Two days after my seeing my mom for the first time in months, my brain is still going in circles about her awkward concern. About how, at some point, I felt like I was having dinner with a stranger.
Maybe meeting her wasn’t what I needed when I was already feeling low about my injury, but I can’t find it within myself to regret it. Not exactly.
What I’m sure I’m about to regret is entertaining this conversation.
“You need to get laid.”
What I need is for my best friend to set down that glass of wine and drink some common sense instead, but alas.
“I can’t exactly move right now, you know?” I say, reaching out my hand until my fingers wrap around some salt and vinegar chips. They are the superior flavor—I don’t make the rules.
Beth arches a blond eyebrow at me. “Your point?”
I shake my head in amusement and focus on chewing down some more chips.
An hour ago, a loud banging on my front door woke me up from my nap. Afraid it was a murderer on the other side, I’d stayed in bed and held on to my crutch for dear life, ready to use it as a weapon if necessary. But I was being too dramatic.
“Maddie! Open up! It’s your favorite Sagittarius!” I’d recognized Beth’s voice immediately, but I still wanted to kill her for the heart attack she’d almost given me. The only thing that saved her was the wine—that I couldn’t drink because of my medication—and the two bags of chips that I was absolutely going to devour.
Beth graduated with me, but she decided last minute that professional ballet wasn’t her calling. She made a brave decision and rejected the life of castings and ballet companies, and she focused on teaching instead. She has a job at a local dance studio, which she loves, and I’m proud of her for having found her path.
I wish I could say the same about myself.
“Trust me on this one,” she insists, a mischievous gleam in her eyes that red poison is responsible for. “I know exactly what we should do.”
Why do I feel like this won’t end well for me?
“We need to find you a hot date,” she concludes.
And the reason Dr. Simmons’s chiseled jaw flashes in my head at the mention of hot will forever remain earthed.
I point to my ankle with an exaggerated gesture. “This won’t exactly help me meet anyone.” Not that I want to in the first place.
“And that’s what dating apps are for.”
Oh, no. Please, no.
“Give me your phone.”
I let out a nervous chuckle. “Are you kidding? I’m not going on a dating app, Beth. I don’t want to get murdered.”
“Pfft. You watch too many crime documentaries, Mads. People meet online all the time. There’s a thing called ‘sending your location to your friends’ or even ‘having your friends sit at a nearby table the whole time.’ Kyle and I would totally go with you.”
She’s also a close friend of Kyle’s, and I’m grateful she isn’t taking any sides. Beth knows better than to stand in the middle of a fight, although technically we aren’t even fighting. I’m just dumb.
And I’m also not sure Kyle would want to keep being my friend in the first place after this, but I don’t say it out loud.
“That’s not the point. What if he’s a weirdo? Or a catfish? I don’t want to waste my time with someone who may not even be real.”
Beth lets out a deep breath, as if I were irritating her. That’s a funny one. “Making a profile won’t hurt. Plus, it will be fun. You could use some fun these days, Mads. There’s this new app, Heart Swap, and it’s blowing up for a reason.”
“Isn’t that a Pokémon thing?”
She slaps my arm. “Focus. What do you have to lose?”
Let’s see—I lost my chance to follow my dream career, I injured my ankle, I just had a disastrous meeting with my mother two days ago… I guess Beth is right. What do I have to lose? More of my sanity? I don’t have much to spare.
“Fine. Whatever.” I give in, which makes her squeal with excitement. She reaches out her eager hand, and I give her my phone, which she knows the password to. “But you’re doing all the work. I’m too tired to type.”
“Oh, don’t worry. I was already going to.”
Her eagerness is contagious, and despite hating the whole online dating idea, I find myself invested in choosing my most flattering photos minutes later.
With Beth’s help, I finally opt for three pictures—a casual, smiley one my brother took when I visited during Easter break this year, one in my ballet outfit, and another one with my late dog Rocket.
