The What If Guy Page 4

  “C’mere, Queen LaTofu. Come play sock puppets with Daddy and me,” Amelia says, scooping up the fluffy black-and-white tabby with the flag-size tail. I give thanks that my sister’s choice won the cat-naming battle when my ex, my kid, and I adopted the rescue cat a few years ago. Stacey wanted Miss Muffy Meow, I was eager for Mercutio or even Purrcutio, and my sister suggested the name inspired by one of her favorite rappers.

  Amelia picked her favorite from the three.

  As I kneel by the kitchen table, my puppet on pause, Amelia hauls the docile tabby cat over to the puppet theater. She’s not your average cat. She has her own Instagram account, and it’s crazy popular, mostly because Amelia snaps shots of the cat in poses similar to pop stars for her social feed. The cat is quite pliable, and she’s also a total ham. I should have suggested Camera Hog as her name.

  Queen LaTofu joins our puppet show in the way that only a cat can. She stretches across the puppet theater stage and takes a bath as we finish our enchanted forest escapades.

  News flash—we find all the jelly beans.

  They’re in the kitchen cupboard.

  Amelia and I grab the bag, head for the couch, and devour some cotton-candy and cherry-flavored jelly beans before I tell my kid it’s time to get ready for bed.

  “Can’t I stay up and play the Animal Trivia Challenge game? It’s a new game, and it’s so fun. You have to answer questions. Like, did you know koala fingerprints are like human ones? I learned that.”

  “Huh. I never knew that.”

  “And they could be confused with human prints at crime scenes,” she says, reaching for her phone. “I can show you more.”

  I shake my head, gently grabbing the phone and placing it on the table. “It’s nine. Phone time is over. And Daddy already isn’t winning any awards for best dad of the year, since I let you eat candy at night.”

  She laughs, then presses a kiss to my cheek. “You’re getting the award. Because you gave me candy.”

  I roll my eyes. “Not why I wanted it, but I’ll take it.” My brain snags on something though. “Why would koalas be at a crime scene?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. We could play the game and find out,” she offers with an inviting smile.

  I wag a finger. “You are a brilliant negotiator. But it’s still bedtime. Vamoose, child of mine.”

  She races down the hall to her bedroom, and her speed makes me wonder if maybe I shouldn’t have given her jelly beans so close to bedtime.

  But if giving her sugar too close to bedtime is the worst thing I do, I’ll take it.

  “I’m putting on my doggie jammies,” she shouts from her room.

  “They’re adorable. Arf-arf,” I call as I grab my phone. I’ve been out of the office all afternoon, but I plan on working late tonight once Amelia conks out.

  I have zero regrets about falling behind on work today, because spending time with my kid is my favorite thing, and I got to do it all afternoon. I’ll gladly work past midnight to make up for it.

  Starting now.

  I’m about to open my email to catch up, but first, I google “koala fingerprints.” Who knows when that little tidbit might come in handy? More likely at a business meeting than on a date, because I excel at the one and bomb at the other. My laser focus is better spent on business.

  I learn that marsupials can grasp, much like humans, giving them humanlike prints. But before I can dive deeper into the implications of a koala-cage crime scene, a postcard Made Connections icon flashes at the top of the screen.

  I sit up straighter.

  Holy shit.

  Is this what I think it is?

  I figured the chances of the gorgeous brunette seeing my post were razor-thin, and the chances of her being single were even thinner—prosciutto-slice thin.

  I honestly wasn’t expecting any response to my Made Connections post.

  Hoping for one? Yes.

  Expecting it? Not at all.

  I have a plate full of work to devour this weekend, but this is far more appealing than email.

  Before I open her response, I reread my original post, the one I put up right after lunch with my buddies today.

  * * *

  Seeking Fan of Snoopy:

  * * *

  For the record, I’d have given it to you. The gift we were fighting over. But I was having too much fun talking to you. And I wish I’d have gotten your number while we were deal making over dogs and drinks. Here’s hoping you see this and respond, because if you do, I promise I will ask for your number, use it immediately, and ideally take you out for those mojitos.

  * * *

  From,

  The single dad buying a gift for his kid who got a call from the kid’s school right when he wanted to ask you for your number

  * * *

  I laid it all out for her from the start, letting her know the score. I don’t want her to say yes, then have some awkward moment over drinks where she freaks out that I have a kid.

  Been there. Don’t want to go there again.

  As I click on the postcard, my heart thumps a little faster with some kind of hope—is this modern dating hope?

  Hard to say, since I’ve hardly dated since Stacey.

  I’m not sure what I’m supposed to feel.

  But I’m definitely enjoying the zing in my chest.

  Maybe too much.

  I try to rationalize. To prepare for bad news, since life delivers plenty of that.

  Hell, maybe this note isn’t even from her.

  Maybe someone else saw my post, thought it was for her.

  Or maybe this note is from someone pretending to be my mystery woman.

