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I laugh into my glass, finishing it in one large gulp before placing it back on the bar with a twenty.
“Well, Brayden, it’s been great, but no, I don’t think I’ll be joining you at your apartment tonight.”
“Seriously? Maaan, I thought we were vibing though. Do you not think I’m hot?” He asks the question so sincerely and clearly confused that I can’t help but laugh this time.
“You’re very attractive, but I’m not really a go home on the first date kind of girl. I’m looking for something more long term and I guess I assumed you were too since that’s what your profile said and you also told me that when we were texting before meeting up.”
“Oh that, yeah, I mean I am and I’m not, if that makes sense?”
I shake my head no. “It doesn’t actually but that’s okay. You don’t have to explain.” I smile and slide off my barstool.
“It’s just that, if you put that you’re only looking for a hookup or casual, you only match with sluts, I swear.”
“Brayden.” I reach out and touch his hand. “I’m going to leave, okay?”
I don’t wait for a response; I simply walk out the door of the bar and scurry around the corner to call an Uber to head home. I really don’t have it in me to explain to a twenty-eight-year-old man why calling women sluts when they sleep with you on the first date is a double standard and also misleading and gross and a lot of other offensive words.
I bolt for the car when it arrives and sit silently in the back seat, mourning yet another wasted evening spent with yet another failed date. That’s three this week and I already feel over the online dating scene… and these are the good ones I matched with.
Sylvia and Taylor both told me not to be too picky at first, to be open to going out with men I wouldn’t normally be attracted to because attraction doesn’t always lead somewhere. While I do agree with that sentiment, it’s also proving to be a lot harder than I realized.
What’s really disappointing is, on paper, the three guys I’ve gone on dates with sound like a dream. They’re around my age, driven, love to explore the city and learn new things, want a lasting relationship built on communication, but in person, total epic failures. Even through the texting phase they can sell it, but damn, two tried taking me home after one drink and one was actively scrolling through Tinder while on our date.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and let out an audible sigh.
“Tough day?” my driver asks and I look up to see her looking at me in the rearview mirror.
“The worst. Another day, another failed date.” I laugh and she joins me.
“I feel you. The last date I went on, the guy tried to recruit me to join a cult.”
“What?”
“Yeah, apparently that’s a tactic he uses to get new members.”
“And it works?”
“I guess so.” We both laugh and commiserate the last few miles to my apartment. At least I feel a little better knowing that I’m not the only one completely striking out in the dating scene.
Once home, I grab my iPad and flop down on my couch. Checking my email, I see a note from the Archer Foundation letting me know that I can come in tomorrow to volunteer and go through the orientation process.
That puts a smile on my face. Helping others always puts me in a better mood, plus I’m excited to talk with Beckham more about it next week at work.
I lie back on my couch, a random show playing in the background as I pull up the Google image results for my search of Beckham. The first picture actually makes my heart skip a beat. It’s a black-and-white photo done for an interview in a well-circulated magazine. He’s not smiling; he’s staring into the camera, a lock of his hair over his brow as his eyes feel like they’re burning through me.
I scroll down further and my eyes catch another image of him and that woman from the image I saw when Taylor and Sylvia were with me. She’s stunning, the kind of woman you’d expect to see on his arm. The type of woman who looks like she takes her appearance and the way she carries herself very seriously. The type of woman who probably has a professional team to help style her. The exact opposite type of woman than me.
I swallow down the jealousy I feel forming, hating that I’m comparing myself to someone I don’t even know. I’m not ugly by any stretch. I’ve never had a problem attracting attention from men and don’t have to work at keeping my figure, but I’m more of the girl-next-door type, not the siren who leaves necks broken when she walks down the street.
I push the feelings aside and scroll back up to the first image and click on it to take me to the interview where there are several more photos. In one, he’s sitting on the edge of a chair, reclining back so that his long legs are outstretched, one arm behind his head, the other resting on his thigh. His shirt is almost completely unbuttoned. I can feel wetness building between my thighs as a thin layer of sweat beads on my brow.
I’ve never had such a visceral reaction to someone before. It feels like more than just attraction, more than just a little crush… It’s need. A deep hunger that as much as I try, I can’t suppress. It’s like being on a diet and craving that one thing you’re not allowed to have so you’ve convinced yourself that if you have just one bite, one little taste, it will satisfy you and you can move on, but you know damn well, it will never be enough until you’ve consumed the entire thing and you’re sick with regret.
I close the cover on the iPad and walk to my bathroom, flipping on the shower and not even waiting till it’s warm before I jump in. Maybe the icy water will tamp down the hormones raging inside me.
* * *
“Beckham?” I grab my purse and race down the hallway to catch up to him. “What are you doing here?”