My brother and Grace adopted him from a shelter a year after I moved in with them, and he loved Lila and me with all his soul until he passed away. I miss him every day, but thinking of him doesn’t hurt anymore. He lived a good, long life, and he’ll always be part of our family.
Once we get my profile description ready with a bunch of my hobbies, I ask, “I’ll see men of all ages here?”
She nods. “Yep. There’s no age filter, which means you’ll see everyone geographically close to you that is older than twenty-one because that’s the minimum age to sign up. Unfortunately. Boys are dumb—you need a man. Someone who’s like, thirty-five.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Thirty-five?” I’m not sure about seeing someone that much older. It feels forbidden, and it would give my brother an aneurysm if he found out.
But Beth only shrugs like it doesn’t matter. Maybe it doesn’t. “Why not? You’re a responsible and mature woman. You know what you like and what you want to do with your life.” That last part might not be entirely true, but I get what she’s saying. “Your boundaries are healthy and firm. I really don’t see the problem. Don’t you want a man who also knows what he wants? I don’t think college boys are for you.”
Perhaps she has a point. I didn’t date anyone while I was in college, although I’ve had a handful of hookups here and there. My only relationship was in my last year of high school, and while he was a sweet guy, I couldn’t see myself with him long-term.
It’s not like I’m looking for a husband or anything right now. I’m not even looking forward to any kind of date, but if I had to choose right now, I wouldn’t want a boy. I’d want a man who has himself figured out. I refuse to endure a human-shaped headache, not even for a night.
“We’ll see,” I concede.
Maybe being with someone that much older would be too weird. I mean, Dr. Simmons must be around that age, and—
Don’t think about him.
Yeah, I probably shouldn’t.
It doesn’t help that I’m nervous about our upcoming session tomorrow since it will be the first time we’ll see each other after that weird encounter in the alley behind Monica’s Pub. I bet he’s ready to give me the lecture of a lifetime for not staying at home to rest my ankle.
Beth taps something else in and then says, “Oh my God! It’s done!” She squeals and cuddles up next to me, passing me the phone. She points at the screen, where a profile that isn’t mine has appeared. “You’ll see the different men here, all within a few miles from your location. You can check their photos and bios, and if you like them, you have to swipe up. If you don’t, swipe down.”
Sounds simple enough. “What happens when I swipe up? Can I just…talk to them?”
“No, to chat with someone, they’ll have to accept your invitation.”
I think I get it now. “So it has to be mutual?”
Beth nods, and I redirect my focus to the screen, where a shirtless twenty-two-year-old Max stares right back at me. I swipe down at once, which makes my friend gasp. The dramatics.
“But he was so hot! And you didn’t even look at the rest of his profile.” She pouts.
“Any man who has a shirtless photo of themselves on their dating profile is a big no-no,” I say. “I’m not looking for a random hookup.”
“What are you looking for, then?”
Honestly? “I have no clue, but definitely not a one-night thing.”
“Well, you may want to think about that for a second. Some guys could ask you.”
“It wasn’t even my idea to do this.” I swipe down on yet another shirtless picture. It’s concerning the amount of defined abs I’ve seen in the past minute alone. “But this is fun, I’ll give you that.”
“I knew it,” she beams.
We spend the next five minutes swiping down, despite Beth’s complaints.
“But he has the cutest dog!”
“What do you mean, he looks like a player? He’s only wearing his cap backwards!”
“Okay, that was totally a mistake, Mads. When have you ever seen an eight pack?”
“This is pointless,” I say after minutes of mindless browsing. “These boys are clearly looking for something I’m not interested in.”
“Fine, no packs of any number for you.” Beth snatches my phone from my hands, and I let her be.
It was fun at first, but it’s obvious that online dating isn’t for me. Plus, I’m not entirely sure I’m as ready to get out there as Beth thinks I am. I’m too much of a mess, too much too lost. Dragging down an unsuspecting man with me wouldn’t be fair.
