“Oh, thank God you’re home!” Ruthie, Hallie’s roommate, stood in the doorway as if she’d been waiting for Hallie to return. She was wearing an apron that had a man’s ripped chest and speedo-covered junk drawn on it, and the cartooned Speedo had the words Got meat? written across the crotch in cursive. “I just made banana bread, and I want to get your opinion. Butter or no butter?”
Hallie moved around her and went inside. “My opinion on butter or no butter?”
Ruthie cackled at that. “Your opinion on the bread. Do you want butter or no butter?”
Hallie was stuffed and didn’t particularly care for banana bread at the moment, but she didn’t want to disappoint Ruthie, either. Especially when she was about to disappoint her by telling her she wanted to move out. “No butter, please.”
Ruthie literally ran over to the galley kitchen and threw open the refrigerator door. She yelled, “You know how I feel about butter, so I’m slathering this whole motherfucking loaf—aside from your slices—with all the Country Crock the law will allow.”
Hallie dropped her purse on the floor and slid out of her shoes. “I never doubted that you would.”
Ruthie Kimball was an absolutely ridiculous person. She was the sister of one of Hallie’s coworkers at the jewelry store, which was how they came to be roommates, and Hallie had never met anyone in her entire life who was so shockingly unpredictable. She genuinely had no idea—ever—what Ruthie was going to do, say, or think.
Ruthie drove a motorcycle year-round, whether it was sunny or snowing. If the temps were subzero, Ruthie bundled up in her puffy coat before climbing on her “hog” and proceeding to ride around town as if it were normal to have icicles forming underneath your nose.
And yes, she actually referred to it as her hog.
Incessantly.
Ruthie loved baking but hated cooking. She had piercings everywhere, but cried like a baby if she needed to get a shot. She took care of Hallie like an older sister, baking for her and ironing her clothes if she left them in the dryer for too long, but she scream-fought with her actual sister on a regular basis, shouting things into the phone like “I’d love to run you over with my hog but your stupid fucking ass would probably fuck up my suspension.”
Before throwing the phone off the balcony.
Somehow the phone was never broken when she retrieved it. Soft grass, Hallie supposed.
Ruthie was thin, of average height, and kept her head completely shaved because she found hair to be “so damn dumb.” She had huge blue eyes and a pixie face—like Ariel from The Little Mermaid—and she belonged to a super-secret fighting club that left her bruised more often than not.
Last year, Hallie had briefly worried that someone was hurting Ruthie and the club was an excuse, but when she finally got the nerve to broach the subject, Ruthie broke down in tears because she was so touched by Hallie’s concern.
And then she showed Hallie about a hundred pics of bruised, bloody women teeing off on each other in what looked to be a basement.
“Here it is.” Ruthie sprinted out of the kitchen and shoved a plate into Hallie’s hands. “My grandma’s recipe, but with a little Ruthie magic.”
“You know I can’t do edibles,” Hallie said, staring down at the hunk of bread. “They do random testing at my day job.”
“Drug-free, I promise. The magic is actually the addition of a drop of vinegar.”
Hallie sniffed the bread before taking a bite. “Mmmm,” she moaned, meaning it. “That is so good!”
“Yay!” Ruthie turned a cartwheel, knocking over the floor lamp. Once she had it back up, she said, “Listen, I gotta go take a nap. I met this girl named Bawnda who does synchronized swimming, and she said she’ll teach me if I don’t mind working overnights.”
“So . . . this is a job?”
“Did you not listen to me?” Ruthie smiled and shook her head, like Hallie was the ridiculous one. “I will be swimming in a synchronized fashion overnight tonight—not working—so I must sleep now. Night-night, Hallie baba.”
“G’night,” Hallie said, glancing at the microwave in the kitchen that showed it was seven p.m.
So much for discussing moving.
Chuck: So? How goes it?
Hallie picked up her glass and finished the last swallow of Riesling and responded with so far so good. She’d been sitting in bed with her phone since eight, just scrolling through available men. She’d heard the jokes about dudes being terrible at making good profiles, and it was actually not a lie. If what she’d looked at so far was indicative of the male species as a whole, there was a strong belief amongst them that a picture of a man with a fish was the pinnacle of profile photos.
Chuck: Jamie wants to know how swipe-happy you are.
Hallie snorted and responded: I haven’t swiped on anyone yet. I’m just window shopping.
Hallie was surprised by the eye candy. She simply hadn’t expected there to be so many relatively attractive specimens. But she could already see the cross-referencing problems.
Hallie: One guy is cute, but he’s wearing a backward hat and holding a beer in every single picture.
One guy has a nice face, but the fact that he thinks a picture of him holding up the head of a deer he killed by the antlers is a good profile photo tells me we wouldn’t be soul mates.
Hallie rolled her eyes when Chuck responded with Just go for it, you pussy!
She was going to take her time, and maybe not even swipe on anyone for a few days. There was no hurry—
“Holy shit!” Hallie squinted and clicked on the profile. It sure looked a lot like the wedding dude . . .
Jack Marshall.
Yep.
Dear God, it was him.
The photo was from the wedding—she’d remember him in that tux forever—so it had to have been taken the night she ended up sheet-wrestling with him. He was smiling and holding up a glass of champagne—giving his toast—and man, he was a stunningly beautiful human.
Whoa, he was a landscape architect. That sounded . . . interesting.
For some reason, she was surprised to see a guy like him on the app. He’d seemed too confident and dashing to be single.
But then she remembered.
