Page 54 of The Destined SEAL
I’m feeling frisky, so I type back, Older than your mom/yes please/Earth, and hit send. Giggling, I make my way into the closet to choose something to wear to a dinner out with friends. It’s my welcome back party. A couple weeks ago I returned from a year traveling abroad. My parents pointed out my linguistics degree could serve me well wherever the wind may blow. Blow it did. All over the map.
My workplace in America set up so many meetings and lectures that I was constantly on the move, and being on my own in unfamiliar territory gave me a sense of freedom and security I never would have dreamed of in my bubble of a safety net inSouthern California. I made friends that will last a lifetime. I tried foods I never would have given a second glance. I said yes. I went out dancing. I dated a man in Spain for two whole weeks. He took me to dinner, served me sangria, dipped me back like men do in movies, and kissed me in the rain. He was beautiful and temporary, and I was alive—my heart beating for the first time since it was destroyed completely.
I felt everything. Travel changed me. I spent hours lost on subway cars reading books and took bumpy rides in bicycle taxis. There were days of tears when living abroad made me crazy and highs from learning something new. Oh, did I learn. Not just about languages and communication. I learned about myself. Harper Rosehall. I wouldn’t go as far as to say I found myself while traveling, but I will say I defined myself.
Ben and I speak on a semi-regular basis. It’s usually via a quick text to check up on one another, nothing too telling. We never speak about our love lives, and our parents know not to bring it up. It’s back the way it was before, except completely different.
My laptop pings a new message, and I groan. “I should turn it off. Cancel this thing before I get one more cock shot,” I mumble, touching the track pad to wake my screen up.
The little pink star lets me know it’s from a match—a person the website says is compatible with me on every level. It’s the second match since I finished the test. The first one followed up a funny joke with, you guessed it, a dick pic. This new message is from [email protected] and the title says, Are you a robot?
There aren’t photos on the website, and they say it’s purposeful so you get to know the person before you see their face, but they do take into consideration turn-ons and turn-offs and preferences in body type and size. If he’s a match, I’m trusting he has abs like Adonis, dimples, and a cock that doesn’tresemble a carrot. I figure this might be the one that gets me my pair of shoes. I’m in my panties and bra, a black dress draped over my lap. “What do you have to say, Mancandy?” I click his message.
“Hi RJamour7068,
I love the Internet. Porn is fun. So is social media. But those are visual things. Images. This website tells me that photos aren’t good to start off with, that we should exchange photos via email when we’re ready. They say you’re the one for me. A match so perfect, my mom will finally have grandchildren. What remains to be seen is if you’re a robot or not. I’m not a robot. I’m a pretty awesome dude. Check out my profile. If you like what the words say about me, send me a photo. I like what your words say about you. For the record. But…are you ugly? I told the computer I was only interested in dime pieces with brains. I’m not sure if we’re reading from the same dictionary, though.”
I laugh out loud, and I probably shouldn’t be as entertained as I am, but it’s a good message. I’m drawn to the quirkiness in his tone. He doesn’t know any facts other than what the test results give him. He knows I’m local, but that’s it. He doesn’t know my background, or my profession, or anything telling. Guess that’s the website’s way of keeping creepy stalkers at bay. After taking about ten minutes to read his characteristics and personality type, I type back:
I like the Internet too, to an extent. I don’t think I’m ugly, but I wouldn’t consider myself a dime piece, nor would any woman whoalso has an above-average IQ (which you requested), but my dad says I’m the prettiest girl in the whole world. I’m trying to trust the process and keep photos and appearances hidden until the bitter end. I’d rather get to know you as a person first. Are you okay with that? It does look like we matched on every single tier of this stupid program. If a computer can choose a person for me better than I can choose a person for me, I might jump off a cliff. Just a warning. Not really, though. So, the first question (if you want) it’s prompting me with is, “Tell me your ideal first date?”
P.S.) This may sound odd and a bit forward, but I’m not looking for a friendship. I need passion to punch me in the stomach and keep me lying on the ground. Can you dig?