“Oh. How about him?”
I’m not ready to see another arrogant smile or staged picture at a ski vacation, but when I turn my head, all blood drains from my face.
My palms start sweating, and my heart beats like a war drum.
“He’s thirty-one, likes normal things like hiking, and… Aww, he wrote ‘hanging out with my two cats’ as one of his interests. Too bad there are no pictures of them. I bet they are so cute.”
Yeah, no way this is happening right now.
No. Way.
“Should I swipe up?” Beth asks.
“No!” I snatch my phone right back, managing to keep my ankle in place by some miracle. I scan my screen with sharp focus to check that my eyes aren’t playing sick tricks on me.
They aren’t.
Oh, God, they aren’t.
This is Dr. Simmons’s—James’s—profile.
He only uploaded two pictures, but he looks terribly handsome in both. I hate him so much.
He’s hiking on some trail in the first one, his blue eyes covered by dark sunglasses. He’s sporting a black T-shirt similar to the one I saw him wear the other night, and now I can take my time ogling his massive arms openly like the biggest creep in existence.
In the second picture, he’s sitting at some kind of wooden bench in front of a small fireplace outside. It looks cozy. He’s holding a bottle of beer in his hand and looks mildly annoyed at whoever is taking the picture.
He isn’t smiling in either of them, but his attractiveness stands out, nonetheless. It must be that beard. It should be illegal for facial hair to fit a person so well.
“You’re interested, aren’t you?” Beth asks in a conspiratorial voice as she nudges my arm. “I think you should swipe up. He looks a bit grumpy, but it adds to the sexy.”
I can’t argue with her on that.
No, stop. He’s your physical therapist. This is inappropriate. Go get some bleach for your eyes so you can unsee his dating profile.
Only…I can’t. I’m physically incapable of not looking at it. He’s listed some other interests in his profile, like hiking, being in nature, and going out to eat at various restaurants. And I’ve just confirmed his age too—thirty-one. That’s a whole decade older than I am, and I don’t know how it makes me feel. All I know is that it shouldn’t send this stupid thrill down my spine.
“Why aren’t you saying anything? Do you know him or something?” Beth asks, taking my phone again to get a closer look at the pictures as I internally curse myself at her question.
Because I’m mortified. Not because he has a profile on the dating app, but because he’s been nothing short of professional with me, and I can’t for the life of me stop staring at his pictures like I have a right to. Beth finding out about my confusing feelings for my physical therapist will only make things worse.
So even though I hate lying, I end up saying, “It’s just that he’s too old for me.”
That’s not it at all. Before today, I already suspected he had to be in his early thirties, and that didn’t stop me from appreciating his attractiveness. Not once.
I’m such a mess.
“We’ve talked about this.” Beth rolls her eyes. “I have a feeling, Mads. A strong one. If you don’t swipe up, I will.”
My heart does a cartwheel inside my chest. “You wouldn’t dare—”
“Done.”
My stomach drops to my feet. This can’t be happening to me. “Tell me you’re fucking joking.”
Beth shows me the phone with a proud smile I intend to smack off her face right about now.
She isn’t joking.
“I bet you’re his type too,” she muses out loud, oblivious to the hell she’s just cast upon me. “He looks like he’d be a beast in bed. I want all the juicy deets if you go on a date with him.”
I swallow, but my throat remains dry. “Is he going to get a notification that I swiped up?”
Don’t say yes, don’t say yes, don’t say—
“Yes. He wouldn’t get a notification if you swiped down, though. That’d be mean,” she explains, but my brain is barely listening anymore.
I swiped up on Dr. Simmons on a dating app.
He’s going to get a notification and see what Beth did.
I can’t look at him on Monday.
I can’t.
With no short amount of frustration, I come to terms with the fact that the shit show that is my life has just added a whole new season.
