply, which shouldn’t surprise me.
It does surprise me when Dave calls.
“Hello?”
“So. You’re home. Did you do it?”
“Do what?” I feel a little strange, like he has cameras on me or something. Does he know I texted Barbara? Is she still there? Did he see it? Are they talking about what a jerk I am?
“Did you look up online dating sites?”
I can’t help my sigh. “Seriously?”
“Because I looked into them after you left, and for the record, it seems like if you want a match that ends in marriage, eHarmony is your best bet.”
“Dave.”
“Bentley, I’m serious. Look, you might hate it, but you can’t say you hate pistachio ice cream until you’ve tried it, so just make an account and see what happens.”
“Did you tell him they have a match every fourteen minutes?” Seren asks in the background.
“You told Seren?”
“We’re both excited for you,” Seren says. “We’ve been wanting you to find someone for years.”
Oh, good. I’m a charity case, now. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but—”
“Or,” Seren says, “they have this one site called Millionaire Match, and you can find someone else who has a lot of money, too. They even verify—”
“That’s my biggest problem,” I say. “Half the girls I’ve liked turned out to only like me because I’m rich.”
“Well, that’s an easy fix,” Dave says. “I’m filling out a profile for you right now.”
“Dave, seriously?”
“They ask for income information. You can just say you only make two hundred grand a year.”
“Why two hundred?” I hate that I’m curious, but now I’m wondering why that’s the number he chose.
“Statistically speaking, women are way more likely to respond if you make more than a hundred and fifty, which makes sense. People want to have a decent quality of life.”
“Then I should put twenty grand,” I say. “That’ll weed out the gold-diggers.”
“And the good people too,” Seren says. “If you want people who just want to get laid, then do that.”
I groan. “I hate this. This is stupid. Surely you can see that.”
“I guess we’ll find out. . .” Dave says. “Bentley 1256. Because your account. . .” I can hear his fingers clicking on the keys while he hums the Jeopardy song. He finally quits. “Is live!”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I’ll text you the login info.” There’s a bing in the background. “Hey, you’ve already been matched!”
Two more bings.
“Wow, you’ve been matched three times already!”
I hear Seren clap and squeal. “This is so exciting.”
“Hey, shut off my account,” I say. “You two are weirdos.”
“But I like watching it,” Seren says. “This is so fun.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about how excited you are to see him get matched,” Dave says. “Do you wish you were on there?”
“Hey, guys, shut it off!” I’m not entirely sure they’re listening, but Dave does text me the information after I hang up. He shouldn’t really know my email address and password, but when you’ve been friends with someone long enough, at some point you wind up sharing so they can look something up, and then they remember that your password is Igneous1234, for the poor dog you named while you were obsessed with rocks as a kid.
I sigh.
And then I log in to my shiny, new eHarmony account with a lot of trepidation. “What in the world?”
When I bring up the list of people it has matched me with—eleven already—I can’t help noticing that one of them is someone I know in real life. Someone I’ve managed to royally tick off, even. This algorithm is clearly garbage.
Because match number six is Barbara.
4
Barbara
I’ve known Bentley for fifteen years now, give or take, and I’ve seen him date a lot of women. One thing I’ve never seen is Bentley dating a large woman. I doubt he’s even dated a size eight.
I’m a solid twelve.
Okay, fine, sometimes I’m a fourteen.
But it’s not like I care about the number. Or that Bentley could never be with a woman my size. It’s not like I thought I was really going to date him. I just thought he’d be a safe person to impose on as a meat-shield.
Until he made me feel like an idiot for giving Killian a gift card.
It’s not like the teenagers at Seren’s need anything, and I haven’t had time to go shopping for the perfect gift. I shouldn’t feel bad about giving him what I did.
Or maybe I’m not being honest with myself.
In that moment, when Bentley was lunging for me, smiling, and teasing me. . .it felt almost like he was flirting. I felt special, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.
But all he wanted was to open my gift, so I was the idiot for thinking he was flirting.
And his utter shock when he saw what I got?
