Why I Love Singlehood: (6 page)

I read each prospective profile. Many of them lived in Wilmington or the surrounding towns, although one was as far as Chapel Hill, and I concluded that he either owned a beach house here or a really cool car. Many of them promised to treat me like a queen, were “fed up with game-playing” (I assumed they didn’t mean
Scrabble
or
Guitar Hero
), were loyal, loving fathers and good, God-fearing Christians.

The key to a successful ad, I decided, was audience awareness and brevity. Unfortunately, many failed. For one thing, too many false assumptions were made—that I had or wanted kids, that I was seeking financial security, or that I’d been dumped or neglected, and that I was not to be trusted. For another thing, some were trying so hard to establish that they were reliable, rich, or sensitive that they seemed to ignore me altogether. And I couldn’t help but reject the profiles with excessive run-ons and fragments, spelling errors, or those typed in all capital letters. What can I say? It was an occupational hazard, even if I was no longer in the occupation. All indicated a lack of attention to detail and proofreading, not to mention poor Internet etiquette. I mean, really, DIDN’T ANYONE TEACH YOU GUYS THAT ALL CAPITAL LETTERS MEANS YOU ARE SHOUTING AT SOMEONE? And besides, why ask out the former-English-teacher-geek-bookworm when you the only book you’ve ever read was the ghostwritten autobiography of Tony Hawk?

As I read profile after profile, one notion nagged me: these were all personal
advertisements
. Buy me! An investment of a lifetime! It was catalog shopping, at best. Worst of all, it was so unromantic. But some pushy curiosity kept me reading, clicking, scrolling, and searching, perhaps hoping I’d eventually find a gold nugget in all that sand. Another Shaun, or someone even better.

Minerva, Sister Beulah, Car Talk Kenny, and I huddled around a table cluttered with ceramic mugs, crumpled napkins, and Minerva’s laptop and study notes. So far, they were the only people I had told about joining the site. I hadn’t even told Olivia or Norman.

As Minerva scrolled through the list of available men, one of us occasionally interrupted in a hushed voice, “Oooo, what about this one?” and Minerva discreetly read the profile out loud. We then discussed and debated.

Car Talk Kenny winced at one. “He’ll cheat on you first chance he gets.”

“How do you know that?” Sister Beulah asked.

“The picture was taken at a bar.”

“So? How does that lead you to the conclusion that he’ll cheat on her?” said Minerva, while I asked, “How do you know it’s at
a bar
?”

“Look at the lighting,” he said.

By the second week, I’d still managed to keep the endeavor a secret when one night Lovematch.com alerted my iPhone to a new message. I opened it and my jaw dropped when I saw the photo of Scott, Norman’s best friend. One of the Originals.

Cool profile, Eva! So much for singlehood—you are so busted! Well, how ’bout it? Wanna grab a coffee? Haha.

I stared at my phone, mortified. Was he seriously asking me out? I had a strict rule about not dating any of The Grounds’s customers. Norman, however, exercised no such rule and was always on the lookout for potential dates or, as he dubbed them, “future Mrs. Norman Baileys,” as if he was going to keep backups.

Later, I scanned Scott’s profile, beginning with the photo. Strange, he resembled the Scott I knew, somewhat: cowlicked, milk chocolate–colored hair with eyes to match; long face; thin, pale lips. Leaning against a railing offset by a red, rocky backdrop. The Grand Canyon, I guessed. Adventurous looking. This Scott, however, looked older. Less attractive. Perhaps he wasn’t photogenic. Or perhaps I had just gotten so used to seeing him day after day that I never really studied his features before. His profile name was “babelfish360.” (Mine was “groundskeeper-silly.” Long and corny as hell, I know, but I couldn’t resist.)

Computer geek seeks sci-fi chick
, he wrote. Didn’t do much to warm the cockles of my heart. Then again, at least he made no promises of queen treatment or to be the final destination on my quest to find Mr. Right. The rest of his profile contained quotes and lists of books and movies that the sci-fi chick would know and appreciate. And, to my surprise, I knew most of them.

