keep reading. We chat again ten days after our car ride.
RR: Have you given any more thought to my invitation?
SHark: What invitation was that again? I forget.
RR: Well played. Or maybe you get countless offers from men willing to stamp your V-card.
Wait, what? I read it again. And then I let out a groan.
The guy seated closest to me looks up from his notebook with a shaming glance. Oops.
But seriously. Two strangers shared a ride to college, and then I offered to take her virginity? The evil twin theory is looking pretty good right now. I read on, even though I’m a little afraid to.
SHark: There’s this thing called subtlety.
RR: Never heard of it.
SHark: [eyeroll]
RR: Look, I know I’m a bastard. And half the things I say are meant to get a rise out of people. But come to the house party anyway. I don’t actually expect a private party for two. In fact, bring a friend if it makes you feel more comfortable. We’ll all have a good time.
SHark: Does that mean you’re planning a ménage à trois?
RR: How many times did you have to type that before auto correct stopped turning it into something even dirtier?
SHark: OMG, three. But the only way you’d know that is by typing it a lot.
RR: Nah. I text in a couple different languages, though, and the results are often heinous.
SHark: *cough* Humblebrag *cough*
RR: Busted. But to answer your Q, I’m not expecting anything at all. I just think we could have fun. Whatever kind of fun you decide is your speed.
SHark: Maybe you’d rather find another date to this party. One who is more of a sure thing.
RR: Nah. Come with me to see this place. We’ll use summer as a verb. We might need to Uber you home, if that’s okay. But happy to pick you up before I get my drink on.
SHark: Okay, fine. I could use a little adventure. Text me the details?
RR: Will do tomorrow. Later, Good Girl.
SHark: Later Bad Boy.
Well, parts of that are embarrassing to read. But not all of it, I guess. I was only fifty percent asshole. And you can tell that I really liked Daphne.
Of course I did.
I keep scrolling, and it doesn’t end well. I text her a time and date for the party, and I tell her to look for my Volvo at the gate at eight o’clock. She agrees. But then, at eight fifteen on the established date, I see this:
SHark: Okay, you’re fashionably late. But I’m outside in a thin little jacket. Just saying.
SHark: 35 minutes, really? I’m starting to take this personally.
SHark: Okay… No call. I guess you found a more fun date after all.
Jesus Christ. What did I do? I reread the entire thing a couple more times, and it gets worse with every reread.
All this time I’ve been trying to seduce Daphne. I keep telling her we’d be good for each other. Stress relief, or some bullshit. Like I was doing her a favor.
But, nope. I’m the guy who offered to do that before and then left her standing around in the cold, waiting for my no-show ass.
Hell, when was this? It could have been really cold.
I hold my finger down on the last message to see when it was written. And the timestamp makes my heart seize.
That afternoon, I practically gallop into Lenore’s office. As I’m waiting for her door to open, I receive a notification on WhatsApp. It's a new message from Daphne.
Clever girl. She switched apps, probably hoping I wouldn't find our old texts.
Too late.
Daphne: Guess what? Mom says you and I are going to be on our own for dinner anyway. Seems everyone else has plans.
Let the healing begin.
Rickie: So we can have noodles, right?
It ought to make for an interesting dinner. Me stammering out an apology that’s two and a half years overdue.
Daphne: We might as well. It’s either that or we’re foraging for leftovers.
Rickie: Cool, cool. I know I’m only your dinner date of convenience but I’ll take whatever scraps you throw me.
Then I send her a GIF of a cute, begging dog. It’s just the opening foray into the round of groveling I owe her.
It’s not a date, she replies. Then she sends me a GIF of a door closing in a guy’s face.
Now that I know I deserve her wariness, everything makes so much more sense. No wonder Daphne doesn’t trust me.
I send back a picture of a dozen roses anyway. Because it’s hard to give up being