I doubt I’d have been so upset about it if I hadn’t had my hopes up for some reason. Which is stupid. I know he dates supermodels—he’s stupid rich. He’s smart. He looks like Liam Hemsworth. He’s probably the prettiest guy in most rooms, even now, even a little older, at least, when Dave’s not around.
There was no world in which I’d ever date Bentley, and I’ve always known that. So if I really was upset because I had stupidly been hoping he might, I don’t know, turn around after fifteen years and suddenly express an interest in me? Shame on me for being an idiot.
My pet peeve is when girls write love letters to men who have been in their lives forever, confessing their feelings. They always seem to think the guy is going to magically wake up and be like, “Whoa! I never noticed you there, but now that you’ve said you like me, shazam! I find you irresistible!” It’s nuts. There’s no guy in America who has just been overlooking the girl who’s standing right at his side.
I’m not delusional. If Bentley liked me at all, he’d have found some time in the past fifteen years to express his interest.
I do what any somewhat mopey, recent divorcee would do when her hopes flew high for no reason, but were painfully dashed. I change into pajamas and hop into bed with a bowl of ice cream and a slice of chocolate cake. The better part of an episode of Emily in Paris, and I’m feeling a little better.
The cake didn’t hurt.
But then my phone buzzes.
I whip it off the nightstand, and it’s a text from Bentley. As if I didn’t already know he was an unattainable unicorn, he actually apologizes for. . .what? Looking underwhelmed by my gift card? Openly acknowledging the silent battle he and I have had over the past decade and a half, in which I usually make each kid something special that’s not very expensive, while he shamelessly tries to buy their love?
YOU’RE A GREAT AUNT. I’M SORRY FOR SNATCHING THE GIFT AND MAKING YOU FEEL BAD, IF I DID. YOUR GIFT WAS GREAT.
I never got upset about any of that before. It was kind of our thing.
But this time, he saw that he hurt my feelings, and he sent me an actual apology, with proper punctuation and everything. I slump down against the pillows. Even watching the rest of the episode in which poor Emily makes stupid decisions while inspired by a hot chef, I can’t quite seem to get out of my funk. There might not be enough cake in the container Seren packed for me.
Normally, I’d call my mom in a situation like this.
And I know I’m not the only person in the world who has lost a parent. I’m not. I know that. I’m not even the only person who has lost both parents. But it feels like I’ve lost two legs on the stool of my life or something, and I’m not sure there’s a way for me to get them back.
Eventually, I do force myself out of bed to brush my teeth and start the dishwasher, and that’s when I see it.
A notification from stupid eHarmony—I haven’t logged in for at least a month, but it’s always sending me little teasers that I ignore. Only, this one is weird. Given my bizarre thoughts tonight, it’s really weird.
“You’ve been Matched!” That’s hardly surprising. The only being on earth excited about my social life is eHarmony. No, the surprise is the name it’s listing as my match.
Bentley Harrison.
I mean, it’s not a common name. How many Bentley Harrisons can there really be? In a million years, my friend Bentley would never ever ever get on a dating app. I’ve heard him talk about them and the people who use them.
I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt.
And yet.
Instead of ignoring the notification and finishing with brushing my teeth like a normal person, I swipe to open my phone and bring up the app. And then I’m even more shocked when I find myself staring at Bentley’s gorgeous face.
I mean, he’s not even looking at the camera, and it’s a weird crop of the photo, but it’s definitely him. Could it be a bizarre sign from the universe? Am I supposed to write him a horribly sappy letter about my unrequited love, get humiliated, and somehow discover something about myself?
No way.
There’s really only one explanation.
It has to be a fake account. Someone stole his identity—probably some dork who works for him. They made an account with his information, hoping to use his looks and posh-sounding name to find a girl. I’d expect that more at like, Tinder or Match, but hey. People are branching out as women get smarter. I glance at the income.
Two hundred grand.
Ha! Bentley probably makes that in a normal day.
I think about just ignoring it, which would be the smart thing to do. There’s no way that even a fake Bentley would be interested in me. But if it was me who had been hacked, I’d want to know that someone was impersonating me. I’d want to get a heads up or something.
