Читать книгу Exposed - Zoey Williams - Страница 9

Chapter Two

I spend the entire weekend trying to convince myself that I didn’t promise Ella and Jazz that I’d start dating. I wish I’d fallen into a sodium-induced coma from all the instant chicken noodle soup and it was all a dream. I’m so nervous to tell my boss that I need to take time off. I haven’t taken a single personal, vacation or sick day in nearly two years. I notice my teeth are clenching so hard I’m giving myself a jaw ache as I dial Reka’s number and tell her the excuse Jasmine came up with.

“The entire week?” Reka’s voice is filled with incredulity. “Are you sure?” she asks, desperation edging into her tone. She didn’t take the news of me taking a break from work well. But this is coming from someone who’s never taken a vacation day—not even her full lunch hour—the entire time I’ve known her.

“Yes,” I apologize. “There’s been an emergency.”

“Are you all right?” she asks.

“Oh yes, I’m fine,” I assure her. “It’s just that,” I say it in the dramatic way I practiced in the mirror. “Someone I knew passed away.”

“Oh, honey. I’m so sorry,” she says sincerely. “Were the two of you close?”

I look down at my crotch and remember Jazzy’s eulogy. “You could say that.”

“Family?”

“Oh, yes. To be honest, I haven’t seen her in years, but we were once inseparable.”

“That’s just terrible,” Rena sighs. “Take the week, Macy. You’ll miss the big fashion show, but I’ll find someone to cover. Be well,” she says kindly.

“I will,” I say before hanging up. I feel kind of bad for lying to her, but then I look at Jasmine’s building and I remind myself why I need to do this. If I don’t take steps towards getting myself out there, Jasmine and Ella were right, I’ll end up a single fifty-year-old who’s obsessed with her work.

But as I walk up the flight of stairs to Jazz’s brownstone, I start to feel sick. A sense of dread settles over me. Five years. It’s been five years since I’ve dated. I’ve been out of the game for so long I wonder if I still remember how to have good sex. Is it like riding a bike, something I’ll never forget how to do? I momentarily consider calling Reka back, telling her I’ll be at the office in an hour and live the rest of my life in a hot-and—heavy relationship with Frank the vibrator. But then I remind myself that I don’t want to be that career woman with the blinders on. I can do this. Dating is supposed to be fun. Normal people date. I shouldn’t be missing out. I deserve someone like Daniella’s husband, Mark, and Jasmine’s mystery girl, whoever she is.

I press the buzzer to Jasmine’s apartment and the door clicks open in response. As I enter the foyer, I smell the lingering scents of floor cleaner, dust and whatever is cooking down the hall. Jasmine’s about to show me the ins and outs of online dating and with each step up to the third floor, my nerves kick more and more into high gear. I remember in the days before the internet, my middle school experience and some of my high school days, where the most explicit it ever got was daring to put your crush’s initials in your carefully crafted away message on AIM. There was no texting—you had to call a guy’s landline and pray that his mother didn’t answer. Your heart raced, your stomach tied up in knots, your palms sweated uncontrollably—that was pre-internet love. I have absolutely no idea what I’m in for with this YoCupid deal. Maybe it’s not too late to take Jasmine up on her offer on the blind date. But then I shake my head.

By the time I’ve knocked on Jazz’s apartment door, I feel a wave of nausea settle over me. This is it. Once I cross this threshold, I’m no longer Macy Grant, the Loner. I’ll officially be Macy Grant, Putting Herself Out There. Thankfully, Jazz is guaranteed to have something to treat nausea.

The moment I open the door, the smell is potent. She must be cooking up a new batch of her famous juices. Many of her clients are rich and famous—wealthy people love their juice cleanses and their drugs.

“Welcome to the first day of the rest of your life,” Jazz says with a toothy smile as I enter the apartment and hand her the bottle of wine she said I’d need.

“Tone it down, Hallmark card,” I say. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

Jasmine chuckles as she rummages through a junk drawer and pulls out a corkscrew. “Now, before we get started, are you absolutely sure you don’t want to be set up with the guy I know? We can bypass all of this if you do.”

It’s very tempting, but as much as I love Jasmine, I’d be more likely to gargle bong water than to let her set me up with someone. Especially someone who belongs to the group known as Jazzy’s clients, which I’m sure is an incredibly mixed bag personality-wise.

“I appreciate the offer, but let’s try this first,” I say as diplomatically as I can.

Jasmine pops the cork and pours me a glass of red. I guzzle it down in two big gulps.

“Nervous much?” Jasmine asks.

“No, I’m fine,” I lie. We haven’t even started yet and I have an urge to snatch the bottle out of her hands and down the entire thing right now.

“It won’t be that bad,” Jasmine says as she places a hand on my shoulder. “Plus, you’re such a catch, I’m sure you’ll be fighting dudes off with a stick.”

The glass of wine I just gulped gives me a little bit of a fuzzy feeling. I very rarely drink. “You’re right, Jazz. This will almost be like online shopping,” I say with a false hope. “It’ll be kind of fun, right?”