Rather than reply to his message, I shut down my laptop and went to bed, dreading the awkward moment when I’d see him again. And sure enough, my stomach did somersaults the next day when he entered The Grounds, laptop case strung over his shoulder and thick computer manuals in hand (he was some kind of software programmer, that little I knew). He greeted Norman at the counter, high-fiving him in midair and morphing it into a handshake. While Norman prepared his latte, I occupied myself by loading a stack of dishes into the dishwasher.

“Hey, Eva,” Scott called, extending himself just short of climbing across the counter to get a glimpse of me. I pretended not to see or hear him. He said it again.

I turned and feigned surprise. “Oh, hey, Scott.” He possessed a devilish grin that worried me.

“Eva, those are
clean
,” said Norman, pointing to the dishes. I stopped and sighed and stared at them, silently cursing myself.

“You OK?” Scott asked.

“Fine,” I said.

“You look a little nervous. Got a hot date or somethin’?”

I turned and shot him an angry glance. Scott was never one to be an asshole, but something apparently had gotten into his water supply, and I had to nip this in the bud.

“Actually, I should be asking
you
that question,” I said. “Any good hits on Lovematch-dot-com lately?”

“You’re doing Lovematch-dot-com?” asked Norman.

“Well how else are you supposed to do it, dude?” replied Scott.

“Duh! Look around you!” Norman said, gesturing his arms in a round-up motion of the café.

My eyes panned across the café. A group of Originals was clustered in their usual corner by the counter. Neil, the Regular who came in like clockwork every day at one thirty for a coffee and Cookie of the Week and stayed precisely for twenty minutes, sat on a bar stool facing the picture window. In the opposite corner, two students were hunched over their laptops. And Car Talk Kenny occupied his perch just outside the reading room.

“It’s all couples and impoverished grad students! Isn’t that right, Eva?”

“Hardly,” I said, ready to list any number of academics, telecommuters, and independent contractors. “And who are you—Steve Jobs? That’s a helluva low opinion of my clientele you got there.”

“I’m just sayin’,” said Scott, “I’m not waiting for the woman of my dreams to walk through those doors. Instead, I’m being proactive. Obviously you got the same idea, although I thought you were all gung-ho for the single life. Or are you doing some kind of sociological experiment for your blog—you know, like
30 Days with Morgan Spurlock
?”

I handed Scott his BLT pita wrap, shooting him another murderous look, but it was too late; Norman caught on and opened his mouth, pointing at me.

“You didn’t!”

He said this within earshot of the Originals.

“Didn’t what?” asked one of them.

“Eva joined Lovematch-dot-com,” Norman announced. Like a first-grader, I folded my arms on the counter, buried my head into them, and groaned.

“You’re kidding! Let’s look her up!” I heard Dean say.

“Oh my God,” I moaned, the words muffled in my folded arms.

“Hey, Eva, can we not violate the sanitary codes, please?” said Norman.

“Here she is!” said Dean. “Hey, that’s a great picture—that’s here, isn’t it? When’d you take it?”

I lifted my head and eyed Dean suspiciously.

“How’d you get into the site?” I asked.

“My username and password.”

“You subscribe to Lovematch-dot-com?”

“How’d you think I met Jan?”

This revelation rendered me speechless. I’d just assumed some serendipitous event brought them together, like a fender bender or a mistaken dental appointment or side-by-side seats at a football game.

“Are you actually looking for a mate?” Neil asked me. “What happened to you loving singlehood?”

“Nothing happened. It’s just that so many people on the blog are telling me what I’m missing out on, so I decided to see what all the fuss is about,” I replied, hoping I sounded convincing.

The Originals, including Scott, crowded around Dean’s laptop. Dean read aloud: “
Friends First
—that’s her tagline.”

“Nice alliteration,” interjected Car Talk Kenny, who had crossed the café to join in on my humiliation. He seemed to be directing the remark to me, however, since he glanced at me when he said it.