I do the adult thing, even though it’s a little hard, and I pull up his contact on my phone. It’s ten at night, but he’s the kind of person who probably swipes the silence notifications button on, right? If he’s asleep, a phone call won’t wake him up, surely.
“Hello?”
I fumble my phone a little and my heart accelerates. I guess I didn’t expect him to answer. I’ve known Bentley forever, but I almost never call him. And when we text, it’s about Dave or Seren. Always.
“Uh, hey. It’s Barbara.”
“Yeah, I got this weird thing—I think it’s called caller ID or something. It tells who’s calling me at ten at night so I can decide whether to answer.”
“So, I know it’s late, and maybe you won’t care, but I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Bentley sounds a little incredulous.
“Yeah, so I’m on this dating app called eHarmony, and I just got a notification that I was matched with someone.”
“Okay.”
“And it was you, only I know it’s not you, because I know you wouldn’t ever get on there.” He’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying something? “Anyway, I think maybe someone from work like, took your photo, and they’re imitating you so they can, I don’t know, like, hit on people.”
“Imitating me?”
“The profile’s just awful,” I say. “I mean, it made me laugh, but it’s really, really bad. I doubt they’ll convince many women to meet them, but they did say they had an income of two hundred a year, so who knows? Some women are really desperate.”
“Barbara?”
“Yeah?” Before he can get annoyed, I cut to the chase. “Listen, I can email the web admin and report your account if you want, but I might need some kind of verification from you, like a photo of your actual ID to get them to take it down, and I’m not sure whether they’ll give you information on who’s doing it—like an IP or something.”
“Barbara.”
“Maybe you don’t care, but people can google you, and if it were me, I’d want—”
“Barbara, it’s really me.”
“What?” I hate how shrill my voice sounds.
“It’s my account.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. I said—what exactly did I say? That it was bad. That the account wouldn’t pull any girls at all. And oh, no. He knows it matched us, and that’s how I saw it.
I can feel the heat flooding my face and neck. My face flushes really easily—a little bit of wine, the slightest embarrassment, and I turn into Sebastian the Crab.
At least he can’t see me.
“Oh, well, neat. I guess, forget what I said.”
“I thought maybe you were calling because eHarmony matched us.” His voice is low, and it’s rumbling in a way I haven’t noticed before, and I realize that he’s mocking me.
“Stop,” I say. “But wait. Why does it say income of two hundred thousand? That feels like what a fake-you might put, just to draw people, but you and I both know that’s way wrong. And not in the way people might think.”
“Dave made the profile, actually, so I can’t wait to tell him how terrible you think it is.”
“I mean, it’s not that bad.” I try to backtrack. Why did I use such strong words? Ugh.
“I can tell it’s not great,” he says, “but I wouldn’t even know how to improve it.” He makes a hmm sound. “Yours is gorgeous.”
Which means he thinks the picture from two years ago, before I had gained as much weight, is misleading. I mean, he’s right. But it still stings. “Very funny.”
“No, I mean it. You’re pretty good at this stuff, clearly. Way better than I am. I have an idea, actually.”
An idea? What does that mean? He’s not suggesting. . .that we actually go on a date, is he? Why does that make my heart hammer in my chest? It’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. When he didn’t like me, I wouldn’t be able to disengage, and every single event at Seren and Dave’s would be a disaster from here on out. No, that must not be what he’s saying.
Oh, crap. He’s talking. Focus, you stupid, hormonal idiot.
“—could pay you, but if you could kind of hold my hand through this.”
Hold his hand? Why did I zone out? Why was I focusing on the stupid hope that our match on a dumb dating site might mean something to him? Ugh. I blame James for leaving me an emotional mess. “Hold your hand?”
“I don’t know how long it would take, but if you could spruce up my profile and help me pick people to date from the matches, that would be amazing.”
“You want me to help you? Divorced and broken-engagement me?”
“What I hear is that not one, but two men asked you to marry them, and you have clearly dated seriously more than I have. Plus you have the inside track on women, right?”