P.S.S.) I’m a size 4. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Girl next door meets Minka Kelly circa Friday Night Lights. What about you, Mancandy?
I send the message and watch as the window tells me it’s been read. “I’m going to be late,” I whisper, checking the time. I throw the dress on and fire off a quick text to Martina, letting her know I’m on my way. Not really, but I’m never, ever late, so I’m sure they’ll forgive me for being fashionably late to my own party. It’s so euro. I queue up an Uber and find they’re only ten minutes away.
Cracking my knuckles, I stare at the screen, waiting for his response. Maybe he won’t respond right away, I tell myself. He does, and my heart nearly leaps out of my chest. I blame my lack of a sex life on my giddy, overzealous character these days.
You sound more like my type than I would have guessed. I won’t tell you what envisioning Minka circa Friday Night Lights did to, um. Never mind. You’re my type physically. I’m excited.
I’m tall, 6’3”, sort of goofy, muscles, straight teeth. Funny you mention friendship. I’m sort of allergic to it. Throw me in the passion pit any day of the week. I’m not saying that because I’m a man. I’m saying that because I want the all-encompassing hunger that can’t be staved off by a…friendship. I hope you don’t think I’m being too graphic. I’m really a pretty strait-laced guy in real life. It’s so odd you brought it up, though.
The ideal first date for me would be something low-key, away from the public, and quiet so there’s plenty of atmosphere for talking and getting to know one another. I’m not into wasting time, you see? I’ve done that in the past, and I’m ready to find the one and make the rest of my days count. The beach would be a great first date. A blanket, a basket of snacks, and a day with nothing else in it.
Sound interesting? How about it?
I waste no time replying.
Are you asking me on a date to the beach or the passion pit? You didn’t even ask me my ideal first date yet.
I hit send. His reply is quick.
When you know, you know. Your choice on the passion pit, but beach first. Tomorrow afternoon? 4 p.m. Blacks Beach. Salk Canyon Road entrance. I’ll be wearing a baby blue T-shirt and a white smile.
Drumming my fingers on my desk, I stare at his short message. I could sit here and try to decipher it all night, or I could go with my gut instinct and trust the three hundred dollars I put into the computer’s hands. My cell phone chimes with a text from Martina asking where I’m at. I have to deal with this message now. The type of people who come back to stuff like this later confounds me. It’s an impossibility to put this off. Plus, I’ll probably be drunk when I come home tonight.
It’s awfully presumptuous of you to assume I don’t have plans tomorrow afternoon. I don’t, though. I don’t have time to meet with an axe murderer either, so I really hope you aren’t some creeper. I’ll wear a long, tan dress. Also, I’m not a fan of baby blue. Wear red.
Before I lose my nerve, and also before I make myself later than I already am, I send the message and fold my hand over my mouth. I’ve shocked myself with this bold move. Maybe it is desperation, or perhaps I was able to bring some of my new, brave qualities home from overseas. Whatever it is, I have a good feeling about it. Mancandy sends another message.
It’s a date. Candy Apple Red.
I haven’t smiled this wide in a long time, not since I’ve been home. I close my laptop and fly out the door when the Uber driver honks to announce his arrival.
“Tell us the story again,” Martina gushes, her chin in her hands on the other side of the table. They love my stories from Spain. Well, they love my stories about Ricardo from Spain, mostly. I’ve had several drinks, and the night is winding down. Mancandy stayed safely tucked away—a secret until the very last moment when I had to tell someone lest I end up on the side of a milk carton or the front page of the newspaper.
I rattle on about the time he scooped me up on the handlebars of his bicycle and rode me through the farmers’ market on a Sunday afternoon. It was romantic in the best kind of way. I’ll never mind repeating that story. He was suave and spoke with a slight accent because his dialect was from a smaller town toward the south, and I broke up with him before I moved to Japan. “I don’t know why you didn’t stay with him. He was so obviously into you.”
