On the Rocks(38)

The first thing Grace asked about now every time we spoke was for an update on Ryan. It had only been two weeks since I’d begun trying to date again, but meeting Ryan made me believe that maybe there was someone else out there for me. It was the best I remembered feeling in a long time, so I didn’t mind being patient, but he was beginning to push it a little.

“Not yet,” I admitted as I rummaged through a kitchen drawer looking for a spoon with a handle long enough to shove into the pot of water without burning my hand.

“Did you give him your number or your email?” she asked.

“My number actually. I don’t want to hide behind email. I figured it was more mature to encourage an actual conversation. Aren’t you impressed?”

“I am. The teacher gives you an A plus.”

“Why, thank you. I’m trying to be positive, but I’m starting to get a little paranoid. Is it possible I’m being rejected by people I don’t even know? Is that what I’ve been reduced to?”

“Nah, I’m sure you’ll hear from him. He’s probably just busy or something,” Grace said as she examined her thoroughly moisturized legs. “Can I help?” she offered as she made her way into the kitchen. I handed her a container of cherry tomatoes I had picked up at the grocery store when I went on what seemed like my thousandth beer run.

“Sure, cut these, I guess,” I said as she took the container from me and began to slice them in half.

“He’s not busy. You won’t hear from him,” Bobby said as he removed a can of Budweiser from our refrigerator. If he didn’t stop drinking our beer, I was going to start charging him. He was at our house all the time and spent most of it eating and drinking anything that wasn’t toxic.

“Why in God’s name would you say that?” I asked, surprised that he had the nerve to weigh in on something that didn’t concern him, while drinking one of our beers, no less.

“Because if you’re wondering why a guy hasn’t called, it’s because he’s not going to call. You so clearly need my help with this, it’s ridiculous. What did you ever do before you met me?”

“Slept better at night for starters, and made fewer trips to the grocery store,” I said as I took a box of pasta from the cabinet and dumped spaghetti into boiling water, causing the scalding liquid to splash all over the stove. How some people could find cooking enjoyable was beyond me. “And you know what? I’m firing you and Wolf as wingmen. He said he was going to set me up with his friend Paul and never did. Why offer to help if you’re going to flake out?”

“Relax! I’m sure he’s working on it. Just keep your fingers crossed that this guy doesn’t highlight his hair like the dude at the bar,” Bobby said from the stool at the kitchen counter. I really wished I could find some way to keep him quiet, but sadly, short of stabbing him, I wouldn’t be able to shut him up with anything less than duct tape or a muzzle, neither of which was handy at the moment.

“He does not highlight his hair!” I said, not sure why I felt the need to defend him.

“Okay, sure. Grown men over the age of thirty are still natural platinum blonds, right. Just like Grace over here is tan all year long without weekly appointments at the fake-and-bake salon.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Grace said as she finished chopping the tomatoes.

“Why can’t you just admit that some people, obviously not you, swam in the deep end of the gene pool instead of wading in the kiddie pool like you did?” I asked Bobby.

“No, no. That’s fine. We will stick with male Barbie being au naturel. I’d bet if I saw him in the locker room, I could prove your theory wrong, but I’m on your side, so I’ll let this one go.”

“I hate you,” I said.

“Whatever. Now, here is the million-dollar question: did you Google-stalk him?”

I wrinkled my brow in confusion, not understanding what he was getting at in the slightest. “No. Why would I do that?”

“He’s Google-stalked you, I assure you.”

“So what? I don’t think anything comes up if you Google me.”

“Wait, you’re telling me you’ve never Googled yourself?” Bobby asked.

“No. Why would I? I know me. I don’t need the Internet to tell me about myself.”

“Well, for starters, every guy you’ve ever met has Googled you. You have no interest in knowing what they find when they do?”

“I’m boring. I’m a teacher, not Paris Hilton. I’m not all that concerned about someone finding a sex tape on the Internet.”

“That’s the first thing someone does after meeting you. I guarantee it,” he said.

“So I’m being screened basically? Is that what you’re saying?” I admit I Internet-stalked Ben, but it never occurred to me that maybe cyber-stalking was a two-way street. Again, maybe I am that stupid.

“Absolutely. Which is why you need to make sure when you Google your name no absolute freaks show up. If the first few options for ‘Abigail Wilkes’ are all train wrecks, he won’t even keep looking. He’ll just fold his cards, forfeit the hand, and you will never hear from him again. I guarantee that’s what happened. He’s gone.”

“That’s insane. You know how many people out there probably have the same name as I do?”