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

that from his mom, a better lesson than magically-appearing money could’ve ever taught.

R: That’s so beautiful. Such a touching story. That boy is a perfect example of love, giving everything to someone who’d given everything for him. Can I ask . . . are you the boy?

I stare at the question for a long time, wanting to tell the truth and wanting to lie in equal measure. I feel splayed open in a way I never have before. I started the story thinking it’d be a quick and silly story about the time I found a bunch of money and ate so many pancakes that I made myself sick, but it’d taken a very different tone as I remembered. I not only haven’t shared that story with anyone else, but I also don’t think I’ve ever thought of it the way I did tonight. The vulnerability is uncomfortable, making my chest itchy and achy. If I’d had to speak those words, I wouldn’t have been able to, but typing them seemed less difficult. Until now. Until Rachel wants me to claim them as something so utterly personal.

M: No, just a bedtime story to get you sleepy. Are you ready to go to bed now?

Yeah, I’m pussing out, which pisses me off too. But being angry at myself for sharing too much is easier than proclaiming myself some pitiful loser who was willing to eat a filthy sandwich from someone else’s trash.

R: Oh. Well, it’s still a beautiful story. I am tired. I think I’ll go to sleep now. I’ll talk to you in the morning?

M: Absolutely. Sweet dreams, think of me.

R: I definitely will. My fingers will probably be typing in their sleep. LOL

I’m glad Rachel didn’t seem disappointed when I said the story wasn’t mine. Or maybe she didn’t believe me? Either way, I hope things aren’t awkward now.

I drift off to sleep, dreaming of a blonde beauty curled around her phone, typing out messages to me with a sweet smile on her face. It’s still a blur, but it’s starting to feel clearer.

* * *

M: Good morning, gorgeous!

R: Good morning! Not feeling too gorgeous this morning, I’m afraid. My hair is a mess, like I might have actual rats nesting in these tangles, and my breath could kill a rhino.

I laugh at the picture she paints, but before I can respond, she sends another message.

R: Oopsie! I meant . . . Good morning, handsome! Hopefully, that didn’t send you running for the hills. I promise I own a hairbrush and toothbrush and I’m not afraid to use them.

M: A toothbrush? What’s that?

I’m joking. Teasing her. Who am I? Telling deep, dark secret stories, smiling at my phone like a maniac, and telling silly jokes. River wouldn’t believe it. Hell, I don’t believe it, but here I am. And I’m relieved that things aren’t weird or awkward after last night’s story time. Rachel’s picking up our messaging today the same way we have the last several days, casual and flirty and fun.

R: Oh, no! Please tell me you’re kidding and have all your teeth! Is that why you’re on BlindDate? Because you’re a toothless, fire-breathing rhino-killer? <fingers crossed emoji>

M: Maybe. Maybe not. Sounds like you’re not ready to know for sure yet.

Fuck, we’re dancing closer to the edge of making this real. A few days ago, I would’ve said no way. But now, I think I do want to meet Rachel. It’s risky, a huge risk if I’m honest, because I’m enjoying our conversations and there’s always the chance that meeting in person might ruin all this. Especially when I explain my name and my reason for being on the app in the first place. She might ghost me, and I can’t say I won’t deserve it. But fuck, I really want to know what she looks like, see if the vision in my mind is accurate. I want to trace her lips and taste her smile, feel her laughter wash over my skin. I bet it feels like a bubble bath.

R: I might be. If you promise to brush your teeth.

M: Tough negotiator. I could do that. Once. For you.

R: Aww, such a softie.

M: I’m really not. Most people think I’m an asshole. They’re right.

R: I doubt that. You’re too funny and sweet to be an a$$hole.

I bark out laughing at her censoring the word asshole. I haven’t cursed too much in our back-and-forths, but now that I see it this clearly, I realize that she hasn’t cursed at all. Something about that seems so adorable.

M: You’ll see. I’ve got to run so I’m not late for work. Talk soon?

R: Yeppers! Go be a big, bad a$$hole to the people at work. LOL

* * *

I work all day, alternately scowling at statistics and smiling at my phone as Rachel and I message back and forth. I stay away from the coffee pot, not wanting to hear any more gossip about my odd smile. Rachel doesn’t think it’s weird. She thinks I’m funny and sweet. She’s wrong, but it still feels good that she thinks that.

By Wednesday evening, we’re messaging in between dinner and home routines again. I’m not telling her a bedtime story tonight. That’s for sure.

R: What’s on the agenda this evening?

M: I’ve got a pre-cooked dinner to heat up. Exciting stuff, right? What about you?

R: I need to choose a dress for a work thing I’m doing later this month. Pick a color—blue or gray?

I still don’t know what she does, same as I haven’t told her what I do, so I’m careful not to ask questions I don’t want to answer myself.

M: Blue. It’ll look good with your blonde hair.

R: Thanks!

M: What are you wearing now? Already in your pajamas?

R: No. Still in loungewear. Best part of being your own boss is setting the dress code. LOL What’re you wearing?

M: Sweats and a T-shirt. Nothing exciting over here either.

R: Would those by chance be gray sweatpants?

M: Are you spying on me? How’d you know?

R: Men always wear