The Trade(13)

Taking a large gulp of my wine, I open the first message.

Jordan (32) – Go Jets. Don’t smoke but prefer smoke shows.

Insert eye-roll here.

Jordan: Hey beautiful. Any pictures of you from the neck down? Would love to see your tits.

Looks like Jordan just found his way to my deleted bin. Pervert.

Hank (30) – Favorite pastime: jiggling the gear shift in my car.

I blink a few times. Hank . . . you need a life. I read his message anyway. It’s a picture of him next to his car and underneath it says, “Want a ride?”

Nope.

No, I really don’t.

Thank you . . . next—as Ariana would say.

Ken (28) – Nothing beats microwave popcorn, unless it’s stove pop, then you win.

Okay, Ken, that’s kind of cute. I open his message.

Ken: I saw you like to binge on Netflix original series. Do you eat popcorn during those binges?

Finding common ground, I can appreciate his efforts. I decide to type back, keeping my options open like Monica said. He’s not necessarily waxing poetic to me by talking about popcorn, but at least it’s better than a picture of a man’s hairy crotch.

Natalie: I dabble in a bowl of popcorn here and there. I’d say Orville is my favorite. Perfect combination of salt and fake butter.

Ken: This might be too soon, but . . . will you marry me?

I chuckle and type back, trying my best at being witty.

Natalie: I’m going to have to see a ring first.

Ken: How’s this?

A picture takes a few minutes to come in but when it does, I yelp as a giant penis comes on screen with a cock ring hugging the root of it.

“Come on,” I groan and exit out of the app. That’s when I realize I was on the wrong one. Well, that would explain things.

Pulling up the other app that allows me to approach the men, there’s a message in the corner. I take another gulp of wine and open the message. It’s from a guy named Lennox. Before I read the message, I click on his profile to refresh my memory.

Oh yes, thirty-three, has a dog, boxer to be specific, works in construction, and believes he’s the only guy in the city who is neither a Bobbies nor a Rebels fan. I thought that was funny. I go back to his message and see that he’s online as well.

Lennox: Bobbie for life, I can’t believe I matched up with a Bobbie fan. Doesn’t anyone in this city care about the Dallas Stars?

Natalie: I do, actually. I care because with their losing record, they make it easy for the Bobbies to sweep them every series.

Lennox: Ouch, that hurts. Don’t worry, next year is our year.

Natalie: That’s what they always say.

Lennox: Last time I saw, the Bobbies didn’t make it past the first round of playoffs.

Natalie: It’s okay, next year is our year.

Lennox: LOL! All right, you hooked me. Want to meet up for coffee tomorrow? Around ten?

Mid-morning coffee. I can hear Monica waving her hands in my face screaming red flag, red flag. But he seems charming. Should I really discredit him because he wants to meet in the middle of a workday? I decide to be honest with him.

Natalie: My friend said men who can meet during the workday are men I shouldn’t be talking to.

Lennox: Your friend is right. But I own my own construction company, so I make my own hours. What about you? Should I be concerned about you not being at work?

Natalie: Work at home for a non-profit.

I don’t say which non-profit, because the last thing I want is for men to find out who my brother is. I don’t want Jason to be the winning factor about my profile, I want it to be me.

Lennox: So we are both employed with flexibility. What do you say?

Smiling, I type him back.

Natalie: You have yourself a coffee date.





Why did I show up so early?

Fifteen minutes early to be exact? I brought my iPad to get some work done while I waited, but still, I ended up buying my own drink that I’m nursing and is starting to lose its heat. Poor time management on my end.

I glance at the time and see that he’s a minute late. If he stands me up, I will find his construction company and burn it to the ground. Gas and fire, poof—

The door to the coffee shop opens and Lennox steps inside wearing form-fitting jeans, a leather jacket, and a winter hat. He glances around the shop, scanning the patrons, and when he turns toward me, I wave my hand frantically to catch his attention . . . and then remind myself to play it cool. No reason to flash a freak flag right off the bat.

As he walks toward me, I feel his eyes studying me, taking me in.

I didn’t want to look like I got dolled up for the date, but I also didn’t want to look like a woof bag, so I put on light makeup, left my hair straight, but pinned the top half back, and I wore a black long-sleeved shirt with skinny jeans and black boots. Cute but casual.

When he reaches the table, he places his hands on the back of the chair across from me and allows his eyes to continue to roam over me.

Feeling slightly self-conscious, I say, “You must be Lennox.”

He nods, and that’s when I take in the crookedness of his nose, kind of like a charming Owen Wilson crookedness. His eyes are brown, rather than the bright blue in his pictures. Okay, that’s clearly deceiving, and he’s freshly shaven, which makes him look way younger than his stated thirty-three years.