Maybe there’s a compromise. A middle way. A reasonable first step that will scratch the itch for Alex without forcing me to let go of him entirely.
“What about…” I reach for his phone, then mine, setting them on our laps. “The apps.”
Alex blinks at me. “Thewhat?”
“The dating apps. I know Google pissed you off when it suggested it, but… that was seven months ago. We’re on the upswing, right? New year, new… journey? I don’t know…” I swallow my fear and dig deep for courage. “And I’ll do it with you.”
Alex stares down at his phone, then peers out the window, quiet for so long, I start to wonder whether he’s fallen into some fugue state. But then he turns back toward me, rolls his eyes, and says, “Oh, why the hell not.”
I leap up, grabbing the second tub of gelato. While we eat, we create our accounts, make our profiles, and offer each other some mutual editing. Opinions are given on which photo to use as ourmain picture, how much to say: Do we mention divorce? Does Alex say he has a kid? Do I mention I own a dog?
We go with short, witty—we think—bios, and after rather extensive debate, decide to include the less-witty but salient details. The divorces, the daughter, the dog.
“We’re not looking for anything serious,” Alex says as he adds in that information. “But why would we want to evencasuallydate or hook up with someone who thinks divorced people are fuckups. Or someone who hates kids—”
“Or dogs,” I add. “Which means they aresoulless.”
“Or allergic,” he provides.
“Well, yeah, that, too. But even so, between Argos and some casual fling, I’m going with Argos every time.”
“Fair.”
Alex and I sit back on the couch together, legs on the coffee table.
Notcuddling.
We stare at our profiles, then look at each other.
“Well?” he asks. “Ready to start swiping?”
I groan. “I kind of feel like I’m going to puke.”
“That might be all the gelato we just ate,” he says.
“Yeah.” I stare at my phone. “But I also think it’s because I’m thirty-four and on a dating app for the first time in my life. Why don’t people meet in person anymore?” I whine.
“Because modern Americans live highly insular, digital-forward existences, and their experience of community is largely virtual, rather than in person.”
“Thanks,” I say tiredly. “That was uplifting.”
Alex shrugs. “Just speaking the truth.”
“Well, then, here we go.”
We look at each other one more time, turn back to our phones, and start to swipe.
Fate is either fucking with us or finally being kind, because in the first hour of our swiping, we both match with people who, at least judging by their profiles, seem pretty promising. It’s either a good outcome or too good to be true.
We’re about to find out.
“Are we being smart?” Alex asks, as he pulls his car into a space outside the indoor adult-only Putt-Putt golf spot. “Or are we being really dumb?”
“A little bit of both?” I peer over at him and try to bury the ache that stabs through me. He looks handsome.Reallyhandsome. He’s trimmed his beard a bit, put some kind of product in his hair, giving his wave-curls lush definition. His deep-blue sweater brings out his eyes, and the stretchy camel-colored hybrid jean-chinos he’s wearing hug his thighs.
His brow furrows. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, the closest to a lie I’ve ever told him. “Just nervous.” That, at least, is the truth. I am nauseatingly nervous.