“That’s one word for it,” Jasmine says and I give her a look. “I’m joking, I’m joking,” she says with a breathy laugh. “And let’s not take any profile pictures of you right now because you have a serious case of red wine mouth.”

I laugh as I kick off my shoes and walk over to her couch, scrubbing my teeth with my finger. A laptop is open on the coffee table facing it, and I immediately spot my face on the screen.

“Wait. Did you start creating a profile without me?”

Jazzy scans the room, shifting her eyes guiltily. “Maybe.”

I look at the pictures she’s chosen of me. One of them is me in a bikini.

“No, no, absolutely not,” I say adamantly. “Take that down right now.”

“Why?” Jazz asks innocently. “You look hot.”

“Firstly, because this picture was taken six years ago.” I point to the screen. “My hair is even a different color.” This picture was taken when I had a terrible addiction to peroxide. I’m surprised Jazz and Ella didn’t hold an intervention for me then. “Secondly, I don’t want some guy I don’t know beating off to this.”

“Ah, I forgot about that. Men tend to do that, don’t they?” Jazz says, furrowing her brow. “Fine, you can delete that one.”

I delete it and scroll through the rest of the pictures. One catches my eye. I squint slightly as I inspect it. “Did you...did you Photoshop a tattoo onto my right bicep?” I click on the picture to enlarge it and lo and behold, there’s a rainbow sugar skull decorating my arm.

“I thought it looked cool. Guys compliment my tattoos all the time. Everyone loves an edgy chick. Wear a long-sleeved shirt on the first date. Problem solved.”

“But Jazz, I’m the opposite of an edgy chick. Last week I got excited when a skirt I had been eyeing at The Limited went on sale. Now what did you write in my profile?”

“Here, take a look,” she says, angling the screen towards me.

I scan through it and it looks like a select mute filled it out. Almost all of the questions have short, one-sentence answers. Under the What I’m Doing with My Life header, Jazz wrote “Lovin’ it.” I look at the About Me section and it simply reads “I like yoga.”

“Jazzy, there’s barely anything there. Here, let me fill it out a little more,” I offer as I reach for the computer.

“No need,” Jazz says. “When it comes to online dating, especially straight online dating, no one cares. You could write entirely in a foreign language and guys wouldn’t give a shit. You could be a professional unicyclist who lives at home with her parents and it wouldn’t matter. It’s all about the pictures.”

“Point taken.”

Jasmine shows me the rest of the profile and it seems good enough. Even though the page is filled out with cavewoman answers, at least I’m fully clothed in each picture now.

“Are we ready to publish this now?”

I take a deep breath. “I guess.”

“Going live in three...two...” Jasmine counts me down with the intensity she reserves for New Year’s Eve. I cover my eyes with my hands, spreading my fingers the way I do at a horror movie so I can kind of see as Jasmine clicks a button with a dramatic flourish.

“One!” she exclaims giddily as she raises both arms in the air. She turns to me and peels one of my hands off my face to shake it enthusiastically. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, Miss Grant. Congratulations, you are now part of the wonderful New York dating pool.”

I hear a dinging noise. Then it happens again. And again. Ding! Ding! Ding!

“What’s that?” I ask, looking around. “Did you leave something in the microwave?”

Jasmine beams at me. “It’s coming from the computer, silly! They’re messages!”

“Already?” I scoff. “How is that even possible? I’ve been on here for a grand total of five seconds.”

“Believe it, babe,” Jasmine says as she picks up the laptop and starts going through them.

“Oh-ho-ho, these are good. These are real good,” she guffaws. The computer dings at least five more times in rapid succession. “You certainly are popular.”

“Last time I checked, they were my messages. Let me see!”

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Five of my eight messages are just the phrase, “What’s up?” Two of them ask my bra size. The last one I have to reread twice before I can convince myself that this is real life and an actual human being wrote this: “Hey, you are cute like a little mouse. Wanna play a game? And no, it’s not sexual before you think that’s what I’m insinuating you perv.”

“Did you read this one?” I ask Jazz, pointing to the screen. “Do guys in their mid-twenties know how to talk to women at all? Do they really think this is an effective way to get intelligent women to talk to them? I mean, who would fall for something like this?”

“I would!” Jazzy says, cackling as she forms a peace sign with her hand and puts it behind her head. “Look! I’m a mouse!”

“Those are rabbit ears, Jazz.”

“Same difference.” She hands me the bottle of red wine and I take a long swig. “What’s next?”

“Look, this guy’s profile picture is him with a parrot on his shoulder.”

“Now that’s confusing. I don’t know which one is Jeff—the dude or the parrot.”

“Oh, shit. I think I accidentally signed you up for a parrot dating service.”

I read another one. “Can I pleasure you with my ten-inch meat sword?” My mouth hangs open. “This is just plain disgusting. Why are they all so vulgar?”

“Are you kidding? That’s mild. That’s practically a ‘how do you do?’ in this day and age.”

Curious to see the face that belongs to such a twisted mind, I click on his picture to see him better.

