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“Bitch,” he hissed through his teeth then slammed the car door and walked to the bathroom, ignoring Emma and Kimmie waving from the car.
He called the number for customer service when we got back on the road. He was down-to-earth and charming at first. It had all been a big misunderstanding, you see. He hadn’t pressured Nicole to do anything. They’d had a great time. But he’d declined a second date, and she’d seemed upset. This was apparently her way of sending a pointed message.
The customer service rep—her name was Donna—sounded like she’d heard this line before a few times. She patiently explained that if he would like to appeal the decision, she could escalate his request. It would require a phone interview with both him and Nicole—as a first step.
His tone changed abruptly and he hit the gas a little too hard, making the big van lurch forward. “Are you serious? This is ridiculous. You’ll cancel my account just like that, but you’ll make me jump through hoops just for the privilege of being part of the worst dating site I’ve ever been on? What about ‘innocent until proven guilty?’”
“I’m sorry, sir, but we are not a court of law. Our user agreement laid all this out, I’d be happy to send you a copy,” Donna replied.
I wanted to hug Donna.
He hung up and stared straight ahead at the road.
I studied the set of his jaw and the white of his knuckles on the steering wheel. Remembering how they’d held the extension cord around my neck so tight, not letting up for even a second.
I wished I’d reported him too.
* * *
For the first few months in Utah, he was a normal dad and husband. He unpacked. He took Kimmie and Emma out for ice cream at the adorable little shop around the corner from the new house with the big yard at the base of Lone Peak. He divided his time between a new home office and a tech startup twenty minutes from the new house in Salt Lake. He went for a walk around the block with April and chatted with the neighbors who emerged from the rows of beautiful brick homes lining the streets. He went to church and raised his hand in Sunday school to offer a thought about Jesus’ Sermon on the Mount while April beamed.
He didn’t appeal the decision from MatchStrike.
He didn’t even try to find Nicole online.
But after three months, on a slow Thursday afternoon while he was supposed to be starting a new project for work, he created a new gmail account—and then a new MatchStrike profile.
Jimmy Carlson.
This time, he was a widower. He didn’t mention kids. I guessed he was getting to the age where women got suspicious about why he’d never been married.
I shut down the computer three times in a row. Each time, he clenched his jaw and restarted it.
Finally, I left the room and sat down in the hall, across from Oscar. I imagined myself going on more dates with “Jimmy” and felt a crushing sadness and dread.
Oscar stared at me intently. Then cautiously took a few steps toward me until he was right at my feet.
He closed his eyes and flicked his tail a little. “Good kitty,” I whispered. He very quietly began to purr.
* * *
I went on every date with James/Jamie/Jimmy for nine months.
I followed him while he worked. While he ate. While he mowed the lawn. While he cleaned his car. While he watched TV—Chicago PD and Chicago Fire.
Sometimes, he spent hours on the MatchStrike app, flirting and arranging new dates—always a little ways out of town. Other times, he abruptly stopped and turned into a real dad to Emma and Kimmie for a few days, weeks, or even a month. Sometimes, he was cold and dismissive with April. Other times, he could be scarily thoughtful and even funny. Even as his shadow, it was all too easy to believe he was a normal person.
Even on some of his dates.
Sometimes, he eagerly planned to meet the women who responded to his messages. Other times, he ignored them.
Sometimes, he brought the Tic Tac bottle on his dates. Other times, he didn’t.
When he did, I could feel it in the way the air churned with sparks and sickness that something was building, the way you feel the barometer start to drop before a storm. The only question was when it would hit.
On those nights I spent the evening whispering—or screaming—into her ear.
Sometimes, it seemed to work.
