I don’t answer. He pulls me close so my back is against his rock-hard abs. He wraps his arms around me, kissing my neck. “Don’t go anywhere, okay,” he says.

  Frozen again, I respond, “Okay, baby.”

  ***

  BANG, BANG, BANG. Someone’s knocking on my car window.

  “Roxie!” Earl says. I quickly snap out of my daze, realizing it was all just a daydream. “I’m so sorry about last night. Come on in; I got us some sushi.”

  Two

  5 a.m. Alarm goes off.

  Hit snooze.

  5:10 a.m. Second alarm goes off.

  5:12 a.m. Roll out of bed and throw on gym clothes.

  Drive to the gym.

  5:30 a.m. Five-mile run on the treadmill.

  6:30 a.m. Shower, get dressed, and head into work.

  It’s Monday. Again. #thestruggle

  I should be logging on. Checking emails. Returning voicemails. Making my task list for the day. The only thing on my mind is the epic fail of a weekend I had with Earl. I’m obviously madly in love with someone who just wants to sit at the kitchen table, eat sushi, and reminisce about the old days.

  Last evening after I snapped out of my daze, we ended up chatting about college football and the family just like every other time we’ve hung out since our awkward “Norbit night.” I’m starting to wonder why I’m spending so much money taking trips home to see someone I could chat with on Facetime. In the beginning, I thought Earl was playing hard to get. Now, I’m actually starting to think he’s just not that into me.

  I’m almost 30, still single, going on pointless trips home, and I’m not getting any closer to finding love.

  “Roxie!” my manager, Max, yells at me. “Are you here with us today?”

  He has caught me staring out the window, AGAIN. Max is a tiny, Chaldean, middle-aged man with a wife and family. By tiny, I mean he’s 5’1” and about 120 pounds. He wears the same type outfit every day—a button-up shirt and tie with matching socks. He switches back and forth from corduroy pants to slim boot cut jeans.

  I’m currently employed as a purchase banker at Excel Loans. I really have a passion for television news, but that job is almost impossible to break into unless you know someone—which I don’t. This is what I do to pay the bills, including those student loans that continue to pile up.

  My job is to make sure people are qualified to buy a home. I ask about their income, current situation, and how much they have in the bank. I insert their information into a program and then, magically, I can tell people if they are eligible for their dream home, if they should look for a shack, or if they should stay in their mama’s basement.

  As a 28-year-old English major dreaming of a career in TV news, am I qualified to make these decisions? Well, I’ve gone through a rigorous two-month training, I’ve passed at least five certification exams, and my boss tells me I’m brilliant. But fuck no. I’m not qualified for this shit.

  There was this one time that I was working with a woman who wanted to move from California to Maine. I told this woman she was qualified to move into a $250,000 home. On my word—and my company’s approval—she packed up her home and started driving a U-Haul in a truck across the country. Of course, it’s not that easy. There are underwriters who check my work. My manager checks my work. There are tons of checks and balances. Somehow, though, this loan made it through the cracks. At the closing table, someone told this sweet 63-year-old woman that I had missed her student loans—from ages ago—and now that we’ve seen them, she’s no longer qualified. I’m pretty sure I should have been fired for that. However, three and a half years later, I’m still helping people find their forever homes.

  As I was saying, I’m probably not qualified to make such a big decision in someone’s life. But here I am. Doing it every day.

  My phone starts ringing. It’s one of my nosey clients who loves to stalk me on Facebook and talk about my current single status. Ryan Rubble is the sweetest gay man I’ve ever spoken with. He works in the marketing department at Disney and makes well over six figures. Right now, he’s buying the perfect dream home for his husband and their adopted son.

  “Roxie, Roxie, Roxie,” he says to me. “We have got to get you a man.”

  No shit. “I’m a strong, black, independent woman, Mr. Rubble, I’m fine,” I fire back.

  He starts laughing uncontrollably.

