The Revenge Artist - Philip Siegel Page 0,10
a need to evaluate our relationship before, not until he dropped the love bombshell.”
I wait for a response, but Diane’s been sucked back into her phone, never to return.
“There are so many weird, ugly guys on this site. Why have none of them sent me creepy messages yet?”
I peer over Diane’s shoulder. “Love Bytes.”
“It’s the new, big dating site,” she tells me, trying to downplay her excitement. Her eyes glow, mesmerized by the surfeit of profile pictures. “These hipsters in Austin invented it. Hence the ironic title. Oh, he’s cute.”
I’m glad Diane is getting back out there finally. Still, she deserves better than buckets.
“You need to give this a rest,” I say. “You’ve obviously cycled through all available guys in northern New Jersey.”
“I just need to double check.” Exhaustion rings her eyes, but she’s still got that spark behind them. She slaps me on the knee. “Good thing you won’t have to deal with this.”
I should laugh at her joke, but instead a wave of nausea rolls through me. I had never felt such pressure before. It’s not fair. Fred’s “I love you” was thrown at me without warning. With three words, he changed the game. Just because I wasn’t feeling the same exact way in the same exact moment, does that mean it’s over? I failed the pop love quiz.
“Just keep doing what you’re doing. You can’t force it. Just let it happen,” Diane says to me. Well, to her phone, technically.
“How will I know when it happens?”
“You just will.”
“Is there a sign or something?”
“Stop overthinking everything, which I know is your specialty. But, stop.” She tugs on my hair, and I look up at her. “You’ll just know.”
She lets go and gets back to more pressing matters—Love Bytes.
“It’s not a race,” she says.
“You already said that.”
“Whoa whoa whoa.” Diane’s eyes bulge at the screen. She pops up off the chair. “I just found my soul mate.”
“You just know?” I ask mockingly.
Diane spins her phone around and shows me Mr. Soul Mate. His profile picture is him at some ancient ruins. He’s dark and handsome, with perfectly tousled hair and muscles hugged by a tight T-shirt.
“Our compatibility score is ninety-five percent. It’s never been that high with anyone.”
“Compatibility score?” Sure enough, next to his picture is a ninety-five percent in perky green lettering.
Diane scans the page. “He’s a lawyer. That means he looks good in a suit. German shepherds are his favorite dog. Sure, they’re mine, too. He loves karaoke bars. Me, too.”
“Does he have a name?” I ask.
“Desmond.”
For some reason, that makes us ooooh.
“That’s a good name,” Diane says, and I agree. I can already tell the wheels are turning for her. “This is it. Mr. Soul Mate.”
“Diane, don’t get too excited just yet. It’s a picture and some words.”
“And ninety-five percent compatibility. Desmond goes to the top of the bucket.”
“Why are you so obsessed with filling your stupid bucket?”
“Because it’s been a long time since I’ve had my bucket filled,” Diane says, and I cringe. “Desmond and I are destined. I can probably find out where he works based on context clues.”
I snatch her phone away. “Stop!”
I spend my Sunday morning with a large cup of coffee and a list of all commemorative candy heart manufacturers and distributors. I know it’s not the New York Times Book Review, but it works for me. I go through each company’s website, comb through their list of personalized heart options under the pastel colors, and cause fuzzy blind spots in my vision. Yet no company includes FIND ME as an option.
My dad joins me in the kitchen and puts on a fresh pot of coffee. He has on his Sunday uniform: blue jeans, faded gray T-shirt, and Penn State baseball hat. The college is a nine-hour drive from where he grew up. Basically a plane ride away for his generation.
“Dad, how did you decide you wanted to go to Penn State?”
He pours himself a cup of freshly brewed coffee, and the ground beans release a homey scent throughout the kitchen. “They offered me a scholarship.”
“That’s it?”
He shrugs. “I didn’t have any other options. I wasn’t as smart as you.” He tosses off a wink.
My mom joins us downstairs in her bathrobe. She beelines for the coffee and holds up the pot. “What is this?”
“Coffee,” my dad says.
“Why do you insist on making a whole pot of coffee when we got a Keurig over the summer?”
“I don’t like coffee from there.”
“This is so messy and such a waste. Are you planning