Page 33 of 28 Dates

I have yet to receive a single dick pic or receive a message with onlyDTF?Trey warned me it could happen, and considering I had no idea what those letters meant, my blank stare made him laugh. “It means ‘down to fuck,’ Caitlin.”

“Ew,” I’d responded. I mean, gross. “What kind of guys send those?”

He’d waggled his brows and made me nauseous when he responded. “Sometimes it’s the ladies that ask, too.”

Right. You’d think I wouldn’t be grossed out by this. I’m the queen of onetime hookups and keeping things light. But sending a message like that to some guy or woman when you’ve only seen their picture? It seems so cold and distant.

I at least like the guy I’m screwing to make me laugh a little bit. Compliment me.

Hookups through apps feels mechanical and, I don’t know…icky.

It seems those truly interested in finding someone long-term are at least taking this app seriously, which should thrill Trey.

My phone dings, and I realize I’ve been staring at the screen, mind wandering, but still hoping he’d respond.

Michael:Busy here. People must need a night to relax. We usually don’t get busy until ten-ish on Thursdays.

Has he realized he’s put this out there? It doesn’t say much but tells me a lot. Something I’ve already started putting together so while I can cross semi-truck driver off my list, there’s still the possibility he’s a drug pusher.

Still, I take the risk and hope for the best.

Caitlin:So you work in a bar?

Michael:Own one, actually. Nice small place.

Immediately, without warning and unbidden, Jonas’s face flashes in my mind. I shove it out as fast as possible. It has to be the connection of owning a bar. But I can’t help myself, because this guy has ruined my fun by making me think of Jonas and the awkwardness between us.

Got a friend who owns a place. Hard work and it’s late. Enjoy your night.

I tack on a smiley face, much like I did to Logan, so hopefully this guy doesn’t think I’m brushing him off. I’m not, and I shouldn’t.

Or maybe I should. He gives me morsels that keep me hooked, but besides weird and random facts and laws, he’s not trying to get to know me. Not really. And the last thing I need to get hooked on is a guy who reminds me of Jonas.

My phone stays silent, and I try to forget the weirdness seeping into my bones, making me restless.

Netflix is useless. Cable is worthless. My favorite classic old rock playlist and a book is even worse. It’s too quiet in my apartment, and my thoughts and memories of Jonas are too loud.

I give up, toss my Kindle onto the couch, and grab my phone.

Got company?I text to Trey.I’m bored.

Trey:Mariners and Miller Lite night. Get your ass up here.

I shake my head. Trey’s an idiot.

Trey:Oh and bring up some of the beer I left in your fridge.

Yup. Idiot.

I’m already in the kitchen, shoving my wine bottle into the empty spot of the six-pack he left at my place a couple weeks ago. I send him a quick text back. Sometimes it’s like talking to a child. A very small child.

Hey Caitlin. When you come up can you please bring the beer I left in your fridge?

Sure, Trey. Happy to. Thanks for asking so nicely. Anything for you, friend.

In response I get a bitmoji image of him with his hand on his forehead and the words “You’re Impossible” in bubble letters beneath him.

“Moron,” I mutter and grab my keys. Then I go and do what friends do—deliver beer and smart-assery.

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