  “We can’t all find our perfect man at Disney when we’re 25 years old and spend the rest of our lives living happily ever after,” I respond.

  “Did I tell you we met at Disney, honey? We met on Tinder. Ggggiiiirrrrrllll, he spent one fiery night with me and has been following me around ever since.”

  I pause to think about online dating. My grandma bought me a three-month subscription to Match.com for Christmas, and my mother has been trying to get me to try it out ever since. Online dating is just so weird. Why can’t I just run into a guy at the library and we instantly fall madly in love with each other?

  “Roxie, you there?” Ryan asks.

  “Yes, I’m sorry. The reason I asked you to call is because we need your bank statements. Can you fax or email them over to me?” I ask.

  “Sending them over now, boo. Walking into a meeting. Don’t forget to check out Tinder. Ciao, Bella.”

  Me on Tinder. Nope. Not going to happen. Not now, not ever. I know I’ll meet someone, somewhere. Maybe it will happen at the library or perhaps the gym. Or even on tonight’s venture to the grocery store.

  After work, I head to Kroger because I have absolutely NOTHING in my fridge at home. Instead of making a list like normal, I decide to wing it. How bad could it be?

  I make it to the checkout line, and I have everything from Oreo cookies to hummus and veggies to frozen vegetarian meals to water bottles by the dozen. Call me old-fashioned, but I prefer to actually get in line and chat with the employees while they ring me up instead of heading to the self-checkout line.

  While I’m loading my items onto the conveyor belt, a man gets in line behind me. He’s about six feet tall and extremely handsome. He looks to be of Italian descent with gorgeous green eyes. He’s wearing the new Hoka running shoes—which is a major plus because that means he takes care of his feet. He also has on gym clothes—which means he works out. I’m in front of the cart, removing all the little items, and he starts grabbing some of the heavy items at the bottom of the cart for me.

  “Thank you so much,” I say as I look up into his beautiful green eyes and know that he is the love of my life and that we will spend forever together.

  “No problem,” he says back, confirming the raging passion he has for me. I know we both feel the spark, but before I can get another word out, the woman checking me out asks, “Those cucumbers—are they yours or his? Or are you guys together?”

  “Not yet,” flies out of my mouth with an awkward laugh. It’s like I’m in a movie and I can see the words slowly flying out of my mouth.

  “The cucumbers are mine,” my future husband says, politely grabbing them and his tortilla chips. He then backs away and sprints for the self-checkout lane.

  The lady checking me out says, “Maybe next time.”

  Completely embarrassed, I grab my bags and briskly walk to the car. My face is hot, my armpits are sweating, and my embarrassment is at an all-time high. I throw the bags in the trunk, pull out my phone, download Tinder, and throw my phone on the passenger seat.

  I have a silent ride home.

  ***

  That night in bed, I make a Tinder account through my Facebook page. On the app, you swipe left if you’re not interested. You swipe right if you think the person is attractive and want to get to know them. If they swipe right on you as well, then you are paired up as a match. That means you can start chatting with each other and see if you want to take it further.

  With my head propped up on several pillows, I swipe left A LOT. However, I find a few people attractive and start getting matches almost immediately.

  One guy really catches my eye—a Michael W. Forrester. That sounds like a strong intelligent black man, right? I start going through his pictures, and the second photo I see is a picture of him and his mama. Awkward, am I right? Still, it doesn’t go off as a red flag in my head. He’s a light-skinned African-American man with hazel eyes. I can’t tell how tall he is from the pictures, but they do show me that he runs track—the 400 hurdles, to be exact.

  Feeling daring, I send off a message: “Hey.”

  A day goes by, and I go into the app to check for responses. There is nothing. Pissed off, I double tap the home button on my iPhone and close the app. The nerve. This fool swiped right, matched with me, and is not answering my message.

  Another day goes by, no answer.

  Day three rolls around, I open the app to delete my profile, and there’s one unread message. I open it. It’s a GIF of a bear, waving hello.

