Mary Robb - Down the Rabbit Hole

Memories of that day, when they’d driven out to the bay in search of bushels of crabs and cold beers, the sun hot on their heads in Jeremy’s convertible, enveloped her like mid-August humidity. She too had worn a grin that threatened to crack her face wide open, and she hadn’t even cared that her hair was blowing like a willow in a tornado and was likely to look like a tumbleweed before it was all over. Jeremy was laughing and glancing at her so often it was as if he couldn’t believe his luck, and they were singing together to the music, unself-conscious and electric. Neither one of them had had a care in the world beyond finding the elusive Captain Newick’s, which instead of being on the bay was on a back road by a river that fed into it, and boasted the best steamed blue crabs within reach of the city.

He hadn’t been on his phone at all that day. In fact she hadn’t even been aware of the problem yet. She’d still had the wild intoxicating idea that there weren’t any problems between them.

Every woman on here would want that guy, she knew. The one who was totally there, undistracted, happy, in tune. The guy who seemed like he’d be there forever, making up for everything you’d ever lost in your life.

Until he disappeared and you became the superfluous doll across the table from the guy making love to his cell phone.

Had he seen her profile?

She hoped if he had that he took it as a sign that she was over him , even though she was as far from that as she could be. She may have broken up with him, but that didn’t mean the dream had died—the dream that she’d found the right one, that he was all he’d seemed to be, that she had stumbled upon nirvana. It was the dream that was so very hard to let go of. At least that was what she had been telling herself.

She knew better now. Staring down the barrel of the dating gun, she was afraid she wanted nobody but Jeremy. Even the Jeremy who listened with half an ear and couldn’t drag his eyes from a backlit screen.

She flipped a pen through her fingers, chewing on the inside of her cheek. Then, despite herself, she clicked on his profile. It might make her feel worse, but if she didn’t look she’d spend too much time wondering what he’d said.

As she’d learned to do on the other profiles, she skipped quickly over the multiple-choice section and went straight to the personal essay.

Sometimes superficial and regularly overconfident, I can be an insensitive bastard to those who can do nothing for me. I like things my own way and am persuasive enough to get them. I use my charm to make people like me, and am lost when it doesn’t work. I do not trust my own substance. I occasionally use people. I tend to disappear on women I’ve lost interest in. I have a bad habit of not paying attention to people, of only hearing what I want to hear, of taking people for granted. I want love but have no idea what it actually is. If I’m with you, I’ll likely only spend ten minutes out of every hour actually focused on you. The rest of the time I’ll be carrying on conversations with others who are potentially more interesting on my phone because I have the attention span of a gnat. I have an insatiable need to be entertained at every moment. I blame others for my boredom.

What the heck—?

Was this a joke? Was it aimed at her ? She was the one who’d complained about his inattention, his phone dependence and, yes, maybe she’d accused him of needing to be entertained all the damn time—but she didn’t say any of that other stuff. Is that what he’d thought? Or was it just true?

Was he going for some kind of sympathy? Did he hope people would take it as a joke? It wasn’t funny to her.

She leaned forward and reread it. I tend to disappear on women I’ve lost interest in. He’d disappeared on her, that was for sure.

She sat back in her chair, gripping the pen in her fingers. It was here in black-and-white—he’d lost interest in her. She had broken up with him, but there was obviously no going back. She considered writing to him, asking him what he was doing there. Had he known she was on iLove too, and was he making fun of her, the site or himself? Or maybe all three? But it would be too humiliating. If he saw her profile at all, let him think she was far too busy with other men to be looking at him.

She clicked on See the Guys Looking at You and up came a screen of head shots of smiling men, short paragraphs listing their vitals next to them. Here was HardLovinMan22 in a blurry shot wearing a cowboy hat, thirty-four years old, Aries, nonsmoker, in a suburb not far from hers. And Waiting4You, balding, sweet-smiled, thirty-eight, Pisces, nonsmoker, closer to downtown. ReelMeIn was posed, not surprisingly, with a fishing rod.

But Jeremy gnawed at her, and she scrolled down through the several pages of guys who’d looked at her, searching for his photo in the lineup.

He wasn’t there.

And now she was wasting time second-guessing herself again. He was not that into her . Even April had seen it. It was time to let go—especially since she’d already let him go.

She glanced again at the guy in the cowboy hat. He looked nice. She wasn’t into cowboys, especially, but she wouldn’t mind a simple, uncomplicated date. She clicked, read the pleasant essay and decided to write. It was time to get off the computer and out on a date. There’d be no getting over Jeremy sitting here in her office.

She dropped the pen on the desk and started typing.

Macy’s hands were sweating, and she was having trouble taking a deep breath. Her mouth was dry and her smile felt stiff as she asked the restaurant’s hostess if anybody had mentioned that they were meeting someone here.

The blonde was wearing earrings the size of handcuffs, and she pointed a manicured hand toward the front of the dining room. “Yes, are you looking for that gentleman by the window?”

Macy glanced over, took in the thirtysomething man in the blue button-down shirt with no tie and a pale complexion, and tried to match his features to the guy in the T-shirt and cowboy hat online. Because she was already nervous, this test nearly undid her. Despite the fact that she’d printed out and studied his profile like an SAT primer, she couldn’t tell if it was the same person or not. She’d thought he was more rugged-looking, but then a cowboy hat would do that, wouldn’t it? The chin could be the same, but . . .

She’d have to admit to the stylish young hostess—who probably never in her life would have to resort to online dating—that she did not know what her date looked like.

“Actually, ahhh . . .” As she leaned toward the girl, a couple tried to inch around her to put their name on the wait list, adding two more sets of ears to the problem.

The girl leaned toward her as the guy said something about a table for two. “I’m sorry?”

“Did he say he was waiting for someone named Macy?” she asked as quietly as she could.

The girl’s finely arched brows drew down and, bless her heart, she moved around the hostess stand toward Macy. “He didn’t say, I’m sorry. Would you like me to go ask him?”

Macy would have liked nothing better, but the line of people behind her was growing, and she didn’t want to hold everyone up. “It’s okay, I’ll do it. But thank you.”

The blonde gave her an understanding smile; she probably saw blind dates all the time. “Good luck.”

Macy gave a short laugh and wound through the tables toward the man by the window. He was kind of cute, she thought, nicely dressed in khakis and that blue Oxford shirt, square jaw, thick hair. No cowboy hat.

He stood as she approached, looking uncertain. He was taller than her, but not by much. Maybe five-eight.