“I do?”
“I mean, you are one.”
My laugh sounds a little unhinged. “Right.” Get it together, Barbara.
“I mean, I’m pretty busy right now with work stuff.”
“Of course you are,” he says. “It’s the holidays, and you’re stuck doing more work because of all the commercialization of Christmas marketing and whatnot.”
“Right,” I say. “But maybe we could try and get dinner tomorrow, and I can clean up the profile a little. Maybe look through your photo reel and find some other decent photos. Sites like these let you post more than one photo—I think eHarmony lets you post twelve. You want to do at least six or eight, because it makes it look less like a catfishing account.”
“I’ve been looking for Mrs. Right ever since, but all I keep finding is Mrs. Right Now.”
Dave shakes his head. “Did you think some woman was going to show up and present an engraved invitation that said, ‘Bentley’s Future Bride’?” He snorts. “Think again. Life doesn’t work like that. You’re going to have to work for it.”
“What does that mean?” I lean back against the wall, a little annoyed by the direction this conversation’s headed.
“Are you dating?”
“Where would I even meet someone? I can’t date someone at work. You saw what happened to Barbara.”
“There are other ways,” Dave says.
“Like what?”
“Online dating profiles for one,” he says.
I explode away from the wall, more irritated than I usually get around him. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”
“I’m not,” Dave says.
“You never online dated.”
“I got lucky and met Seren before I had to, but. . .” He opens his hands, palm up. “I’d hate to see you alone forever.”
“Because marriage is so perfect?” I arch one eyebrow. “Tell that to Barbara.”
“It’s got its limits,” Dave says, “but if you find the right person, yeah. It’s pretty close to perfect.” The soft look he has when he looks at Seren makes my heart contract. It’s times like this, when I’m the loser who just can’t find anyone, that really sting.
“I better head home,” I say. “Early morning tomorrow.”
“Tell your uncle bye,” Dave shouts.
Even with his headphones on, half-dancing while talking to his friends, Killian hears his dad and steps toward me. He pulls one side of the headphones back. “Sick gift. Thanks, Uncle Bentley. You’re the best.”
I wave and smile, and then I’m headed for my sportscar. I finally got one that’s not a Bentley a few years ago, and then I went a little crazy and bought two more. They’re all actually pretty nice. As I climb into my McLaren 720S, I think about Dave and his doom and gloom threats. “What does he know?” I mutter.
But by the time I get home and walk into my empty apartment, I can’t help wondering whether he’s right. I’m over forty now, and I kept thinking I’d just meet someone. . .but I haven’t. I’m still alone. I hate the idea of online dating, but. . . Was he right? Do I know nothing about women or finding the right one?
When I go over the whole incident with the gift in my mind, I have to concede that he might have a little bit of a point. Sulking in the corner after wresting the gift out of Barbara’s hands might not have been a Prince Charming move, even if she’s just a friend. I text Barbara, because I was too cowardly to do the right thing, but I have to do something.
YOU’RE A GREAT AUNT. I’M SORRY FOR SNATCHING THE GIFT AND MAKING YOU FEEL BAD, IF I DID. YOUR GIFT WAS GREAT.
She doesn’t reply, which shouldn’t surprise me.
It does surprise me when Dave calls.
“Hello?”
“So. You’re home. Did you do it?”
“Do what?” I feel a little strange, like he has cameras on me or something. Does he know I texted Barbara? Is she still there? Did he see it? Are they talking about what a jerk I am?
“Did you look up online dating sites?”
I can’t help my sigh. “Seriously?”
“Because I looked into them after you left, and for the record, it seems like if you want a match that ends in marriage, eHarmony is your best bet.”
“Dave.”
“Bentley, I’m serious. Look, you might hate it, but you can’t say you hate pistachio ice cream until you’ve tried it, so just make an account and see what happens.”
“Did you tell him they have a match every fourteen minutes?” Seren asks in the background.
“You told Seren?”
“We’re both excited for you,” Seren says. “We’ve been wanting you to find someone for years.”