✽✽✽
Like a total fool, I convinced myself all through Sunday that Monday morning would never come. That, by some strange miracle, all those articles about the world ending that never got the date right would suddenly become true and a huge asteroid would hit our planet, wiping me and that stupid dating app from existence.
But Monday morning does roll around, no catastrophic event kills me or my embarrassment, and I still swiped up on Dr. Simmons this weekend.
Technically, I didn’t do anything, but it’s not like that would make a difference. It’s done.
I barely slept a wink last night, worrying about what he would say to me when I entered his office. Would he call me out? Or just ignore the whole fiasco? That would be the professional thing to do, right?
I swear the ride to the clinic feels faster today, and during the trip, I try to convince myself one more time that he probably didn’t even see it. Many people get tired of dating apps and end up uninstalling them without actually deleting their profile. Their information is out there, and people keep swiping up and down on them, but they never find out because the app is no longer on their phones. That can happen, right? I’m too scared to google it.
Holding my crutches a little tighter this morning, I greet the lady at the front desk and make my way—very, very slowly—to his office. I don’t care if I’m a couple of minutes late. I’m waiting to see if the ground decides to swallow me after all.
After the awkward dinner with my mom on Friday night, I thought my biggest concern come Monday would be the realization that we don’t seem to be in a better place than we were last year. Or the year before, or the one before that. And even if my brother has always encouraged our mother-daughter relationship, I still feel the guilt eating up at my conscience for not telling him about our dinner. I tell Sammy everything, especially when it comes to our mom. It’s just that… Ugh.
How do you tell your brother you might not want to see your mother again because she managed to make you feel like shit in under an hour?
When I returned to our table after my brief interaction with Dr. Simmons—who was nowhere to be found at the bar—I told her I was tired and that I was going to call an Uber. She didn’t object, and she didn’t try to set up another dinner either. I can’t say I’m disappointed.
What I wasn’t expecting was this to be the cause of my anxiety. A huge mistake, a total disaster I don’t know how I’ll recover from—or if I ever will.
But I need to stay calm. I’m probably blowing things out of proportion.
At least that’s what I tell myself until I step into his office and the air shifts.
Dr. Simmons, who I now know looks ridiculously handsome in casual clothes and has two cats, doesn’t look at me differently or for longer than usual, which only manages to confuse me even further.
Am I imagining this? This…zapping electricity in the room?
Maybe it’s just my nerves. I shouldn’t listen to my judgment right now. It’s poor, at best.
“Good morning,” he greets me. Not enthusiastically, but that is to be expected. He types something on his computer and gestures to the exercise mat on the floor, not looking at me. “We’ll begin shortly with some stretches.”
If I thought our session would be awkward, I would be a hundred percent right.
I’m excruciatingly aware of every breath he takes, of the pressure of his fingers on my sensitive skin, of the tightness of his jaw every time he’s about to ask me a question. As if acknowledging me is the last thing he wants to do.
And I don’t die inside when he touches my back to correct my posture during one of the exercises. Of course not.
Dr. Simmons avoids my gaze as much as I avoid his, which only fuels my suspicion that he knows about the dating app fiasco. He’s a man of few words on a normal day, and I don’t expect him to bring it up at all. It’s on the tip of my tongue to do it myself, because only fifteen minutes have gone by, and I can’t stand this tension any longer.
Sure, what happened is mortifying and not my fault, really, but there’s an itch inside me begging to be scratched by clearing the air. For hours I’ve been dreading facing him in today’s session, and now I want to talk about it? I must’ve hit my head this morning when I woke up.
Halfway through the session, we move on to some strengthening exercises that involve him touching the back of my ankle, and for a second there, I think I might pass out. Seriously, I can’t take this anymore.
More than anything, I want to apologize for crossing an invisible boundary and making him uncomfortable, even though, if we’re getting technical, it was Beth who did it. But still, every time I picture his face after he read the notification, I want to puke.