Holy God, the man had bought an engagement ring and planned to propose a week ago. A week ago he’d been in love enough to pop the question, and now he was already on the app looking for ladies?
Clearly there was something majorly wrong with him.
She didn’t know what possessed her, but she wanted to mess with him. Hallie clicked on the message box and started typing.
Hey, Jack, it’s Hallie, the bartender from your sister’s wedding! Why haven’t you called? I really thought we connected and you were going to call, but . . . did you lose my number?
She sucked in a breath when she saw the conversation bubbles. Holy crap, he was responding! He was probably freaking out at the thought of a throwaway one-nighter coming for him, and something about that idea made her cackle.
After a few minutes, a message popped up:
Jack: Hey there, Hallie. I had a lot of fun with you after the wedding, and you seem like a cool person.
Oh, dear God, he thought she was serious. She typed:
God, Jack, relax. I’m just messing with you. I DO NOT WANT TO DATE YOU.
Jack: Uh wow ok.
Hallie: I saw your profile when I was shopping for soul mates and thought it would be fun to give you a heart attack. I never gave you my number and I didn’t expect you to call.
Conversation bubbles popped up and went away. Popped up and went away. Finally he messaged: So . . . you’re on here legitimately looking for love?
Hallie: Pathetic, right? But don’t worry, you’re not on my list.
Jack: First of all, I’m doing the same thing, so I’m going to go with no, that’s not pathetic. Second of all, I can’t believe I’m not on your list after our amazing night together.
Hallie groaned and looked up from the phone; she couldn’t believe he brought it up. But she also couldn’t hold in the smile as she typed: We were just so hammered—it’s all kind of a blur.
Jack: But . . . ?
She let out a little squeaking sound and kicked her feet against the mattress, unable to believe they were having this conversation.
Hallie: But what? All in all, it was a fine time.
The reality was that the night had been red-hot and so good, but she’d also been crazy drunk, so that meant nothing. Kermit the Frog might’ve been able to scratch her itch if enough whiskey had been involved.
Jack: Fine?? Come ON, Hal.
For some reason, his usage of her shortened name did something to her stomach as she messaged: Not talking about this. I remember nothing.
That was a bald-faced lie. She remembered absolutely every minute of that night, from the very first kiss in the kitchen, to her hand on the elevator stop button, right down to the feel of his callused palms as they gripped her hips in that king-sized hotel bed.
Jack: You don’t want to hear about the adorable noise you make when you . . .
Hallie: PLEASE GOD NO
Jack: I was going to say sneeze. But I do have your bra if you ever want it back.
Hallie: Where was it??
Jack: Underneath me. It was there the whole time you were belly-crawling around the bed.
Hallie did scream then, but quietly enough so Ruthie didn’t come running in with one of her fencing foils.
Hallie: You were fake sleeping?!
Jack: It was obvious you wanted the quick exit, so who was I to get in the way?
She was laughing when she responded with: Well, um, thank you, I guess . . . ?
Jack: You’re welcome, it would seem . . . ?
Hallie readjusted her pillows and got comfortable. So tell me something, Jack Marshall. What is it you’re looking for on this app? TRUTH ONLY.
She wasn’t actually expecting the truth, so his answer shocked the hell out of her.
Jack: Okay, truth only. The truth is that I have a lot of friends and a good job, and I date often enough, but I want someone important in my life. {insert your laughing at this desperate guy here}
Hallie would’ve been touched by the sentiment if it weren’t for the fact that he’d had someone important in his life last week. Talk about a desperate need to be in a relationship. Still . . .
Hallie: Truth only: I’m looking for pretty much the same thing. She didn’t want him to misunderstand, so she added: Only not with you, so don’t get all squirmy again.
Jack: Rest assured, I will not squirm.
Hallie: Well, good luck on finding your perfect woman.
Jack: Good luck to you, as well. Your bra is hanging from my rearview mirror if you change your mind and want it back.
Hallie: Sicko.
Jack: Or I could keep it as a trophy.
Hallie: Y’know, you seem to be a little obsessed with that night.
Jack: I’m a little obsessed with that elevator.
Hallie’s stomach dropped and she managed to type Good night and good luck, Sicko before exiting the app and turning off her light. She needed sleep, and a lot of it.
Jack
Jack stared at the phone, wearing a stupid smile.
He shut down his computer—enough work for one night—and went into the kitchen. There were still boxes scattered here and there, but the new place was actually starting to look good. He opened the fridge and grabbed the milk, his mind still on Hallie as he poured a glass.
Yes, she was hot, and he still couldn’t stop himself from replaying moments of that night over and over again in his head, but it also seemed like she was genuinely fun.
It’d been too long since he’d had actual fun.
He wasn’t interested in dating someone he’d had a one-night stand with, and she’d made it abundantly clear she wasn’t interested in him, but in a weird way, he was glad she’d decided to mess with him on the app.
She’d reminded him that fun was a thing.
He put the milk back in the fridge and shut the door, only to see Mr. Meowgi staring up at him with those annoyingly adorable kitten eyes. It was day three of Jack being a cat owner, and the jury was still out on whether he’d made a terrible mistake.
“This is for me, buddy,” he said, picking up the cup. “Not you.”
It—he—meowed, and that tiny little squeak made the cat seem even smaller and more helpless than he actually was. Jack rolled his eyes, shook his head, and set the glass of milk on the floor.
“Here, you little beggar,” he said, crouching down to pet the irritating fluffball as he started drinking his milk. “But this is the last time.”
Meowgi started purring, as if to say, Sure it is.