Oh, good. I’m a charity case, now. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but—”
“Or,” Seren says, “they have this one site called Millionaire Match, and you can find someone else who has a lot of money, too. They even verify—”
“That’s my biggest problem,” I say. “Half the girls I’ve liked turned out to only like me because I’m rich.”
“Well, that’s an easy fix,” Dave says. “I’m filling out a profile for you right now.”
“Dave, seriously?”
“They ask for income information. You can just say you only make two hundred grand a year.”
“Why two hundred?” I hate that I’m curious, but now I’m wondering why that’s the number he chose.
“Statistically speaking, women are way more likely to respond if you make more than a hundred and fifty, which makes sense. People want to have a decent quality of life.”
“Then I should put twenty grand,” I say. “That’ll weed out the gold-diggers.”
“And the good people too,” Seren says. “If you want people who just want to get laid, then do that.”
I groan. “I hate this. This is stupid. Surely you can see that.”
“I guess we’ll find out. . .” Dave says. “Bentley 1256. Because your account. . .” I can hear his fingers clicking on the keys while he hums the Jeopardy song. He finally quits. “Is live!”
“You have got to be kidding me.”
“Nope. I’ll text you the login info.” There’s a bing in the background. “Hey, you’ve already been matched!”
Two more bings.
“Wow, you’ve been matched three times already!”
I hear Seren clap and squeal. “This is so exciting.”
“Hey, shut off my account,” I say. “You two are weirdos.”
“But I like watching it,” Seren says. “This is so fun.”
“I’m not sure how I feel about how excited you are to see him get matched,” Dave says. “Do you wish you were on there?”
“Hey, guys, shut it off!” I’m not entirely sure they’re listening, but Dave does text me the information after I hang up. He shouldn’t really know my email address and password, but when you’ve been friends with someone long enough, at some point you wind up sharing so they can look something up, and then they remember that your password is Igneous1234, for the poor dog you named while you were obsessed with rocks as a kid.
I sigh.
And then I log in to my shiny, new eHarmony account with a lot of trepidation. “What in the world?”
When I bring up the list of people it has matched me with—eleven already—I can’t help noticing that one of them is someone I know in real life. Someone I’ve managed to royally tick off, even. This algorithm is clearly garbage.
Because match number six is Barbara.
4
Barbara
I’ve known Bentley for fifteen years now, give or take, and I’ve seen him date a lot of women. One thing I’ve never seen is Bentley dating a large woman. I doubt he’s even dated a size eight.
I’m a solid twelve.
Okay, fine, sometimes I’m a fourteen.
But it’s not like I care about the number. Or that Bentley could never be with a woman my size. It’s not like I thought I was really going to date him. I just thought he’d be a safe person to impose on as a meat-shield.
Until he made me feel like an idiot for giving Killian a gift card.
It’s not like the teenagers at Seren’s need anything, and I haven’t had time to go shopping for the perfect gift. I shouldn’t feel bad about giving him what I did.
Or maybe I’m not being honest with myself.
In that moment, when Bentley was lunging for me, smiling, and teasing me. . .it felt almost like he was flirting. I felt special, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.
But all he wanted was to open my gift, so I was the idiot for thinking he was flirting.
And his utter shock when he saw what I got?
I doubt I’d have been so upset about it if I hadn’t had my hopes up for some reason. Which is stupid. I know he dates supermodels—he’s stupid rich. He’s smart. He looks like Liam Hemsworth. He’s probably the prettiest guy in most rooms, even now, even a little older, at least, when Dave’s not around.
There was no world in which I’d ever date Bentley, and I’ve always known that. So if I really was upset because I had stupidly been hoping he might, I don’t know, turn around after fifteen years and suddenly express an interest in me? Shame on me for being an idiot.
My pet peeve is when girls write love letters to men who have been in their lives forever, confessing their feelings. They always seem to think the guy is going to magically wake up and be like, “Whoa! I never noticed you there, but now that you’ve said you like me, shazam! I find you irresistible!” It’s nuts. There’s no guy in America who has just been overlooking the girl who’s standing right at his side.
