Rate a Date by Monica Murphy Page 0,7

and louder, and she sounds angrier and angrier.

No one is paying attention to me. Meaning I can go ahead and chat this Mand.94 person up.

You grew up in Monterey? That’s amazing. What a coincidence!

I frown. Do I sound too excited? I mean, really, is it that much of a coincidence? With this app, I tried to keep my parameters to our local area, though Kelsey encouraged me to include the Bay Area just so we could widen our scope, as she said. The man of my dreams could live in San Francisco. Or San Jose. Walnut Creek? I’ve always found that area cute. Redwood City? Even cuter.

Okay again. I’m getting distracted.

I decide to start over on my message.

You grew up in Monterey? I don’t know how you could ever leave. This is my favorite place in the entire world. What’s your name?

There. That’s perfect. I go ahead and hit send.

“Kels mentioned you two joined a new dating app,” Sarah says conversationally.

“Oh. Yeah.” I set my phone facedown on the table. “I don’t know if it’ll work, but I’m trying to keep an open mind.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know if it will work?” Sarah asks with a tiny frown. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“I’ve never tried one before. I’m worried I won’t meet someone…worthy on a dating app. I don’t know how I feel about dating sites in general,” I explain.

I don’t use Tinder or Bumble or whatever the heck they’re all called. A lot of my friends have done so in the past, though of course, all the ones who are now taken met their men the old fashioned way—in person. I’m hoping for that. I want that.

But most of the guys I meet or get set up with never work out. It’s always a bad match.

Maybe I do need to try something different to make a better match.

“You do know one in four couples together right now originally met on a dating site,” Sarah says.

I’ve heard this stat before. Plenty of times. “No kidding,” I murmur, just as our server returns and starts taking our orders.

I check my phone to see I have another notification from Mand.94. And lucky me, I do. I open it.

Had to leave for college. And then my job. My name is Mitch. What’s yours?

Oh. It’s a guy. I’m actually relieved. And that makes sense, leaving for college and then his job. I wonder what he does?

What do you do? And my name is Eleanor. I’m a hairstylist in Carmel.

He responds almost immediately. Like, the-server-hasn’t-made-it-to-me-yet-to-take-my-order fast. Eleanor. I like that. It fits you.

Hmm. He didn’t answer my question. Is he an avoider? Most men are. They’re classic avoiders. They’d rather do anything else than face a question, a problem, head-on. I’ve had my experience with a few, and they about drove me out of my mind.

Once the server finally makes his way to me, I order eggs benedict and another mimosa.

“I’m bringing out a pitcher for the table to share,” the server tells me, and I let him know that will be fine with a smile on my face.

Of course they ordered a pitcher for the table. This is why they’re my friends.

I shove my phone into my bag and forget all about Mitch the avoider as we chat and eat and drink too much champagne. Well, I try to limit myself thanks to what happened last night, and I notice Kelsey restrains herself also. We don’t need to extend our hangovers, though I keep hairstylist hours and don’t have to be back at work until Tuesday.

Once we’re all pretty much finished eating and most of the plates have been cleared, Caroline rises to her feet and taps the side of her empty champagne glass with her spoon, silencing all of us.

“I have an important announcement to make,” she starts as we all swivel our heads in her direction.

“You’re pregnant,” Stella interrupts, causing the majority of the table to gasp and murmur among themselves.

Caroline sends her very best friend a dirty look. “Come on, Stel. I’ve been sucking back champagne the entirety of brunch. No, I am not pregnant.”

I think I see disappointment on some of our friends’ faces. I know I’m a little disappointed. Babies are so cute.

“No, this is about my…bachelorette party,” she says with a sly smile.

I sit up straighter. I am all about the fun, cheesy bachelorette party. Penis-shaped straws and gaudy bride to be sashes are my jam.

“I hope you didn’t forget to put in your time-off requests at work,