I blink. What is she talking about? “What do you mean?”
“C’mon. You were all I do my research, but you didn’t know I’d be there,” she says, taunting me. Because that’s what we do.
And if she needs to return to sparring, if it makes her feel safe to push me out to familiar, bantery territory, I’ll damn well respect that boundary.
“Because I gave Hazel an open invitation,” I point out. “I said she could invite anyone she wanted. I could hardly research a plus one.”
“Keep telling yourself that, cowboy,” she says. “But you and I know the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“I crashed your party,” she says, all sing-song, like she’s poking and prodding me.
And she is.
“Fine. You did,” I say, conceding.
“I’ve got your number,” she teases.
“Yes, you do. I gave it to you.”
“And I gave you mine,” she says, pointedly.
Ohhh, I see. She gave me her number. This thing between us—whatever it is—is a choice. A mutual one, and so the opposite of whatever uncomfortable shit she faces when she opens those double glass doors at the office.
Work conversation is over; she’s making that clear. I ought to lean into the moment. Go with the flow. “So, question for you, Ms. Horse Lover.”
“Hit me up.”
“Do you still ride?”
“I do.” A definite, dreamy smile enters her voice. “I go to a little place outside the city some weekends. My dad lives in Connecticut with his wife—my stepmom. She’s amazing, and they found a great stable.”
I whistle low in appreciation. “I bet you look sexy on a horse.”
She laughs. “Why, yes, I do. And you?”
“Do I look sexy on a horse?”
“Yes. Do you?”
I stare at the night sky, stars twinkling faintly in the distance. “I suppose that’d be for you to judge.”
“Maybe someday I can, indeed, judge that, cowboy.”
“Maybe,” I say, wondering where in this city I could find her. I want to picture her. “Where do you live?”
“Chelsea. Sixteenth and Seventh. A cute studio that works for me.”
I can picture that perfectly. I, too, like that she told me, knowing she doesn’t divulge that to just anyone. “My next party is at a warehouse on Nineteenth Street.”
“Maybe I’ll crash it,” she teases.
“You hate my parties.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
“And yet I used it.”
“You did.” Then her tone shifts again, and she clears her throat. “And maybe I do hate them.”
“Do you really?”
She sighs. “A little. But c’est la vie. We like different things, and that’s just the way it goes. Batman and Joker, after all.”
“Archenemies to the end,” I say.
We both sit in silence for a bit, then she fills it. “Hey, I should go. I have to finish some things for work.”
I sit up straight. “Sure. Of course. I’ll . . . see you around.”
“Yes,” she says. “Maybe you will.”
She doesn’t sound convinced. I’m not sure we’ll meet again either, and that bothers me. “It’s been . . . interesting.”
“It has, cowboy.”
She hangs up. I stare at the phone, feeling like that whole conversation took place in a foreign language.
19
Bellamy Hart’s A Million Frogs . . .
Episode: The Human Algorithm
* * *
Picture this:
You’re staring down the barrel of your next birthday. Your best friend is engaged to be married. Your other close friend is expecting her first baby. The woman down the hall at the office just found the love of her life on Tinder. Everywhere around you are people in love.
It’s something you’ve been seeking for a long time too.
At least, I have. And I’ve learned you have to kiss a lot of frogs as you search for your one and only. On the way there, you might want to travel down many dating paths, including a new old-fashioned thing—a Carpe Diem party.
Lately, listeners have been asking how to score an invitation to one of these events. They’re the talk of the town. One night could supposedly change your fate, put an end to the merry-go-round of Bumble and Tinder and all the rest.
Dear listener, I’m here as your most devoted guide to romance to let you know you’re not missing a damn thing if you don’t snag one of those invites that seem to promise the world.
And even if you do get one, who’s to say you’ll find love at those fancy, chichi, dare I say, overhyped, parties?
Look, I believe in the conquer-all power of love. The tell-the-world-on-a-billboard-in-Times-Square kind of love.
And, sure, many have found that love at these parties. So, a big yay for that. But most of you won’t even have a shot, and that’s not your fault. The parties cost gobs of money to attend, plus you have to get on the host’s radar.
These parties rely on the human algorithm. On one person hand-selecting a list of matches for you. Carpe Diem parties are elitist, over-curated affairs that cater to the city’s beautiful and intelligent—those anointed a winner by the city’s very own old-fashioned Cupid, who’s also a capitalist.