“None taken.” His big thumb swipes again. “Whoa—this guy’s bio says ‘emotionally unavailable but I’ll rock your world.’”
I clear my throat. “Yeah. Lots of married guys too. Or, like—they’ll say ‘in a relationship but consciously open.’ It’s hard to know who is being honest and who isn’t.”
Sigh.
Turner grimaces. “Jesus. What the hell happened to dinner and a movie?”
“It died sometime around the third unsolicited mirror selfie—but these days, I’d rather not be subject to a full meal. If there’s no chemistry, I do not want to be trapped at a table.”
Been there, done that, one too many times…
“Good point.” He shakes his head. “Brutal out here.”
“You have no idea.”
Another swipe. Another disaster.
“This one has three shirtless photos, a gym mirror pic, and one of him holding a fish.” My roommate’s eyes widen as if the guy in the app has offended him.
I groan. “Of course he does. I call that the Holy Trinity of douchebaggery.”
“Ew,” Turner says and we dissolve into laughter, our knees brushing under the covers. He angles the screen toward meagain. “What about this guy? Says he’s an ‘entrepreneur.’ No job title, just… entrepreneur.”
I roll my eyes. “I hate when they do that. What does that even mean? That he sells supplements from his garage?”
Turner laughs. “You sound so irritated.”
“I am.” Then a thought strikes. I tilt my head. “Okay, your turn. What do thewomenon these apps look like?”
Turner groans, mock dread in his voice. “Do we have to?”
“Yes. This is an equal opportunity environment—tit for tat.” I hold out my hand, wiggling my fingers. “Let me see my competition. I want the filters. I want group photos where you can’t tell whose profile it actually is. Gimme.”
He hands over his phone and together, we start swiping photos of woman in the area.
One after another, I see heavily filtered selfies of women puckering their lips. Snapchat selfies. Dog ears and tongue. Halo with crown. Women with dogs. Cats. Bikini pictures. Book worms.
“Has every single woman in America been hiking up Machu Picchu but me?” Sheesh! “Apparently, I am such a loser.”
My bio suddenly feels vastly boring. Lame.
“I’m not wearing make-up in half my profile pictures,” I whine.
Turner snorts. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“It is! I look like a crusty, sleep-deprived goblin in one of them. Why didn’t anyone tell me my eyebrows do that weird ‘time to pluck’ thing?” I start swiping again, desperate to find at leastonemediocre-looking woman to boost my ego.
“Maddie is in Santorini,” I mutter, squinting at one. “Where evenisSantorini?”
He leans closer, our shoulders pressing again. “Greece.”
We scroll in silence for a beat before I sigh, dramatically. “Okay. I need to know. What are your top dating app dealbreakers? Lay them on me.”
Turner considers this, fingers still on his screen. “Mmm...? People who say ‘looking for my ride or die.’ Anyone who refers to themselves in third person. Or posts only group photos.”
I nod solemnly. Those are good.
“And you?” he asks.
