Page 1 of Fan Favorite

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Edie Pepper was starting over. Again.

“Ineverdo this,” she mumbled through a mess of sloppy kisses. “Seriously, this is likeso weirdfor me.”

“Yeah, sure, of course,” Dave said, tracing his tongue down her jaw. “Me too.”

“Did you have fun tonight?” Edie pulled away from Dave’s licking to evaluate him one more time. He was handsome in the way that white guys in polo shirts with crossbody laptop bags emblazoned with their consulting firm logos were handsome—that is to say, unremarkably, without even an artisanal beard to indicate an interest in urban beekeeping or Proust. Dave was clearly a Dave—someone who loved the Cubs, who drank IPAs as a cornerstone of his personality, who had his fraternity letters tattooed on his ankle (Spring Break ’02!), and who threatened to move to Canada after every episode ofPod Save America, which he listened to on his AirPods during thrice-weekly jogs along the lake.

Edie had been trying to marry a Dave for many years.

“So much fun,” he agreed.

“The great thing about breakups is they give you the opportunity to explore.” Edie smiled as sexily as she could with one eye blinking rapidly to keep in her contact lens. Happy hour had been brief—three glasses of rosé and Dave’s hand inching up her thigh while he educated her on the history of Chicago’s improv scene. But Edie hadn’t thought about Brian once! And now here she was in Dave’s apartment, still not thinking about him. “Like, now that I’m single again, I get to explore you.”

“Explore this, Evie,” Dave growled, placing her hand on his crotch.

“It’s Edie, but that’s cool—Starbucks never gets it right, either.” Edie moved her hand back to his hip. “My mom was forty-four when she had me, hence the old-timey name. I always wanted to be a Kelly.” Dave was busy palming her left boob, pushing and turning it like the lid of a jar that just wouldn’t catch. “Anyway, you learn so much from breakups. Like, for one thing, you can’t control other people,” Edie mused while Dave attempted to wedge her tit up and out of her shirt. She twisted her head horizontally to catch his eye. “You can only control yourself. Know what I mean?”

Suddenly Dave released her, and Edie toppled into a mountain bike that was propped against an exposed brick wall. He took a big step back.

“You know I’m a feminist, right?” he asked, hands in the air.

“Oh! Yeah! Of course,” Edie assured him, rubbing the side of her ass where the bike’s handlebar had skewered her butt cheek. “Me too. Obviously.”

“Cool, cool, cool. I mean, I thought you knew, ’cause I let you pay for the drinks. And the Uber.”

Edie waved her hand. “The bar was so close to your house, it was, like, nothing. Thanks again for setting it up. So many guys don’t want to make an effort.”

“No problem.” Dave grabbed the waistband of Edie’s jeans and pulled her to him again. “Time to sit on my face.”

“Oh… wow… maybe…” Edie placed her hands on Dave’s chest, atop the navy gingham button-down that guys in Chicago reliably wore on first dates. She didn’t want to sit on a face. She wanted to get married. His mouth found her neck again and started sucking. Edie squirmed. There was just so much saliva—it was like being licked by a Saint Bernard.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

“Being a single woman in the internet age is so empowering,” she continued. “Like, yesterday, I didn’t know you, but today, here we are, making this connection.” His tongue slugged hot and wet in her ear and a wave roared against her eardrum. She rose onto her tiptoes to escape. Edie had been dating in her thirties for the past five years—tolerance for a potential husband’s flaws was just, well,part of it. “And I haven’t thought about Brian all night.”

Dave burped hot in her ear. “Who’s Brian?”

“Fate doesn’t bring people together by accident,” Edie continued firmly. “That’s like, the opposite of fate. Accident. Do you think this is fate?”

“What?” Dave asked, pulling her by the wrist toward his bedroom.

“Us.”

“‘Us’ what?” Dave dropped her hand, and they stood in the middle of the living room, staring at each other.

“You and me, ‘us’?” she said, confused.

“Oh shit,” Dave said, running a hand through his short brown hair. “Don’t get the wrong idea—I had a great time at happy hour, but like, this is no big thing. I’m not looking for anything serious.”

Edie’s face went incredulous. “But that’s not what your profile saidat all.” She scanned the living room for her purse, finding it tossed on Dave’s game day recliner, the ChapStick and creditcards and ragged Rothy’s she used for commuting spilled across the faded velour. She fished around for her phone and tapped the screen until Dave’s Hinge profile came up. “Look, it says right here: ‘Looking for my partner in crime. Help me get off this app for good! Work hard, play hard.’”

“Okay, sure, but then look at the messages.” Dave took the phone from her and toggled to their exchange. “See, here you said, ‘Hey, Dave, how are you?’ And I said, ‘wsup.’ And you said, ‘Very important question: What’s the best Tom Hanks film?’ And I said, ‘saving private ryan.’ And then you said, ‘You can tell a lot about a person by their favorite Tom Hanks movie. I can tell you have a strong masculine spirit,’ and then I didn’t respond for three days. Then you said, ‘Hey, Dave! How’s it going? Wanna grab a drink sometime?’ and I said, ‘sure, but I have to warn you, I’m easy on the eyes and hard on the pussy,’ and you said, ‘ha ha ha, how’s Tuesday?’” Dave handed the phone back to her with a shrug.

“What?” Edie exclaimed. “I thought you were kidding! You weren’t kidding?”

Dave sighed and looked her up and down. “Aren’t you, like, thirty-eight?”

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