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“Come on, Remus, it’ll be fun,” Marlene slurs before taking another swig of wine straight out of the bottle.
We’d started with glasses because we aren’t in our early twenties anymore and therefore have more class than when we were young, stupid, and in college. But once we’d opened the third bottle of wine between the two of us, all of the maturity that came with nearing thirty was forgotten.
“Don’t you want to find your Person? Aren’t you tired of being alone on the day of love?” Marlene continues when I don’t say anything.
And that’s why we’re on our third bottle of wine. It’s Valentine’s Day, and we are both date-less for the fifth year in a row. Which, usually, I’m okay with. I’m fine being single, and it’s not as if I haven’t had boyfriends or girlfriends over the past five years. It’s just that I never seem to have one on February 14th. Besides, the only part of the holiday I enjoy is the chocolate and conversation hearts, which I can easily buy for myself (which I did and then consumed before the first bottle of wine was empty). But, for some reason, being alone on this Valentine’s Day isn’t sitting right.
For our first three single Valentine’s Days, at least half of our friends were also single any given year. But within the past year, everyone in our group except Marlene and me has coupled off. Gideon and Fabian managed to get dates with twins (although they’re fraternal twins, which makes that a little less weird). Peter has been seeing a girl from work for the past few months, and apparently, it’s going really well. Emmeline just moved in with her girlfriend. Mary got engaged to her boyfriend of six years, and their wedding is next month. Frank and Alice finally got their shit together, got married, and are now expecting a baby, which seemed a little fast, but after ten years of pining for each other, I’ll forgive their accelerated timeline. Even James I’m-never-getting-married Potter met Lily, fell in love, and eloped, and is now also expecting a baby—all within a matter of months. Although, I’ll also forgive that timeline because I’m pretty sure those last two things happened in the reverse order—also because Lily is just about perfect for him. Which leaves just Marlene and me. And it’s not that I’m not happy for all of my friends—because I am. But something about everyone I love finding their Person makes me want the same thing.
But I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I grab the bottle from Marlene and shoot her a grin. “I’m not alone. I’ve got you,” I say before taking a long pull from the bottle.
“Yeah, well, as much as I love you, we’ve already established that we don’t want to fuck each other, so...” she waves inarticulately at the bottle, so I hand it back over.
“Oh, so this isn’t about wanting to find your Person. This is about wanting to get laid,” I tease.
“If I just wanted to get laid, I would have suggested we sign up for Tinder, not Hinge,” she retorts. “Come on, please? If we both do it, it’ll be more fun.”
I sigh. “I don’t even know what I’d put on a profile. You know I hate writing about myself.”
“Okay, so how about we do this,” she says, setting the bottle down on the floor next to my bed. She fishes her phone out from underneath the pile of empty chocolate boxes—wow, we are probably going to be so sick tomorrow. “You create my profile, and I’ll create yours.”
I stare at her outstretched hand for a moment, then sigh and take her phone. “Fine. But if this goes badly, I’m blaming you.”
I was right when I said we’d probably be sick in the morning because when I wake up, I feel like death. Granted, seeing as I’m a month away from my thirtieth birthday, I wake up feeling like death after most nights where I’ve had more than two glasses of wine. So seeing as I had two bottles of wine, I’ll take the fact that I’m not actually dead as a win.
The sun streams through the crack in my blinds, and based on the position, it’s way too early for me to be awake after last night. But I desperately have to pee, and I probably need to drink about eighteen glasses of water, so I should get up. I sit up—or try to and fail due to Marlene being sprawled almost entirely on top of me. She groans. “Marls, get off. I need the bathroom.”
She groans again but rolls to the side, allowing me to get up. I swing my legs over the edge of the bed and kick over an empty wine bottle and step on an empty chocolate box in the process. But I ignore it and my pounding head and stand to take care of pressing business. After emptying my bladder, I pad to the kitchen to fill the two largest water bottles I have, then head back to my room.
I sit up against the headboard, curl my knees up to my stomach, and nudge Marlene awake. “Here, drink some water.”
“You’re a saint, Lupin,” she says, propping herself up on an elbow. She takes the water and gingerly sips it as she looks around the room at the empty boxes, take-out containers, and wine bottles. “Jesus Christ, what happened last night?” Then she looks down at her legs. “And where the fuck are my pants?”
