Just One of the Guys(17)

She does her little head wiggle, something I tried for years to emulate before realizing my Irish genes lacked the Latin disdain required to pull it off. “And what’s that, know-it-all?”

“That you still love him and this kind of fighting is a way of having a passionate relationship, even if it’s not the kind of passion you really want.”

“No shit, Dr. Joy Browne. I’ll get the wine.”

I grin, finish stroking Buttercup’s rough red fur and finish my profile. Profile. Sounds like something the FBI has on me. You fit the profile for the serial killer, Ms. O’Neill. There’s nothing to be ashamed of, of course; lots of people do online dating, let no stone go unturned, blah blah bleeping blah. But still. It’s humbling nonetheless, having to check out a Web site for my mate. I never pictured turning thirty, let alone thirty-one, without having an adoring husband and a couple of kids.

The profile includes a personality section of no fewer than one hundred and six questions, a physical description (forty-two questions), my ideal date (choose from twenty-three options) and a new e-mail address and user name. I chose GirlNextDoor.

e.Commitment boasts lots of touching—and possibly even true—stories of people meeting their soul mates here. I pause for a second. Maybe—probably not, but maybe—this is how I will find The One. That Trevor’s image instantly leaps to mind is quite irritating. I force him out and stick in another picture. Derek Jeter. Yummy. Well, maybe hoping for the bazillionaire baseball god is a little bit of a stretch. Aragorn, on horseback. Yeah, baby! Okay, okay. That also may be a little unrealistic…hm. The guy at the restaurant the other night. There! Mr. New York Times, sure. Just as appealing as Trevor. Just as attractive. Let’s also assume he’s kindhearted. And decent. Also, funny. Strong, yet vulnerable. Quiet, yet expressive. Sensitive, yet stoic.

Elaina returns to the tiny study that’s just off the living room. Matt’s working tonight, so we have the house to ourselves. “This house is fantastic, sweetie,” she says, handing me my glass.

“I know. I love it,” I answer. “I’m thinking of painting this room yellow, what do you think?” Elaina has a great flare for colors.

“Perfect. You done filling that thing out?” she asks, tapping a long fingernail against her wineglass.

“Yes. Not that this is going to pan out, Elaina.” Buttercup groans as if agreeing.

“How do you know? It’s better than you mooning—”

“I’m not mooning anyone. Phone’s ringing!” Saved. I snatch up the phone. “Hello?”

“Hello, Chastity, this is your mother speaking.” Her traditional greeting. “Did you fill out your form?” Mom’s the one who told me e.Commitment was ranked higher than the other dating sites, after her exhaustive, fifteen-minute search on the Web. “Also, I’m taking French. Your father is very jealous, barely speaking to me. Do you want to get our hair colored next week?”

“Hi, Mom.” I grimace and pantomime hanging myself for Elaina’s benefit. “Um, yes, great, no comment, not really. Anything else?”

“Honey! So? Do you have any hits? Your father went through the roof when I told him about this. He said some whack job would strangle me in under a week if this is how I go about dating.”

“What a sweet thought. I just finished filling out the form, Mom. Elaina’s here. We’re having—”

“So? Check your e-mail! Maybe you have someone already!”

I cover the mouthpiece with my thumb. “She’s on amphetamines, it seems. You talk to her.”

“Hi, Mamí,” Elaina says, winning ten thousand brownie points for calling her mother-in-law that particular moniker. Elaina is revered by my mother—Elaina’s quirks being found simply charming while those of her own offspring are cause for torment and dismay. They chat merrily, laughing away. Dutifully, I check my e-mail, and what to my wondering eyes should appear but a message! Holy crap!

“I got one,” I announce with pride. Buttercup’s thin tail lashes my shin.

“She got one,” Elaina translates. “Oh, sure, Mamí. Here she is.” She passes me the phone and takes a handful of Doritos from the bowl I so thoughtfully put out.

“Yes?” I say.

“So?”

“So what, Mom?”

“So read the damn thing! You only got one, right?”

“Um, well, I just finished my profile about five minutes ago.” I take some Doritos, too. “When did you do yours?”

“Good! I finished mine a half hour ago.”

“Great. And do you have any hits?” I ask.

“Well…um, yes, I do.”

I can tell by her tone, which has become suspiciously gentle and kind, that she’s hiding something. “How many?” I growl.

“Well…more than one. Don’t take it personally, Chastity. I’m sure you’ll have twenty-three pretty soon, too.”

“You have twenty-three hits, Mom?” Buttercup growls in her sleep.

“Holy shit!” Elaina exclaims. “Let me have the phone! Mamí, are you kidding me? Oh, my God, you know? That is so great! Any keepers?”

While they’re talking, I look at my message, blandly entitled “hi.” What the hell. I click on it.