The Blind Date Landish, Lauren (read a book TXT) 📖

reading and rejecting, and you just . . . boom, pull the perfect thing outta nowhere. Thanks!

M: What’s it for?

Those three dots appear and disappear twice before her next message comes across, and I know she is struggling to answer. We’re still being careful, divulging deep, inside information about some things while staying superficial on others. We still haven’t talked about what we look like, or our jobs, or anything that would really identify us. I can understand her caution and even appreciate it since I’m hesitant to share my own identity. I’m dreading answering questions about my association with BlindDate since my initial motivation—researching the experience—seems a bit underhanded now that I’ve ‘met’ Rachel.

R: A motivational thing for work. Which I should probably get back to. Talk soon?

M: Absolutely. And for the record . . .

M: Football is like life—it requires perseverance, self-denial, hard work, sacrifice, dedication, and respect for authority.

R: What’s that?

M: A perseverance quote from Vince Lombardi. Personally, I think the other one sounds more like what you’re looking for, but I didn’t want to miss out on the opportunity to meet your expectations.

R: You’re kinda amazing, you know that?

M: I know. And also, my Google skills are stellar. Top-notch.

R: Goofball.

M: You’re pretty amazing too.

I shift back to my afternoon of work, but the truth is my eyes keep drifting to my phone, looking for that green dot to show up next to Rachel’s name. How is it that in just three days I’ve come to look for that little dot so damn much?

By evening, we’re messaging nonstop. Chattering about our days in broad terms, talking about favorite television shows while we watch some God-awful semi-reality thing she enjoys, and later . . .

R: It’s getting late, but I don’t want to stop talking.

M: Are you in bed?

R: Yes?

I wouldn’t mind taking things up a notch in intensity, but that question mark tells me everything I need to know about where Rachel’s head is on that subject. It’s fast, and we’re still getting to know each other. So instead of going to a hotter, sexier place, I pivot.

M: Want me to tell you a bedtime story?

R: Oh, my God! Yes!

There are six smiley face emojis after that, so I know she’s excited, probably even giddy, about the idea. I smile, trying to think of a good one.

M: Okay, get curled up in bed and dim the light on the phone. If you stop responding, I’ll trust that you’ve gone to sleep, okay?

It’s a moment before she responds.

R: Okay! Teeth brushed, bathroom stop for me and Raffy, back in bed, snug as a bug in a rug with Raffy curled up at my feet. All ready!

She paints an adorably sexy picture. Even though I don’t know what she looks like, I’ve been imagining her more and more. The face is always a blur, but I picture her blonde hair atop a curvy figure, her feet kicking in delight every time she sends multiple smiley faces. I wonder if her breasts are full or small, filling or spilling out of my hands. I wonder if she has freckles that I can trace with my tongue. I wonder if she’s ticklish. For some reason, I feel certain that she is. I wonder if her heart is as genuine as it seems and her mind as quick because she keeps me on my toes, never knowing what she’s going to say. As someone who thrives on structure and needs predictability, that should drive me mad, but I somehow find it amusing and refreshing.

M: Once upon a time, there was a boy who lived in a vast kingdom with his mother and sister. The boy’s mother worked hard, but times were tough and she often went without so her children would have enough. The siblings saw this and did everything they could to make it easier for their beloved mother, often telling her they weren’t hungry so she would have enough dinner herself.

R: That’s so sad. And sweet of them both, the kids and the mom, looking out for each other. <heart emoji, crying emoji>

M: But it wasn’t all dire straits and meals of cheap rice and beans. The mother was wonderful and would play games with the children every night, even when she was asleep on her feet. Her favorite was hide and seek. Years later, the boy realized it was so the mother could close her eyes for at least thirty seconds while she counted, but at the time, he and his sister didn’t know that. They would run and hide, giggling the whole time. You there?

R: Yes. Please go on.

M: One time, the boy hid in the garden next door. It wasn’t a fancy garden with vegetables but rather an empty lot, overgrown with weeds. The boy ducked down in the grass, curling up as small as he could so he wouldn’t be found. Soon, he heard his sister helping his mother, both of them trying to find him. He shrank back even deeper into the garden, his back against the fence. Still as he could be, the only thing he moved were his eyes. That’s how he saw . . . it. Awake?

R: OMG! Yes! What did he see?!

M: You’re supposed to be relaxing, going to sleep. Maybe this isn’t working?

R: It’s working. It’s totally working. Now tell me what the boy saw! Please!

Another smile takes my lips. I touch that word—please—in her message. It’s not begging. More of a demand, honestly. But I can sense her desire to know me, talk to me. Not some hotshot executive, not some rags to riches story, not the grumpy workaholic. Just me.

That’s why I’m sharing this story with her, though I meant to keep it light and easy. But this? It’s important, it’s where I came from, and I think she knows that too and wants every tidbit she can get from me the same way I’d love to know how she became who she is. What makes someone grow into an adult and still have this exuberant spirit that finds so