  But Summer assured me that catfishing can’t happen on this app. To answer a post, you have to fill out a box with something only the missed connection would know, proving you are who you say.

  I had asked what was on the lunch box I bought, and when I open the postcard, her answer is the first thing I see.

  Joe Cool.

  A smile spreads across my face. Holy shit. This is her. This has to be my mystery woman.

  I slide my finger over the screen while Queen LaTofu reaches a paw across my leg, purring loudly.

  Stroking her silky fur, I toss out a question to the cat. “What do you think, Queen LT? Good news, bad news?”

  The cat flips to her back, offering her stomach for petting. “Excellent news, then?”

  She purrs even louder.

  I open the reply, then punch the air. “You were right, kitty cat.”

  I’m almost as psyched about this as I am when I see the emails for the city’s new rec sports leagues.

  Who am I kidding?

  I’m more stoked as I read.

  * * *

  Dear Single Dad,

  * * *

  Well, that does explain the lunch box purchase.

  * * *

  Also, I’d been hoping you’d want a mojito. Here is my number. I’m free Sunday night.

  * * *

  From,

  Fan of Snoopy

  * * *

  I smile as I reread it, and then tap her number into my phone. She’s quick, to the point, and direct. Makes me wonder if we’d be up-front in other ways. If I can be direct with her too.

  I waste no time with her number.

  I switch to my text app and send a message.

  * * *

  Logan: Hey . . . this is Logan. Sunday night would be great. The mojitos are insanely good at Gin Joint in Chelsea. Is seven a good time to meet? Also, I’m glad you found my post.

  * * *

  In seconds, a reply arrives from a 917 number.

  * * *

  Unknown: By the way, I’m Bryn. Insanely good mojitos sound like a perfect end to the weekend.

  * * *

  I add her name to the number and start a reply, when another message comes through from her.

  * * *

  Bryn: Also, I’m not sure if you saw it, but I posted too. Thought you might like to know tha
t.

  * * *

  Whoa.

  I sit up straighter, return to Made Connections, and hunt through the new posts, sifting through dozens until one makes me laugh.

  Looking for Mr. Lunch Box.

  I read it, smiling the whole time. Damn, if I’d known the key to meeting a woman like her was random chance, well, I’d have pursued a random chance sooner.

  * * *

  Logan: Since we discussed the value of fun, let me say this—Sunday night sounds like a lot of fun.

  * * *

  Bryn: It absolutely does.

  * * *

  I read her texts one more time, then her reply on the app. Yeah, she seems like a Bryn.

  Bryn is sexy, confident, witty.

  And Bryn is my date on Sunday night.

  I toggle to my text app one more time, sending a group text to Oliver, Fitz, and Summer.

  * * *

  Logan: Guess who’s not pathetic anymore? She replied. I’m seeing her Sunday night.

  * * *

  Fitz: Miracles do happen.

  * * *

  I set down my phone when my daughter speeds into the living room, wearing her Snoopy pj’s and swinging her new lunch box. “Daddy, I have been writing letters to my favorite authors, including this author who tells stories about superhero cats, because I want her to give the cats some new superpowers. Like flying. Do you want to read it before bed?”

  “I absolutely do.”

  She climbs onto the couch next to me and parks herself in my lap, then proceeds to read her letter about flying cats and invisible ones too.

  After, we hunt down the author’s mailing address, pop the letter into an envelope, and make plans to mail it tomorrow.

  At last, Amelia slides under the covers, yawns, and falls asleep in seconds.

  I say good night, leave her room, and work for a few more hours on the couch. The trade is worth a late night of work.

  Worth it for the extra time with Amelia.

  I savor every second of my weekend with my kid, and when she returns to her mom on Sunday evening, it’s my turn to do something I’ve only done a handful of times since my divorce became final two years ago.

  Go on a date.

  Maybe, just maybe, this missed connection with Bryn will be a charm.

  Maybe it’ll be everything I’ve been lacking, not just since my marriage ended, but since before it ended too.

  A man can hope.

  A man can dream.

  I shower, pull on jeans and a Henley, grab my phone, and head to Gin Joint in Chelsea.

  I scan the place, but she’s not here yet. As soon as I ask the hostess for a table in the lounge, though, I hear the click of boots behind me. The hair on my neck tingles.

  My body seems to recall insta-lust, no problem.

  I turn around, and then I’m looking into the green eyes of the woman I was willing to chase online.

  That instinct served me well.

  Better, so much better, than the overcautious instincts that tripped me up in the store. But the app gave me a second chance to find Bryn and to do things differently. Rather than freeze and stumble, I should move and act.

  “Hi, Bryn,” I say, then I lean forward, sweep her hair from the side of her face, and press a soft kiss to her cheek. “Good to see you,” I whisper like I’m marking her as mine before we even head into the lounge.

  Her breath catches, and she wraps a hand around my arm, squeezing. “So good to see you too, Logan.”

  So much contact already. I have a feeling this is going to be an excellent night.