Dean continued, “
Take 1 cup of 30-something ex-Yankee, 1 cup of entrepreneur, 1 cup of a master’s degree, and add generous helpings of books, TV shows, and movies.
” He looked up. “This is cute. It’s a little recipe.” He returned to the screen and read out loud again. “
Mix with a tablespoon of humor, a teaspoon of pluck, and a sprinkle of TLC.
”

“Aw, Eva, I love it!” said Jan. “I didn’t write anything nearly as creative when I subscribed.”

“I don’t even think I read what you wrote. Your smokin’ picture did all the talkin’,” said Dean to Jan. “Little did I know you spend your life in scrubs.”

“At least they’re pretty scrubs,” said Tracy in an effort to comfort her visibly wounded friend. She gently touched the sleeve of Jan’s pastel blue scrubs with daisies.

“Keep reading,” prodded Scott.

“
Bake in up to 95-degree temperatures on the beach, but be sure to use sunscreen. Let cool in temps no lower than 40 degrees, or suffer the consequences of crankiness. Enjoy with a sweet chardonnay or a slick Sam Adams.
” Dean looked up again. “Sam Adams? Really?”

“Better than your frat-boy Bud Light,” Norman zinged. “And you’re what, thirty years old now?”

When the Originals started sparring over the movie quotes (I knew they’d be stumped on the one from
Animal Crackers
), I slunk away into the reading room to retrieve stray coffee mugs.

About an hour later, as I wiped down tables, I went over to Scott’s, sat opposite him, and leaned in. “So, were you seriously asking me out for a cup of coffee?” I asked in a hushed voice.

“Hey, I’m sorry about outing you. I just couldn’t resist.”

“Yeah, right. Because you’re Mr. Funny.”

“What’s the big deal? Everyone does it these days. Fifty bucks says half the faculty and administrators of NCLA are on Lovematch-dot-com, including the chancellor.”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

He looked down for a moment and looked back up, his cheeks red. “Let me put it to you this way,” he started. “If you weren’t you and I only had your profile to go on, I would’ve asked you out.”

I leaned back in my chair, mouth opened, wounded. “Thanks a lot.”

“No no no no no,” he said quickly, and he lightly took hold of my wrist to keep me from standing up and walking away in a huff. “I didn’t mean it like that. I mean I’ve got too much to lose this way, that’s all.”

“What way?”

“This way,” he said, smacking the table. “I don’t want to lose all of this.”

“How do you know you would lose it?”

“I’m too much of a coward to find out either way.”

With that, he went back to his open computer manual and highlighter, and pretended to get lost in the text. Or at least I thought he was pretending. Saying nothing in response, I got up and finished wiping down the rest of the tables.

Dating Rules

I HAD BEEN
in a funk since Lemon Torte Day, missing my parents and Olivia all over again, not to mention Shaun. He hadn’t called or come into The Grounds since. But at some point, I decided that enough was enough—it was time to be proactive, get back into the swing of things, try a new hand of cards.

Time to go on a date.

When I swung open the door to Mike’s Seafood restaurant, Nick from New Bern—my first Lovematch.com date—was already waiting for me, standing stiffly in the lobby. I instantly recognized him, although he was both taller and heavier than I’d imagined (I hadn’t seen any photos of him from the neck down). He straightened his posture when he saw me.

“Eva?” he asked tentatively. He pronounced it EE-va, despite my telling him otherwise during the ten-minute phone call to finalize plans for the date.

“It’s pronounced AY-vah,” I corrected.

“Sorry,” he said, looking relieved. “I’m Nick.” He shook my hand. “So why’d your mother insist on giving you a name that’s spelled one way and pronounced another?”

He’s just met me face-to-face and already he’s criticizing my parents?

“Actually, it was my father’s influence,” I explained. “I’m named after my paternal grandmother. She’s European and that’s the way they pronounced and spelled it. My sister was named after our maternal grandmother. Her name is Olivia, and it’s spelled the same way it’s pronounced.”

The hostess sat us at a table in the middle of the restaurant.