There’s only one small problem, one thing that makes me stop in my tracks. What if he really hasn’t seen the notification? What if he doesn’t use the app anymore and I make a fool of myself for nothing?
My headache heightens, and it only gets worse when he dismisses me half an hour later. “That’ll be all for today.”
I have seconds to make this decision. Pressure never gets to me onstage, but when it comes to dealing with daily situations, dealing with normal people and saying actual words, let’s just say I could use a lesson or two in self-control.
And so, I blame my lack of proper training for my next words. “I’m so sorry.”
Slowly, too slowly, he turns his head. His eyes pin me in place, and I have to swallow past the sudden lump in my throat.
Well, I guess I’m doing this.
Mustering all the courage my dread has left behind, I let it all out. For better or for worse, here it comes.
“About the dating app.” I swallow again because the ice-cold look he’s giving me right now could freeze an entire continent. It’s definitely frozen my sparse confidence. “I… A friend swiped up, and I’m sorry if it made you uncomfortable. I would’ve undone it if I’d known how. I’m sorry, again.” I’m rambling. I know I’m rambling. Oh, God, this is bad. “We were just joking around. I didn’t mean anything by it. It wasn’t like…a serious thing or anything. But I’m sorry anyway.”
A second goes by.
Five.
Ten.
And finally, finally, Dr. Simmons blinks.
Are his cheeks flushed?
“It’s fine,” he says, shattering my world with just a few words.
It’s fine.
That means he saw the notification. That means he uses the app. The dating app.
That also has to mean he’s single, right? Unless he’s an asshole, but I don’t peg him as one.
And why am I focusing on his love life right now when I should be putting all my efforts into getting a new identity and fleeing this country?
“I’m very sorry,” I insist.
At this point, I’m not sure what else to say. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up at all.
Dr. Simmons lowers himself down into his rolling chair, types something on his computer, and takes his sweet, sweet time responding. “You’re good.”
“My…my friend swiped up on you.” I feel the need to clarify once again. It’s very important that he knows this, I decide. “We were just playing around. I didn’t even want to sign up or anything.”
And now it sounds like a lame excuse. I can never win, can I? I hate everything.
“So why did you?” he surprises me by asking.
I shrug, even though he’s not looking at me. Holding my crutches, I answer as I walk up to his small desk, “My friend said I could use some fun.” Which is sad to say out loud, now that I think about it. “I just didn’t know that was her idea of fun. It really wasn’t. Fun, I mean.”
He grunts—was that a grunt?—under his breath and adds nothing else. Okay, then.
Before he inevitably dismisses me, my eyes dart to the small pile of books on his desk. Most volumes have boring titles with words such as “physiology” and “fibromyalgia,” which I’m sure are fascinating for the professionals in the field, but they don’t catch my attention.
However, that one mandala coloring book sure does.
“I didn’t know you liked mandalas,” I blurt out in a hopeless attempt at changing the topic.
It doesn’t work.
“Why would you? I didn’t put that information on my dating profile.”
What. The. Hell.
“Relax.” He eyes me carefully from behind his glasses. “I’m just messing with you.”
Him? Messing with me?
I clear my throat, unsure of what to say now. Luckily, he makes that choice for me. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Your ankle is recovering as expected, so keep resting.”
I don’t know if that’s a jab or not. After all, he knows I haven’t been properly resting my ankle. He saw me at Monica’s Pub, which neither of us seems to want to bring up for whatever reason. Works for me—I’ve suffered enough embarrassment to last me a whole decade.
But I still ask, “Are you sure it’s fine? I’m really sorry if I crossed any boundaries.”
His deep voice sounds serious—and tired—when he says, “Miss Stevens, it’s okay. Stop apologizing.”
I swallow. “All right. Well, I… I’ll see you tomorrow.” I give him a small smile and turn around, heading for the exit.
I’m pretty sure my mind is playing cruel tricks on me, because I swear I feel his scorching stare on my back the whole time.
