A Girl Like You vinnie Kinsella (best motivational books to read .txt) 📖

don’t worry about it. She misled you.”

Madison nudged me in the ribs with her elbow, “Hey! That’s what I said. Tell him I said that!”

“Are you on your way home?” I texted Ian.

“Yes, and I’m going off Tinder and never meeting anyone again.”

“Now you’re being dramatic.”

“I’m serious. See you soon. Love you.”

“Love you too.”

29

Some days at work when Joe camped out with his cronies at the conference table, I had a chance to check my messages on Go Fish or do a quick search to see who was online. Just about every guy’s profile on Fish had a picture of a motorcycle, a selfie in swim shorts, an enormous-mouthed bass, or worse, a hunting rifle.

The men on the site had snappy profile names, like Talk2Me, BestYet2B, Dr.FeelGood, and PlsTryAgain.

I didn’t exactly hit the ground running. I just hit the ground.

I looked at dozens of thumbnail shots and read profiles until they all sounded alike.

OK, they did all sound alike, but my point is I couldn’t make up my mind about any of them.

It wasn’t as easy as I’d thought. There wasn’t any sunlight shining out of anyone’s eyes. No one had a stamp on their forehead saying, “Come get me, Jessica.” Worse still, none of the men came with warnings that said “insincere,” “hookups only,” or “I will break your heart.”

When I got home, Penny stood on my lap with her two front paws on the table, looking at the computer screen, clearly confused.

“Help me find a good one,” I said.

It was frustrating, complicated, time-consuming, and thrilling, all at once. And so began my long-term relationship with the dating site called Go Fish.

Within a couple days, I had set some ground rules.

“I don’t want to be seen online on a Saturday night,” I told Ian.

“Why not?”

“Because I’ll look desperate.”

“But they’re online too.”

“Exactly. I don’t want to look as desperate as they are.”

“But you want to date them.”

“So far, no.”

“You make no sense, Mom.”

“I know.”

Another ground rule: No contact with any guy who mentioned sex in their user name (sorry BigMikePorn and SitOnMe). Yes, I wanted sex—oh boy, did I want it—but not with someone obviously trolling for the best lay.

I had new discoveries about online dating.

“So, some guy messaged me to have drinks tonight,” I told Ian.

“On a Sunday night?” Ian asked. “Don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

“Yeah, so I’m supposed to meet him at nine.”

“Oh god, you’re kidding. You’re not going. Don’t go.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’ll never meet the right person on a Sunday night,” he said with complete assurance.

* * *

“So this guy asked me to ‘come cuddle.’ Is that code?” I asked Maddy.

“Code? No, it’s pretty blatant. It’s a booty call. Also, stay away from anyone who asks you to ‘watch Netflix and chill.’”

“OK, good to know. The way this is going, I may never have sex again.”

“That’s what we all say, Mombo.”

* * *

“I messaged a man with a lobster on his head,” I told her another day.

“You would yell at me if I did that!” Madd hollered.

“Probably, but at this point, I don’t care.”

“Why are you changing your standards based on how you feel?” Her eyes turned darker with sympathy.

Damnit. She was right. Again.

* * *

“Would you consider spanking to be good therapy?” I asked Madd over iced tea another day.

“What?”

“This guy wrote he’s looking for spank therapy in his profile.”

“Is he the spanker, or the spankee?”

“I’m thinking the spanker….”

Madison shuddered. “Sounds like he wants to take out his aggression on a woman’s ass.”

“Yeah, and it says OTK with hand…what’s that?”

We Googled it.

“Over the knee,” Madison said, showing little surprise. “With his hand. Charming.”

“Well, that paints quite a picture.”

“Next,” Maddy said.

* * *

Looking at photos was free, but the upgrade, nearly overwhelmingly enticing, let me see who was online, who had looked at my profile or read a message I’d sent.

Madd and I both agreed that this option opened the door for a greater sense of humiliation.

“When I send a message, and he looks at my pics, then doesn’t reply, it’s a double rejection,” I complained to Maddy.

“They don’t even know you, Mom. What does it matter?”

“You know it matters, honey.”

“Yeah, I do.”

* * *

The later it got on Friday and Saturday nights, the lower I went on the list of who I would chat with. I went from my A-list guys to my B-list after midnight. Yes, the man doing the chicken dance was weird, but he was looking pretty good by 1:00 a.m. Ditto the guy with the barbecue tongs burning hotdogs. One guy used his wedding photo in his profile. I even broke my rule and replied to Tall2Ride, because maybe he was just tall and rode a motorcycle? Sunday mornings carried messages hinting of desperation after the guys spent Saturday night alone.

“Hey AriesGurl, want to meet for brunch?” TrueGentleman messaged me. “I’ll buy you a mimosa.”

“I already ate oatmeal,” I replied honestly.

* * *

Over and over, I made the mistake of sharing too much info.

“Mom,” Ian scolded. “You do not tell a guy you’re making scrambled eggs on a Friday night!”

“But I was!”

“Yes, that’s what’s wrong with this picture!” he laughed. “Friday is a date night!”

“Not for me,” I sighed.

* * *

“By the way, Dad says hi,” Ian said casually one morning when he came downstairs.

“Uh-huh,” I said, concentrating on smoothing the hair on Penny’s back with a soft brush.

Ian talked to Adam all the time; I knew this and I was glad about it. I knew Ian turned to his father for advice and kept him in the loop about his life. Adam also planned his stops near the town so Ian could meet up with him and camp out. Also good.

Where I drew the line was sending chipper messages to Adam through Ian, something like “How’s life on the road?” or “Did ya need any more silverware?” Not going to happen.

I thought about the night by Adam’s camper when we decided to go our separate ways, literally. Bob Marley’s lyrics were true—everything