Just My Type(17)

“He said the Starbucks at Navy Pier this Sunday at eleven. It will definitely be swamped with people then,” I explain, my excitement growing.

For as long as I’ve lived here, I’ve never been to the pier. Brandon always promised to take Lincoln and me, and of course the plans always fell through. I’m a little nervous to take the train and then a bus there by myself, but fuck it. I need to get out of this damn house and live a little. And I realize I own a car, but I drove into downtown Chicago once, right after we first moved here. Never again. Bumper-to-bumper traffic, people honking at you if you don’t take off like a NASCAR driver as soon as the light turns green, streets suddenly turning one-way as you’re driving on them, only being able to turn right when you need to turn left, which means it takes an additional hour to just go around the block with all that traffic, to turn the way you needed to initially. I’d rather take public transportation, especially on the weekend, thank you very much.

“Fine. I approve. You have to do this. Now open up the fucking picture he attached already before I reach through the phone and shank you,” Brooklyn demands.

I look away from her to stare at the attachment to Baker’s email that’s been taunting me since I got it. Before finally biting the bullet and clicking on it, I reread his explanation at the closing of the email one more time.

“I’m attaching a picture of myself just so we’re a little more even, and you can at least SEE who I am. Inflating my ego with compliments is always welcome. Please pay close attention to my rock-hard abs.”

Biting my bottom lip, I squeeze my eyes closed as I quickly double-click my mouse. I don’t know why I’m being such a chicken shit about seeing a picture of him. It’s not like it matters if he’s hideous or looks exactly like the giant, oily beefcake I’ve been picturing in my head. It doesn’t matter that my opinion of what he looks like changed a little bit after I heard his sinfully sexy voice that did tingly things to me. This is just a job. There will be no tingling of anything. He has a hot voice and a great sense of humor, and who gives a shit what he looks like?

“Jesus Christ, open your eyes, or turn the fucking screen around so I can see him!” Brooklyn shouts through the phone, making me slowly peel my eyes open.

And burst out laughing at what I see.

After turning my laptop around a few seconds later so Brooklyn can see what I’m looking at, she leans in close to the screen, and lets out her own laugh after a few seconds.

“Oh, he’s good. He’s really good.” Brooklyn continues to chuckle as I bring the screen back around to look at the picture he attached again.

It’s a photo of a woman who looks close to my age, with wavy, chin-length, pale pink hair and pretty blue eyes. She’s holding an old, framed photo in her hand of an adorable little boy with spikey dark hair who’s squatting over a barbell with huge, circular weights on the end of it. His face is all scrunched up with exertion as he tries to lift it, and his cute little toddler belly is puffed out with the effort. In the upper left-hand corner of the picture, I can just make out someone’s faded, scribbled handwriting that says Baker, age 4. In the woman’s other hand is a handwritten note with an arrow pointing to the framed photo she’s holding that says, Hi, I’m Blake, Baker’s older, wiser, and much better looking sister. This is Baker when he was little. His muscles are still just as puny, and he still makes that face when he poops. He really lives in Chicago and owns a gym. He’s the decrepit, old age of thirty-five. He is not a stalker, and he will not murder you. But he will annoy the shit out of you, and he’s a sore loser when you kick his ass in basketball. Temper tantrums have been thrown. It’s not pretty. But I guess he’s all right.

Brooklyn spends the rest of our phone call giving me orders. I’m supposed to send her a picture of Baker’s driver’s license as soon as I sit down with him. Text her as soon as I’m leaving Starbucks. And FaceTime her as soon as I get home, after I’m completely certain I wasn’t followed. It’s overkill, but I get it. I’m a single woman going into the city by myself to meet a guy I sort of met online, whose last name I still don’t know. Precautions must be taken.

After I end our call, I pull my laptop onto my lap and scooch back into the couch to get comfy, smiling to myself as I type.

To: [email protected]

From: Ember Hastings

Subject: Re: Shit Mouth Transcription

So, what you’re saying is, you don’t have a teardrop tattoo under your eye? You’ve never been strip-searched? You’ve never made wine out of prison toilet water? Your thighs don’t rip the seams of every pair of pants you put on? Well, this just got awkward. You have literally no redeeming qualities now. This article about you really will be a shit show. You can make it up to me by having Nana Grand Funk needlepoint me something that says, Shut your whore mouth.

You can also thank your sister that I’m agreeing to help you out with this important bind you’ve gotten yourself into. She’s super pretty, and I like her hair. I think she can probably take you in a fight, which means I’m confident I can probably kick your ass if you get out of hand.

Just so you know, I’m also only agreeing to do this, because you’re paying me a shit-ton of money. It’s not because you make me laugh, or you make me want to do something other than sit around feeling sorry for myself or anything like that. You’re honestly kind of a snoozefest. (YAWN)