“Jazz, this kid looks like he’s twelve! You are too young for that kind of language,” I admonish the computer screen. I go back to my inbox and search the webpage. “How do I delete all these gross ones?”

“Why would you delete that one? He’s ten inches for crying out loud, Mace.”

I give her a pointed look.

“Kidding.” Jasmine puts up her hands. “No, but really, if you delete all the gross ones, there won’t be many left. Just sayin’. There’s always my cli-ent,” she says in a singsong voice like she’s dangling a bone for a starved dog.

“No, no, I’m not done yet,” I insist as another message comes through. It says, “So you like yoga? Which kind do you practice?”

I turn to Jazz, almost a little smug. “See? This guy seems okay. And I’m kind of impressed that he knows that there are different kinds of yoga, to be honest.”

“Open his page,” Jazzy requests.

I click through a couple pictures. “He’s pretty cute,” I admit before going back to scroll through what he filled out. “He’s a dentist—that’s good, I may need a new crown put in, always a plus...”

Jazzy laughs. “Go on.”

“He likes pets. Always good.” A small smile begins to form on my lips, but then my hand stops cold. I see it. Under The Most Private Thing I’m Willing to Admit it says: “I own a sarcophagus. I refer to it as my roommate.”

I scrunch my nose for a second and open a new tab to look up the word sarcophagus. I think I know what it means, but I have to double-check. When the definition loads, a breath escapes me.

“Nope, nope, shut it down,” I say, closing the laptop with a click. Jasmine gives me a toothy grin. “He probably wanted to know what yoga you did because maybe it’s a small coffin and he hasn’t found anyone who can fit in it.” Jasmine mimes stroking an invisible beard. “Or maybe, if he’s a dentist, he fills his coffin roommate with old teeth.”

“Okay, Jazz, I get the picture. I think that’s enough.” I lean back and sink onto the couch, deflated. I feel like I just did a meet-and-greet with a pack of stone cold weirdoes.

“What do you mean enough?”

“I really don’t want to do that again, Jazz. How do people do that? Like every day, go on these sites?” I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m a strong enough woman for that.” I look down at my watch. “I lasted thirty seconds.”

“There is one other option...” Jazzy is all too happy to remind me.

Ugh, her client. “Fine,” I mutter, defeated. I don’t want to do this again, so I don’t really have a choice. I have the entire week to meet people and it will not be from an online dating site. “I’ll do it.”

“Really?” Jasmine brightens. “That’s great! I kind of knew this would happen, so I already set something up.” She looks down at her watch. “For...ten hours from now.”

I do a double-take. “What? You already made arrangements for me to meet this guy?”

“Of course I did. I may not have online dated in a while, but I know it sucks. And that you would never go for it. So I was efficient. I made the plans you should have agreed to anyway.”

Jasmine cooks with weed for a living. She’s never efficient. “But...how did you...?” I stammer, trying to find the words.

“Know this was going to happen?” Jazzy finishes for me. “Because I know you. I know how you operate. Online dating just isn’t for you. You work better in person.”

I open my mouth to say something, but stop myself. I couldn’t really argue with that. Being the salesperson she is, Jazzy could read anyone like a book. To be a successful entrepreneur in New York, she had to be. She even claimed her powers grew stronger every time she was under the influence. Jasmine Lee certainly had my number, that’s for sure.

“So you made a reservation for a restaurant tonight? How far is it?”

Jazz shrugs. “Not a restaurant—just a drink at a bar around the block. Here, let me spruce you up.” She reaches out her hands and fluffs my hair a little. “Do you want me to do your makeup?”

I eye Jasmine’s teal lipstick and glittery green eye shadow—boy does this woman love glitter—and hesitate. “Nah, I think I’m good.”

She then looks me up and down, surveying my outfit. “I wish you’d worn something different.”

I look down at myself. “What’s wrong with this? It’s a maxi dress.”

“It looks like a nightgown.”

“That’s precisely why women wear them. They’re comfortable as hell.”

“Men don’t care about comfortable. They want your tits out. I don’t have to be straight to know that.”

Jazz circles one of her hands around my wrist and pulls me in the direction of her closet.

“Why don’t you try on some of my clothes? I get hit on all the time in ’em.”

She opens the double doors and it’s a sea of ripped jeans, clothes pinned band tees and tie-dye. Chunky candy-hued platforms, spiked sneakers and glittery sandals all the colors of the rainbow line the floor. The shelf above her clothes rack is stuffed with all the props she wears to Pride parades—tutus lined with LED lights, feathery halos and wings with elastic straps to loop her arms through like a backpack—her collection is quite colorful in more ways than one.

“Thank you, but I think I’ll pass.”

Jasmine shrugs, then something catches her eye. “At least wear my favorite leather jacket over that dress. It’ll jazz you up a little. Pun intended.”

I humor her and take the jacket off the hanger. It’s worn to the point that it feels like butter. Gliding it on over my shoulders, I instantly feel a little cooler. The buckles jingle a little when I move. Jasmine stands behind me in the mirror and beams. “You look very New York.”