Last Girl Ghosted(3)

I’ve never been here before. My best friend Jax suggested it, an old haunt of hers. Crowded, she said, anonymous.

Safer to meet a stranger in a crowd, right?

Safer not to meet a stranger at all? had been my reply.

A worried frown. And then what? Never meet anyone?

Would that be so bad? Solitude. It’s not the worst thing in life.

It was Jax’s idea. The whole online dating thing.

Robin, my childhood friend, who is basically Jax’s opposite, was against it. Love, she said, is not an algorithm.

Truth.

Anyway, who’s looking for love?

Only everyone, Robin would surely say.

I take a sip of my icy sparkling water and glance at the door. A roar of laughter goes up from the big group at the table in the back. I keep my eyes on them for a moment, watching. Three women, four men, young, well-heeled, coiffed and polished—coworkers maybe? Relaxed, easy, comfortable. The opposite of how I feel. I notice that my shoulders are hiked up. I force myself to relax, breathe.

The man beside me is uncomfortably close, his shoulder nudging up against mine twice, now three times. Is he doing it on purpose? I turn to see. He’s bulky, balding, a sheen of sweat on his brow. No. He’s not even aware of me. He’s on his phone, scrolling through pictures of women.

It’s that other app, Firestarter, the one just for hookups. It tells you who is in your vicinity, looking for a brief, no strings connection. There are people all around him, an attractive brunette alone at the end of the bar, also staring at her phone, a group of young girls—students judging from the New School sweatshirt and the pitcher of beer—at a high top right behind him. He’s on his second scotch at least, I determine by the empty glass next to his full one. But he just keeps scrolling through the images on his phone, looking and looking.

Strange. The world has become a very strange place.

Venturing another glance at the door, I watch a group of three young men walk in, floppy hair and skinny jeans, unshaven, one of them sporting that giant beard some guys seem to favor these days. It’s like he has a bush on his face. But there’s something virile about it, too, isn’t there? Very Game of Thrones.

This will be my third meeting from the dating app Torch, which according to Jax is the only way that people meet these days. She set up my profile, helped me figure out how to scroll through the guys who had posted their photos. Jax likes them buff and dumb; me, I’m partial to geeks. Bookish men in glasses, people who read and think, who hike, meditate.

Needless to say that’s the minority on Torch.

My first date was with Drew, an actuary and a Russian literature enthusiast. We met for sushi, got a little drunk on sake, and I spent the night at his place, a Lower East Side walk-up. I snuck out in the morning while he snored loudly.

As far as Jax was concerned, this was a successful outing. But it left me feeling a little hollow. Not sure if I’d been used, or done the using. He didn’t call, and, the sad thing was, I didn’t even want him to.

My glass is empty. I catch the bartender’s eye and point. She gives me a curt nod.

“Another seltzer?” she says, taking my empty glass.

I press a twenty across the sticky bar and her demeanor changes palpably. She works for tips after all, and I’m taking up valuable real estate for a soda water drinker.

“Thanks,” I say when she hustles my drink back, this time with a generous twist of lime.

My second Torch hookup was with Bryce, a yogi and a meditation instructor. He was—very flexible. We went to a vegan place in SoHo and spent the night together in his minimalist Williamsburg loft. He called once, twice, three times.

I feel a connection, he said in this text.

I didn’t.

I’m ashamed to say I never even answered him. Jax assured me that this was the way of it. People expected to never hear from each other again.

Look at it this way, said Jax. You’ve gotten more action in two weeks than you have in two years.

Sadly, she’s right.

Another glance at the door, which is disappearing in the growing crowd. Really. I’m gonna go.

Tonight, I’m waiting for Adam. A technology expert with a penchant for Rilke and Jung.

This guy? said Jax in dismay.

True, the grainy picture on the screen was not flattering—heavy brow, nose too big. The text was minimal to the point of being curt. Dislikes: shallow people. Likes: solitude. Personal mantra: Everything in NYC is within walking distance if you have enough time. Closing with: “You are not surprised at the force of the storm.” Only a Rilke geek would know that line and what it meant. It hooked me in a way the others hadn’t.

Who are you, Adam? I’m more interested in seeing you in the flesh than I should be.

But maybe you’re not coming. It’s still five minutes before our scheduled time, but probably I’m about to be stood up.

I text Jax: This is the last time.

Is he a dick? It seemed like he would be a dick. You can usually tell.
Hasn’t shown up yet.
How early were you?
A half hour.
I am treated to the eye roll emoji. Just chill. You never know. Have another seltzer, you lush.

I’m about to text her back when the door opens.

There you are. I know you right away.

There’s a strange clench in my solar plexus at the sight of your face. A rush of recognition. From the photo I saw, yes. But something else. You’re taller than most of the men in the room, broad, muscular, in a charcoal blazer over a dove-gray T-shirt. Standing a moment, looking uncertain, you run a large hand through the thick mane of nearly shoulder length, jet-black hair.