“I think you threw them over there along with your bra,” I say, pointing at the chair in the corner that all adults have in their bedroom—the one that’s meant for holding clothes, not actually sitting.
“Ugh, I think if I get up, I’m gonna be sick, so if you object to my half-naked state, you’ll have to get up and get them yourself,” she says, flopping back against the pillows. I don’t object, but just looking at her is making me cold, so I reach down to the foot of the bed and pull up a throw blanket over the two of us.
“But really, though, what happened last night? Because everything after finishing the second bottle of wine is fuzzy.”
I grope on the side table for my phone, hoping that might give me a clue because things are a little fuzzy for me, too. I glance at the screen and see several notifications for Hinge. When did I download— “Oh god,” I say aloud, the events after opening that third bottle of wine coming back to me in a rush. “We signed up for a dating site.”
“We did!” Marlene exclaims, then immediately winces. “Fuck, my head.” She leans over to look at my phone’s lock screen. “Ooh, and it looks like you’ve got messages from a match.”
“Oh god,” I repeat.
“What?”
“If I have a match, that means I was drunk swiping, and you’ve seen who drunk me thinks are viable dating options.”
She grimaces and leans back again. “Oof. Well, I probably would have stopped you from swiping on anyone truly awful, so just open it to see who it is.”
Taking a deep breath, I unlock my phone and navigate to the part of the app that holds my likes. Most of them seemed just to send a like—which Marlene says is lazy, so they don’t deserve my time—but one person has added a comment to one of my profile questions. Their tiny profile picture that comes up doesn’t set off any alarms in my head, but before I even think of answering, I click on their profile—you know, to make sure they aren’t way too young, a republican, or something else that would be a total deal-breaker. I wasn’t nauseated before, but once the profile loads, I am because on my screen is the hottest man I’ve ever seen. Shiny black waves that fall to about his chin, high cheekbones, a strong jaw with just the barest hint of stubble, and his eyes—Jesus Christ, they’re grey. Not blue, actually grey. I tear my own eyes away from his picture to read his profile. He’s thirty years old, works as a photographer, apparently plays guitar, travels, loves reading, and—fuck, he’s 6’4”.
Nope. There’s no way he’s real. This has to be some sort of catfishing attempt. And if he is real...
“What is it? You look like you’ve seen a ghost. Or is that the hangover?”
Wordlessly, I show her my phone.
“Oh, hot damn. Well, isn’t he an Adonis? And a nice name, too—Sirius.”
“Right? He’s way out of my league.”
“Remus,” Marlene scolds. “He is not out of your league. You’re a catch, and you know it. You’ve got that whole sexy bi-disaster librarian thing going on.”
I stare at the profile again for a moment, then take a deep breath before navigating to the chat to see what he responded. At the top of the chat, I see a picture of me with James and Lily at the party they had after their elopement, and my mouth drops open. It’s not because of the photo—it’s one of the better pictures of me, which is likely why Marlene picked it—but because of the comment.
You’re friends with James, too?
“What did he say?” Marlene asks, taking in my expression.
“He knows James.”
“No, really?” She exclaims, then looks over my shoulder. “Holy shit. Well, now you have to respond.”
“Do I?” I ask, incredulous. “Because now I’m even more convinced that this is a catfishing attempt. I’ve known James for 10 years. He doesn’t have friends that I don’t know.”
“Oh, for God’s sake—” she rolls her eyes and takes my phone.
“What are you—?”
“I’m proving to you that this isn’t a catfishing attempt.”
If I wasn’t so hungover, I would make a better attempt to take my phone back from her, but my head still kills, so I don’t move. Marlene can’t make any conversation attempt with “Sirius” more awkward than I would.
“Oh, damn, he’s already typing,” Marlene says. “He says he went to school with James from elementary to high school, but they fell out of contact when James moved here. But he—Sirius— just moved to the city, so they reconnected.”
She starts typing away a response, and I frown. “What are you saying?”
“Well, he just moved here, so I’m asking if he wants a tour guide.”
“What? No—”
“Too late. Oh, he’s typing again.”
I bite my lip. “Well?”
She simply grins and hands my phone back to me.
Well, since you’re new to the area, I could play tour guide for you sometime. I grew up here, so I know all of the local spots.
I’d love that. Are you free tomorrow?
With shaky hands, I type out a yes.
Yes. Noon?
Perfect. I can’t wait. 😉
(xxx) xxx-xxxx