I’m not delusional. If Bentley liked me at all, he’d have found some time in the past fifteen years to express his interest.
I do what any somewhat mopey, recent divorcee would do when her hopes flew high for no reason, but were painfully dashed. I change into pajamas and hop into bed with a bowl of ice cream and a slice of chocolate cake. The better part of an episode of Emily in Paris, and I’m feeling a little better.
The cake didn’t hurt.
But then my phone buzzes.
I whip it off the nightstand, and it’s a text from Bentley. As if I didn’t already know he was an unattainable unicorn, he actually apologizes for. . .what? Looking underwhelmed by my gift card? Openly acknowledging the silent battle he and I have had over the past decade and a half, in which I usually make each kid something special that’s not very expensive, while he shamelessly tries to buy their love?
YOU’RE A GREAT AUNT. I’M SORRY FOR SNATCHING THE GIFT AND MAKING YOU FEEL BAD, IF I DID. YOUR GIFT WAS GREAT.
I never got upset about any of that before. It was kind of our thing.
But this time, he saw that he hurt my feelings, and he sent me an actual apology, with proper punctuation and everything. I slump down against the pillows. Even watching the rest of the episode in which poor Emily makes stupid decisions while inspired by a hot chef, I can’t quite seem to get out of my funk. There might not be enough cake in the container Seren packed for me.
Normally, I’d call my mom in a situation like this.
And I know I’m not the only person in the world who has lost a parent. I’m not. I know that. I’m not even the only person who has lost both parents. But it feels like I’ve lost two legs on the stool of my life or something, and I’m not sure there’s a way for me to get them back.
Eventually, I do force myself out of bed to brush my teeth and start the dishwasher, and that’s when I see it.
A notification from stupid eHarmony—I haven’t logged in for at least a month, but it’s always sending me little teasers that I ignore. Only, this one is weird. Given my bizarre thoughts tonight, it’s really weird.
“You’ve been Matched!” That’s hardly surprising. The only being on earth excited about my social life is eHarmony. No, the surprise is the name it’s listing as my match.
Bentley Harrison.
I mean, it’s not a common name. How many Bentley Harrisons can there really be? In a million years, my friend Bentley would never ever ever get on a dating app. I’ve heard him talk about them and the people who use them.
I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt.
And yet.
Instead of ignoring the notification and finishing with brushing my teeth like a normal person, I swipe to open my phone and bring up the app. And then I’m even more shocked when I find myself staring at Bentley’s gorgeous face.
I mean, he’s not even looking at the camera, and it’s a weird crop of the photo, but it’s definitely him. Could it be a bizarre sign from the universe? Am I supposed to write him a horribly sappy letter about my unrequited love, get humiliated, and somehow discover something about myself?
No way.
There’s really only one explanation.
It has to be a fake account. Someone stole his identity—probably some dork who works for him. They made an account with his information, hoping to use his looks and posh-sounding name to find a girl. I’d expect that more at like, Tinder or Match, but hey. People are branching out as women get smarter. I glance at the income.
Two hundred grand.
Ha! Bentley probably makes that in a normal day.
I think about just ignoring it, which would be the smart thing to do. There’s no way that even a fake Bentley would be interested in me. But if it was me who had been hacked, I’d want to know that someone was impersonating me. I’d want to get a heads up or something.
I do the adult thing, even though it’s a little hard, and I pull up his contact on my phone. It’s ten at night, but he’s the kind of person who probably swipes the silence notifications button on, right? If he’s asleep, a phone call won’t wake him up, surely.
“Hello?”
I fumble my phone a little and my heart accelerates. I guess I didn’t expect him to answer. I’ve known Bentley forever, but I almost never call him. And when we text, it’s about Dave or Seren. Always.
“Uh, hey. It’s Barbara.”
“Yeah, I got this weird thing—I think it’s called caller ID or something. It tells who’s calling me at ten at night so I can decide whether to answer.”
“So, I know it’s late, and maybe you won’t care, but I wanted to warn you.”
