One starts with: ‘Sup? And that’s analmostbut nope.
Three send me variations of: you’re cute.
One sends a nude: this has never worked. On me. On any woman.
The final two have at least one grammar error in their messages.
I’m not even setting a high bar. All my remaining candidates have to do is say hello with a complete sentence and correct punctuation. That’s literally it.
I narrow my options to set up a week of dates, ideally one a day. Since the app’s algorithm does a lot of heavy lifting on the matching, the chance of finding one of these guys compatible is good. Probably even high.
I narrow to my top three: a veterinarian, a news producer, and a real estate agent. Then I send their screenshots to Natalie with a text asking who I should pick.
NATALIE:None. You know who you should be with. I’m not supporting this nonsense.
I glare at the phone and send a text to Grace.
TABITHA:Which of these guys should I match with first?
GRACE:None. Natalie says I can’t support this nonsense.
Natalie is playing dirty.
I send her the picture of the veterinarian and tell her I’m giving him a shot first. Then I do, answering his message which was a polite hello followed by a question about what kind of cooking I do since my profile says I’m a chef.
I tell him I do a cooking show that focuses on making dinners at home and ask him about his veterinary practice.
By the next morning, we’ve exchanged a few messages. His name is Brandt, and we have a lunch date scheduled at a vegan place he likes. I guess a vegan veterinarian makes sense. And I have no issue with eating vegan since I like anything fresh and well-made.
I get ready by putting on a yellow and navy summer romper, giving my curls a fresh spritz of styling spray, and sliding on cute sandals before walking three blocks to the café.
Brandt is waiting for me at a sidewalk table, and he stands to shake my hand when I walk up. He’s cute. Not like a model. More like Hallmark handsome, the kind of cute that exists in real life.
“Nice to meet you, Tabitha.”
“Same.” I take a seat—which he doesn’t hold out—and settle in. It’s okay he didn’t hold the seat out. A lot of guys don’t learn etiquette. “Are you on a break from your office today?”
He shakes his head. “Just ran out for lunch, but I liked your profile, and I didn’t want to miss an opportunity.”
“Thanks,” I say. “So, tell me about your practice.”
“Well,” he says, “I like animals. Obviously. And I have all kinds of patients. People think it’s probably mostly dogs and cats because of being in the city, but I see birds, hamsters, snakes, bearded dragons, turtles—wait, here. Let me show you.”
He pulls up pictures on his phone and scrolls through them for me. A chihuahua, an African gray parrot, a ball python, a gecko, a pair of guinea pigs, one long-haired cat, one black cat, a German shepherd, a three-legged rat, and a potbelly pig later, I sit back, my eyebrows raised.
“You’re right, that’s a lot more pet variety than I would expect in Brooklyn.”
“And that’s just my apartment.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t. In fact, his mouth tugs down. “Wait, those areyourpets, not patients? They all belong to you?”
“Most of themwerepatients, but their owners surrendered them for whatever reason. Now they’re mine.”
I blink at him. “You run a rescue out of your house?”
“No. They’re my pets. It’s not like I do fundraising or anything. Which is why we’ll need to split the bill.” He follows this with a wink.
Okay.