  Really bro, that’s the best you could do. Annoyed, I send back a middle finger. Fuck it. I’m getting off the app anyway.

  He sends back, “LOL. My kind of girl.”

  I fire back, “Maybe you would have gotten a better response if you didn’t take damn near a week to respond.”

  He writes, “I didn’t know I was on a time limit.”

  Ugh. I hate smartasses.

  A few hours go by. “Your pictures are cute, I’d love to meet you.”

  “I don’t really care to meet you,” I respond.

  “Damn, that’s real,” he types.

  “What did you have in mind?” I write back, feeling bad about my last message.

  “Why don’t you come over to my place?” he says.

  Um, what the fuck does he think this is? “Nah, I’m good fam. Thanks though,” I fire back. The fastest way to piss somebody off is by calling them ‘fam.’

  “Well, if you change your mind, here’s my address,” he writes, including his address in all caps. “Come by around 8 p.m. tonight.”

  As someone who is clearly brand-new to this online dating idea, I’m shocked. Do people really do this? Just go meet someone in person that they randomly meet on Tinder? I’m not going to do this. There’s no way. I’m not that thirsty.

  ***

  7:00 p.m. Jumped in the shower

  7:15 p.m. Stared at the messages some more

  7:30 p.m. In the car, inputting his address into my phone

  7:35 p.m. Fired off a text. Be there in a bit.

  7:36 p.m. Michael responds. K.

  The entire drive over to Michael’s, I’m trying to decide if I’m really going to go through with it. I’m wearing a tank top with a Nike hoodie over it that says “Just Do It,” black leggings, and black Puma gym shoes. I wanted to dress comfy just in case I have to jump up and kick someone’s ass or run.

  Michael’s apartment complex looks like a low-security prison. When you pull in from the main road, there are black fences with barbed wire at the top surrounding the complex. From the back of the line of cars, I can see six long, white-brick buildings that appear to be falling apart. As I inch closer to the gate, more and more sketchy details become visible.

  The six buildings are laid out in a row, separated by parking lots. In the lot directly in front of me, there are two cop cars with their lights flashing. I’m not sure what’s going on, and I really don’t want to find out. Driving in, behind the gates, doesn’t make me feel any safer. My GPS tells me to drive straight back, then take a right. While passing building number three, I see a man—whom I assume is drunk—passed out in the grass. I also pass multiple cars with people smoking—what I assume is marijuana—inside. My immediate reaction is to lock the doors. I feel nervous, not only because I’m meeting a guy I just met on Tinder, but also because my safety is probably in jeopardy. My heart is in my throat, and I’m hoping the last three minutes of this drive go by quickly.

  Michael lives in the last building on the right. While driving farther back, I see cups and trash littering the grassy area of the community. And there’s a terrible smell permeating through my window. It smells like something died.

  DING. My car alerts me to a new text message, then reads it out aloud. “Where you at?” Michael sends.

  I pull up to his apartment building, and the first thing I see is the dumpster. I guess that’s to blame for the terrible smell. There’s also a man sitting outside staring at his cell phone. He’s about 15 feet away and wearing black pants, a black hoodie covering his face, and there’s a pit bull sitting next to him who’s off the leash.

  “I’m here,” I send back. “In the white jeep.”

  The man in the black hoodie stands up and starts walking toward my car. I open the door, but before I can say anything, the pit bull starts charging at me. “Ice!” the man yells, but that has zero effect on the dog. I probably should have been scared, but I have a 100-pound dog at home, and my parents have a pit bull, so that emotion never crossed my mind. I crouch down right before the dog gets to my feet.

  “She’s a vicious killer, you don’t want to do that,” the man says. Instead of ferociousness, I’m met with lots of wet kisses and a soft whimper of love.

  “I’m just playing, she’s a big baby,” the mysterious man says.

  “You should really have her on a leash out here,” I fire back.

  “For what?” he asks.

