Hey you’ve seen Taken. I’m just looking out for you girl x
Rolling my eyes, I fire back:
Me
I know. And I love you for it
Now cross your fingers that this guy is at least somewhat normal
I don’t wait for her response, swiping out of our chat, and returning to the browser where Craigslist waits, ready and eager, like a horny date. Biting on the tip of my thumbnail, I read thelisting over one final time, and then, before I can talk myself out of it, I hit the reply button at the top of the screen.
A link to a random email address pops up, which opens in my mail app as soon as I tap it. I hesitate, unsure what to say, then settle on the straightforward approach. Plain and simple. Though, Ronnie may just call it blunt.
To my surprise, the poster responds almost immediately with a suggested time and place for us to meet tomorrow afternoon, which I double-check against this semester’s class schedule before shooting back an answer, confirming that I’ll be there.
My inbox dings again two minutes later.
Are you comfortable signing an NDA?
I mull this over for a moment. Given the privacy concerns mentioned in the ad, I’m not surprised he’d want a non-disclosure agreement. Hell, he’d be stupid not to pursue one since this whole fake girlfriend charade won’t mean a damn thing if he goes around revealing his identity to anyone and everyone who responds to the listing. There’s also the possibility the woman he ends up hiring could write a tell-all book about it at the end of the nine months, or they could blast the details of the arrangement on social media just for the chance to go viral and have their five minutes of fame. If this guy was smart, he wouldn’t risk either outcome, and the fact that he’s asking at all tells me that he has at least a modicum of sense.
Still, there are the downsides to consider. If this person, whoever they are, does turn out to be a creep, would that mean I couldn’t report him to the police if he tried anything? Then again, if something feels off when we meet, or I get bad vibes, I can always just bust out what seems to be my signature move,and deliver a swift, debilitating kick to the dick and run before I sign the NDA in the first place. My slimeball radar is at least somewhat reliable even if my asshole sensor can’t be trusted.
A sudden worry grips my stomach and twists it at the thought of this guy turning out to be a carbon copy of Damian. Or worse, a douchier version of Damian. A douchier douche…if such an abomination is even possible.
Deciding it’s worth the risk, I message him back, agreeing to the NDA.
“Ugh, fingers crossed you aren’t anything likethatasshole,” I grumble as Damian’s smug face fills my head as if to warn me this is a horrible idea.
Hoy por ti, mañana por mí - Today for you, tomorrow for me
Translation: Scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours…unless you kill me first.
“This is the greatest idea I’ve ever had,” I say to myself, chuckling under my breath and rubbing my hands together in my best impersonation of a Bond villain. All I’m missing is the cat. I glance at my watch—it’s 4:14. She should be here any minute now. Anticipation grips my chest as my gaze strays to the passing faces around me, wondering which one, if any, is my mystery lady and soon-to-be fake girlfriend.
In one of my emails [email protected], I suggested Touro Park for our meeting because it’s centrally located and small enough that our interaction would be public. No shady dark corners or cliff edges that might make a potential business associate think I’m a pervert or amurderer. Plus, it’s a popular spot, so it wouldn’t stand out as a strange place to meet, or lead to us attracting any unwanted attention. To the unsuspecting eye, I’m just a guy on a bench enjoying a sunny day with a to-go cup of coffee. Nothing unusual or suspicious about that. And when my mystery lady arrives, whoever she is, we’ll be just another couple on an afternoon stroll in the charming heart of Newport.
No one will ever suspect the truth.
I lift the disposable cardboard cup from where I placed it on the seat beside me, and bring it to my lips, taking a sip of the soothing, warm liquid. With nothing else to do but wait, I pass the time by counting the stones in the round wall of the structure marking our agreed-upon meeting place. Newport Tower, or the Old Stone Mill as it’s also commonly known, is a well-preserved ruin and focal point of Touro Park, so it’s pretty hard to miss. According to the accompanying placard (which I was driven to read out of boredom), one rumor is the mill was built by Vikings, though I struggle to see how the tiny construction of rock got its name. Our garage is taller than this so-called tower.
I check my watch again. 4:21. My mystery lady is late, which doesn’t say a lot for her dependability or punctuality—the latter of which will drive my mother crazy—but I don’t let myself discount her completely just yet. There could be a perfectly logical explanation for the delay, like traffic. Or spontaneous combustion.
Or maybe she just isn’t coming,remarks a snide voice in my head.
Pushing out a sharp breath through my nose, I rise to my feet and turn in a circle, examining my surroundings to get a proper lay of the land, even though I’ve been here dozens of times. The temperature has dipped today, but the summer sunshine is determinedly hanging on, so the park is alive with people goingfor runs or simply taking the time to have a nice walk outside before the season changes and the cold front hits.
Despite the sun and the coffee warming my insides, I shiver, rocked by a chill of apprehension that seeps deep into my bones. My eyes rake over every nearby female face, then dart away again before anyone notices to avoid me giving off creeper vibes. The girl who answered my ad said she’d be wearing a butter yellow hoodie, but so far, all the ladies in the park today have blended into a boring beige mold of near identical jackets, jeans, and boots, creating a basic bitch collage the likes of which I’ve only seen on Pinterest. No butter yellow hoodie in sight.
I tug my phone free of my pocket and pull up my email, checking to see if she’s messaged me to tell me why she’s running late, or maybe just to say she’s changed her mind. Genius plan or not, I wouldn’t blame her if she did. My own mind is teetering on the see-saw of indecision, and even I’m starting to think this whole idea is absurd.
Upon discovering my inbox is empty, I stow my phone, and move to take another drag of my coffee only to find the damn cup is empty, too. With an annoyed huff, I turn in place, this time on the hunt for a trash can, and that’s when I glimpse it out of the corner of my eye.
A butter yellow hoodie.
I pause and raise my gaze to the face just above it, noting the large green eyes gaping at me from behind larger glasses and the wild blonde curls that serve as the frame to a picture that looks vaguely familiar.
I glance at her hoodie again to be certain of the color, then ask, “Pill lover 2005?”
