Page 4 of Play Along With Me
"Did Leila mention I have a son?" he asks, as if presenting his most impressive credential.
"She did," I confirm, wondering if it would be too obvious to check the time on my phone again. "How old?"
"Seven," Trevor beams. "Mason. He's very gifted. His teacher says his penmanship is at a nine-year-old level."
I try to muster an appropriate level of enthusiasm. "Wow. Advanced penmanship. That's... something."
"I have him Friday through Sunday, every other week," Trevor continues. "It's a great arrangement. Gives me time to date, obviously." He smiles at me in a way that I think is meant to be charming.
My mind drifts to Daniel. By my calculations and intensive Instagram research, he and Janine are currently on day six of their Maldives honeymoon. This morning, they swam with manta rays. Yesterday, they had a private dinner on the beach. Meanwhile, I'm listening to Trevor explain the difference between ballpoint and roller-ball pens, which apparently is relevant to Mason's penmanship achievements.
"Would you like to see pictures?" Trevor asks, already reaching for his phone.
"Actually," I say, seizing the opportunity like a drowning person grabbing a life preserver, "I should probably head out soon. Early meeting tomorrow." It's Saturday tomorrow, but Trevor doesn't know that.
His face falls slightly. "Oh. Well, maybe we could do this again sometime? Mason would love to meet you. He's very selective about my dates."
The thought of being evaluated by a seven-year-old penmanship prodigy fills me with a specific kind of dread. "I'll, um, check my schedule."
Outside the restaurant, I take a deep breath of evening air that doesn't smell like Trevor's overpowering cologne. I text Leila:
Me: If friendship is built on trust, ours is now a pile of rubble.
Leila: That bad?
Me: He showed me pictures of his desk organization system. MULTIPLE ANGLES.
Leila: But he's stable! And employed!
Me: So is my refrigerator, but it has more personality.
Three days later, I'm sprawled on my couch in what I've come to think of as my natural state: pajama bottoms with mysterious stains, oversized t-shirt from a 5K I never actually ran, and a pint of ice cream balanced precariously on my stomach. My laptop is open to Instagram, where I'm conducting my daily ritual of digital self-harm.
"Look," I tell Mr. Darcy, who's curled up beside me with an expression of feline judgment, "they're snorkeling." I turn the screen toward him. "She doesn't even have mascara smudges. How is that possible? Is she even human?"
Mr. Darcy blinks slowly, which I interpret as profound sympathy.
I scoop another spoonful of chocolate therapy—both the ice cream flavor and my current psychological treatment plan—and scroll to the next photo. Daniel and Janine, silhouettedagainst a sunset, her head on his shoulder. The caption reads: "Found paradise, inside and out. #honeymoonbliss #foreverlove"
"#Foreverterrible #Iwanttodie," I mutter, ice cream dripping onto my shirt. I don't bother wiping it off. It joins its brethren in the constellation of stains that map my recent emotional journey.
I hover my thumb over the delete button on the Instagram app. This isn't healthy. I know this. Watching your ex-boyfriend's honeymoon in real-time is the digital equivalent of repeatedly stubbing your toe on purpose.
"I should delete it," I announce to the empty room. Mr. Darcy has abandoned me for his food bowl. "It's the mature thing to do."
My thumb lingers. One press and I'd be free from this self-inflicted torture. One press and—
BANG BANG BANG.
The pounding on my door is so sudden and violent that I literally levitate off the couch, sending my laptop sliding and the ice cream container flying. It lands upside down on my rug with a sad plop.
"What the actual—" I whisper-shriek, heart pounding somewhere in the vicinity of my esophagus.
BANG BANG BANG.
"Open up! I know you're in there!"
The voice is male, angry, and definitely not one I recognize. A cold sweat breaks out across my body as I realize I'm about to star in my own personal horror movie: "Single Woman in Apartment: Bad Decisions, Worse Outcomes."
