Crazy Girl(8)

“God, please don’t let this be it for me,” I’d whisper, unleashing my chaotic worries to him. “Please don’t let me fail. Help me find my way.” Sometimes I felt sorry for him having to listen to me, but who else could I share my madness with without fearing judgement? Grabbing the pen I kept beside my bed with a pad of paper—incase by some miracle an idea struck me and I needed to jot it down—I wrote on my hand: Everything will be okay. I needed to be reminded of that. Some days I wasn’t so sure everything really would be okay. Tossing the pen aside, I was about to turn on my television when my phone chimed indicating I had a text.

Courtney: Any hits with that app yet?

Tilting my head, I realized I hadn’t even thought about it.

Me: No, haven’t checked it yet.

Courtney: I knew I should have put your notifications on or you’d never check it. CHECK IT NOW!

Me: Okay, okay.

Like I said. Total sasshole. Hopping up, I scurried downstairs and grabbed the bag of Cheetos I’d bought from the gas station on my way home yesterday and a soda from the fridge, then climbed back in bed with my snack, prepared to give the dating app some serious attention. Scrolling through my phone, I selected the icon and opened it. The first page showed my profile and I groaned when I saw which photo Courtney had selected as my profile picture. Me…in a bikini. As if that didn’t scream desperate. “That sasshole,” I griped to myself. I had no idea she’d uploaded photos from my phone. Swiping to the left, it took me to the messages.

Fifty-two messages? The hell? She’d set me up on this app less than twenty-four hours ago, and I already had fifty-two messages? It seemed like a lot to me, but maybe it wasn’t. Maybe this was normal. Each message contained the user’s profile picture, name, and when they’d sent the message. Thumbing through, I casually glanced at each photo, none of them really sticking out. Some I already knew I would never open because they were too old or young for me. I rolled my eyes. I literally despised the idea of men thumbing by my profile based simply on a profile picture, yet there I was, at the height of hypocrisy, thumbing by a blur of faces, none standing out to me.

I decided to keep at it so I wouldn’t have to tell Courtney I hadn’t tried. Thirty minutes later, I’d opened a few of the messages, most of the men starting with the same greeting.

You have a stamp collection?

I had to go back and investigate my profile before I understood why they were asking that. Apparently, Courtney thought that would draw them in, some ironic headliner. Great, she’d already pigeonholed me on the app as a gigantic dork.

A new alert popped up, indicating I had a new message so I clicked on it.





New Message


From: RinTinTin

Raising my brows, I inspected RinTinTin’s profile picture. It was in black and white, a close-up of him looking off into the distance. His eyes were dark, a seriousness to them I immediately found intriguing. Eyes were always one of the first features I noticed on a man—the eyes of a man were every bit as important as hands and size. With a strong and confident gaze, a man could hold and lead a woman without ever touching her; say things that appealed to her without speaking a word. Yes, eyes were important. The profile picture was a nice shot. He was handsome, I’d give him that, and he had a beard; a close kept one you could tell he spent time maintaining. I really loved beards, the virility and ruggedness of them.

I opened the message.

RinTinTin: Are you a catfish?

Narrowing my eyes, I reread the message. A catfish? What the hell did that mean?

Me: I don’t know what that means.

RinTinTin: Are you a real woman, or are you some fifty-year-old bald dude sitting in your sweats trying to pretend to be a woman and sell me porn?

I snorted. Did people really do that?

Me: Wow, that really happens on here? No, I’m definitely not a catfish.

RinTinTin: Cool. My name is Wren. Yours?

I let out a long sigh. His responses were short; clipped. It felt less like let’s get to know each other and more like let’s get down to business. I didn’t like that. My world was fueled by words, especially the way they were read. Why couldn’t he have opened with something a little smoother, like, how are you this evening? A simple question—polite and inviting. But I reminded myself that not everyone is a writer and to stop being a snob.

Me: Hannah.

The conversation went on this way—us going back and forth with short answers for a while. In under 200 words, Wren explained he was contracted by the government, though he wouldn’t say what exactly it was he did, and he lived in a small town about an hour away from me. The short wording and the distance were already setting me on edge. Maybe it was time to end this chat and move on.

I was just about to tell him this when he sent a new message.

RinTinTin: Those eyes of yours. They’re intense. Beautiful, really.

Oh. He must have been looking at the pictures of me on my profile. And definitely not the bikini one. Scooting up, I proceeded to suck the Cheetos’ coating from my fingers as I read the message again. He hadn’t once in our conversation mentioned my looks. Most of the other men from the messages I’d briefly opened had mentioned I was ‘hot’ or ‘pretty.’ One douche even commented on my bust size. I’d exited those messages within seconds.

Wren’s comment had gotten my attention. They say eyes are the windows to the soul—could he see more of me than just my looks? I shook my head, doubting he did. Most people didn’t think like me. But still, I appreciated the compliment—I very rarely got complimented on my eyes. Before I could respond with a thank you, he messaged me again.