  5

  Bryn

  I’ve dated sporadically since my husband, Evan, left me two years ago.

  Left after he begged me to open my heart to him, to give more, do more, be more. He took off because he said I didn’t spend enough time with him, didn’t devote enough energy to our marriage. He wanted all of me, all the time. If only I had given more of myself, he’d have kept it in his pants.

  It was a shit excuse as far as shit excuses went. Add in that I’d been grieving at the time, and it was the shittiest excuse of all.

  But that’s life.

  I’d cracked my heart open to the man, and he’d stomped on that organ.

  I had no choice but to pick myself up, nurse my wounds, and move on. I don’t want to marry again. I’m not even sure I want something serious if it could wound me as deeply as he did. But I wouldn’t mind companionship.

  Plus, there’s the work angle. How could I run a dating and relationship advice site without at least walking the walk and talking the talk now that I was single again?

  It was fitting. It was right.

  I can’t preach the gospel of putting yourself out there without putting myself out there.

  So, about six months ago, I got online.

  That’s how you do it these days—swiping right, checking boxes, perusing profiles. But I haven’t met anyone in those six months who’s floated my boat for an extended cruise down the river of love. Or lust, for that matter.

  Still, that dating time in the trenches has prepped me for what comes next.

  The getting to know you fox-trot.

  After the hostess shows us to our table and I settle in on the plush royal-blue lounge chair, I take the first dance step.

  “Gin Joint,” I say, musing on the words, soaking in the ambiance of this establishment, from the jewel-colored chaise lounges to the swoony music piping through the speakers. “With a name like that, I’m curious if we’re even going to be allowed to order mojitos, since they’re made with rum.”

  “Or if we should,” Logan tosses back.

  “Right? Is the name sort of a warning—don’t order anything but a martini or gin rickey?”

  “If we want a mojito, maybe we ought to find a spot called the Rum Club.” He grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Google, please find the nearest Rum Club right now,” he says playfully into his phone, then sets it face down on the table.

  “And then we’ll pop over to Tequila Town,” I offer.

  “Excellent plan. We’ll make it a barhop, and by the time we hit up Whiskey World, we’ll be wasted.”

  I laugh. “Sounds like quite a raucous night.”

  He grins, then gestures to the bar. “Want me to let you in on a little secret?”

  I sit up straighter and nod excitedly. “I do. I love secrets.”

  He cups the side of his mouth and whispers, “Order the Plot Twist.”

  “Will I find out the butler did it?”

  “Or that it was all a dream.” He clears his throat. “But in all seriousness, it’s the owner’s name for her gin mojito. The woman who runs this place is a maestro of cocktails, and I highly recommend the Plot Twist.”

  I mime banging a gavel, like an auctioneer. “Sold.”

  As if on cue, the waitress swings by, flashing a pearly-white grin. “What can I get for you two? The signature gin cocktails are delicious, but we also have a full menu of wine, beer, and mixed drinks.”

  “We’d like two Plot Twists,” he says.

  “I’ll have them to you shortly.” She turns on her heel to go.

  “Two is always a good number of plot twists,” I chip in once she’s gone.

  “Three is simply too many.”

  “And sometimes one just isn’t enough,” I say, a little flirty.

  He doesn’t answer right away, but lets my comment simmer before he says, “One definitely isn’t enough,” with a dollop of innuendo in his tone too.

  And the fox-trot is hitting a rhythm. I decide to lean on directness and channel my inner lady boss. “In the interest of full disclosure, I wanted you to know I’m going to vote Made Connections app of the year.”

  His grin is nice and easy. It slides across his handsome face, lighting up his soulful brown eyes. “I’ll do you one better. I’m building a shrine to that app.”

  I laugh, relieved that he feels the same way about how the night is going. And it’s heading straight to an
A-plus review for the app. But I’m hardly thinking about the piece I need to write—because this date isn’t about a test run of an app.

  I tried the app to find Logan.

  And I’m so damn glad I did.

  That’s what I’m going to focus on.

  Him.

  But more so on how being with him makes me feel. The answer is . . . good.

  I feel good about myself.

  That’s something I haven’t experienced in a long time with a man—a zip and zing, coupled with respect. I didn’t know I was missing that cocktail, but now that I taste it, I like it. I want the whole drink. “Yes. I think I might build a shrine to the app too,” I say, giving him my best flirty smile.

  He draws a deep breath, his expression shifting to serious mode. “But I do have a confession to make.”

  Uh-oh. This is where it gets weird. I’ve heard about these moments on dates. Read the horror stories. I hope he’s not about to tell me he chews his own toenails. Or that I remind him of his mom.

  Still, I sit straighter, sliding into a professional mode as I brace myself. “Sure. What is it?”

  “I was kicking myself for not asking for your number at the store. It was on the tip of my tongue. And I wanted to. I’m sorry. I should have made my move faster.”

  I smile, wide and happy. Heat warms my body, makes me feel good. “No apologies ever. I’m just glad you found me, then.”