“Warn me?” Bentley sounds a little incredulous.
“Yeah, so I’m on this dating app called eHarmony, and I just got a notification that I was matched with someone.”
“Okay.”
“And it was you, only I know it’s not you, because I know you wouldn’t ever get on there.” He’s not saying anything. Why isn’t he saying something? “Anyway, I think maybe someone from work like, took your photo, and they’re imitating you so they can, I don’t know, like, hit on people.”
“Imitating me?”
“The profile’s just awful,” I say. “I mean, it made me laugh, but it’s really, really bad. I doubt they’ll convince many women to meet them, but they did say they had an income of two hundred a year, so who knows? Some women are really desperate.”
“Barbara?”
“Yeah?” Before he can get annoyed, I cut to the chase. “Listen, I can email the web admin and report your account if you want, but I might need some kind of verification from you, like a photo of your actual ID to get them to take it down, and I’m not sure whether they’ll give you information on who’s doing it—like an IP or something.”
“Barbara.”
“Maybe you don’t care, but people can google you, and if it were me, I’d want—”
“Barbara, it’s really me.”
“What?” I hate how shrill my voice sounds.
“It’s my account.”
Oh, no. Oh, no, no, no. I said—what exactly did I say? That it was bad. That the account wouldn’t pull any girls at all. And oh, no. He knows it matched us, and that’s how I saw it.
I can feel the heat flooding my face and neck. My face flushes really easily—a little bit of wine, the slightest embarrassment, and I turn into Sebastian the Crab.
At least he can’t see me.
“Oh, well, neat. I guess, forget what I said.”
“I thought maybe you were calling because eHarmony matched us.” His voice is low, and it’s rumbling in a way I haven’t noticed before, and I realize that he’s mocking me.
“Stop,” I say. “But wait. Why does it say income of two hundred thousand? That feels like what a fake-you might put, just to draw people, but you and I both know that’s way wrong. And not in the way people might think.”
“Dave made the profile, actually, so I can’t wait to tell him how terrible you think it is.”
“I mean, it’s not that bad.” I try to backtrack. Why did I use such strong words? Ugh.
“I can tell it’s not great,” he says, “but I wouldn’t even know how to improve it.” He makes a hmm sound. “Yours is gorgeous.”
Which means he thinks the picture from two years ago, before I had gained as much weight, is misleading. I mean, he’s right. But it still stings. “Very funny.”
“No, I mean it. You’re pretty good at this stuff, clearly. Way better than I am. I have an idea, actually.”
An idea? What does that mean? He’s not suggesting. . .that we actually go on a date, is he? Why does that make my heart hammer in my chest? It’s the dumbest idea I’ve ever had. When he didn’t like me, I wouldn’t be able to disengage, and every single event at Seren and Dave’s would be a disaster from here on out. No, that must not be what he’s saying.
Oh, crap. He’s talking. Focus, you stupid, hormonal idiot.
“—could pay you, but if you could kind of hold my hand through this.”
Hold his hand? Why did I zone out? Why was I focusing on the stupid hope that our match on a dumb dating site might mean something to him? Ugh. I blame James for leaving me an emotional mess. “Hold your hand?”
“I don’t know how long it would take, but if you could spruce up my profile and help me pick people to date from the matches, that would be amazing.”
“You want me to help you? Divorced and broken-engagement me?”
“What I hear is that not one, but two men asked you to marry them, and you have clearly dated seriously more than I have. Plus you have the inside track on women, right?”
“I do?”
“I mean, you are one.”
My laugh sounds a little unhinged. “Right.” Get it together, Barbara.
“I mean, I’m pretty busy right now with work stuff.”
“Of course you are,” he says. “It’s the holidays, and you’re stuck doing more work because of all the commercialization of Christmas marketing and whatnot.”
“Right,” I say. “But maybe we could try and get dinner tomorrow, and I can clean up the profile a little. Maybe look through your photo reel and find some other decent photos. Sites like these let you post more than one photo—I think eHarmony lets you post twelve. You want to do at least six or eight, because it makes it look less like a catfishing account.”