  “Number one because pit bulls are illegal breeds and number two because someone could hurt her,” I say, pissed off at his stupid response.

  The man puts his hand out, “I’m Michael.”

  “Roxie,” I fire back, still annoyed.

  “You comin’ in?” he asks, making a motion toward the door.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” I respond, still playing with the gorgeous puppy. Ice is about 60 pounds. She’s gray with white paws and a white heart on her nose. I’m absolutely in love.

  Before Michael can get out another smart-ass comment, I declare, “I’ll come in for her, but that’s the only thing keeping me here.”

  “For now,” he quietly murmurs while turning away and leading me to his apartment. After he turns around and I’m positive he can’t see me, I crack a smile. I love a clever man.

  Michael looks much different in person than he does in his picture. He’s about 6”0’ and thin. His hair is not cut, and he has a scruffy beard. But there’s something about him that makes me feel safe—or maybe it’s the puppy; I can’t tell.

  We walk into Michael’s apartment, and it reminds me of the rest of the complex. Messy. The first thing I notice is the smell. It reeks of marijuana. The second thing I notice is the clutter. The living room is in disarray. To the left, there’s a sofa without any cushions. Right in front of me, there’s a bookshelf without any shelves. Next to that, there’s a random mattress tilted against the back wall. There are children’s toys scattered around the floor.

  Michael can clearly see the disgust written on my face. “Sorry for the chaos. We just moved in. Also, my roommate is disgusting,” he says.

  “How many kids do you have?” I ask.

  “You’re funny. None. My roommate has a daughter, though,” he responds.

  We walk past the living room, through the dirty kitchen, and into a hallway. His room is the first on the left.

  “I won’t bite,” he says, sitting on the bed and motioning me to come in.

  I look around. There’s another room past his to the left, and then the bathroom is all the way at the end on the right. The living room isn’t an option. I opt to walk into his room, hoping for a safe haven.

  It’s a small room. Or maybe he just has large furniture, making the room appear to be tiny. Against the wall to the left, there’s a tall, wooden dresser with cologne on top of it. Against the wall to right, there’s a short, three-shelf bookcase with notebooks piled on each shelf, and a few bags of Doritos and hot Cheetos. Really bruh, hot Cheetos is what we doing. There are also three candles burning and some incense lit. A long dresser that comes up to my waist sits next to the bookcase on the left. There’s a 60-inch TV on top of the dresser, along with some shoeboxes, trash, papers, a few shirts, a record player, and some more trash.

  “Clean much?” I ask, picking up a few crumbled pieces of paper off the dresser, then dropping them on the floor.

  “Shut up,” he fires back, turning on the TV. “You wanna watch a movie?”

  Sure, I’ll watch a movie with you, you random stranger. “What ya got?” I ask.

  He responds by flipping on his fire stick to show the latest flicks.

  Still standing, I push off my shoes and continue to look around the room. DING. My phone goes off, showing a text from Earl asking when I’ll be home next. I hit the home button, ignore the text, and continue to look around. Above the tall, wooden dresser, there are pictures of Michael and his mother, the same woman I saw on his Tinder profile. There are also pictures of him with a woman and a man.

  “Who are they?” I ask.

  “Damn, you nosey,” he responds.

  “My bad,” I say back.

  “Come over here, sit down, get comfortable,” he motions for me to come sit next to him on the bed. I follow.

  “You want some pizza?” he asks.

  “Where are you ordering it from?” I ask.

  “Your mama’s house,” he fires back quickly.

  I don’t have time for this childish shit. I start to stand up, but he grabs my arm and doesn’t let me move.

  “I’m playin’. We can order from wherever you want. You want some Jet’s?” he asks sincerely.

  “That’s fine. Will you order me a veggie pizza with no black olives, please?” I answer.

  “You don’t eat meat?” he asks.

  “Not the edible kind,” I say with a smirk.

  “I got something for you,” he says.

  “I’ll pass. Thanks, though,” I fire back.

 

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