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BRYNN

My date has cilantro stuck to his tooth.

A bright-green leaf is clinging precariously to his left central incisor, and I have been trying, rather unsuccessfully, to give him a discreet you’ve got a little something, but so far, all I’ve managed to do is draw several weird looks from our waitress.

His name is Ford LeClair. He’s a hedge fund manager at a rather large Canadian bank here in Toronto. I swiped right because he said he loved labradoodles, a good cup of coffee, and summer nights on the dock of his parents’ cottage on Lake Rosseau.

His profile had promise.

The man, however, has spent the last forty-three minutes having a one-sided conversation about cryptocurrency, his predictions for next week’s UFC fight, and his recent boys’ trip to Las Vegas.

“Have you been? It’s f***ing epic!”

It takes me a minute to realize he’s finally asked me a question.

“Yes.” My cheeks flood with heat. “I’ve been there once before.”

I don’t elaborate.

Thankfully, Ford does not ask any follow-up questions. Even if he did, I’m not sure how I’d manage to navigate around my reason for traveling to the wedding capital of the world.

Something happens to my dates when I toss into a casual conversation that I’m a twenty-nine-year-old divorcée. It’s like they assign a “level failed” to my dating scorecard. Seeing as I don’t anticipate us even moving this relationship to the dessert course, I don’t see a reason to bring it up.

“So . . .” I change the subject, taking the pause in Ford’s side of the conversation to sneak in a few of my own questions. “Your profile said you’d love to settle in a small town one day. Is there any town in particular?”

This is my remaining olive branch. One last attempt to connect the man and the profile. However, if I’m to be perfectly honest, the majority of my hope that anything would come of this ill-fated match dissolved the moment the hostess walked me to our table, where Ford ignored my outstretched palm in favor of an obvious once-over and then proceeded to tell me, “You look different from your pictures.”

In hindsight, I should have turned right around and pretended it was all some big mix-up, or told him the hostess had accidentally brought me over to the wrong table. But I had made such an effort: new lipstick, my Victoria’s Secret push-up bra, and my sale-rack Nordstrom stilettos that make my legs look longer but also cut the backs of my heels because they’re a half size too small. So I ignored the alarm bells screaming, Run, Brynn. Save yourself, pasted on my best I am totally into you smile, and hoped my instincts were wrong.

Fifty-six minutes later, I strongly suspect that they were not wrong.

Ford leans forward, wafting a wave of expensive-smelling cologne in my direction.

“I’m going to be straight up with you. I put that small-town shit in my profile because I know women want to hear it.”

His honesty is actually refreshing.

“Oh, okay. I guess I didn’t . . .”

“Breanne—” he interrupts.

“It’s Brynn.”

He ignores me and instead takes a long draw of his locally crafted IPA.

“We both know what is happening here.”

I have an inkling, but I want to see where he takes it.

He flicks a glance at his Rolex-esque watch, then inclines his head toward the entrance to the restaurant.

“If you wanna do this, we should probably get going.”

I’m not naïve.

It’s quite clear that “this” means sex. Sadly, Ford is not the first overconfident Bumble date this year to cut to the chase, although he lacks the je ne sais quoi that typically accompanies this delicate dance. And even though I’ve never been one to ask for what I want in the bedroom, I have no problem telling Ford I have no intention of stepping into his tonight.

“You know what? I’m really tired, I think I’m going to head home.” I fake a yawn.

Ford raises his eyebrows as if this fact surprises him. “Not even up for a blowie?”

I should probably be disgusted or, at a bare minimum, annoyed. But my poor little heart has been battered enough that it has formed a protective coating. A thick crust that protects it and keeps my tone even and breezy as I tell him, “Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.”

Ford stares into his empty beer glass. “I figured I’d shoot my shot. It was pretty obvious this wasn’t going anywhere. But a lot of the women I meet on Bumble want a decent bang out of the deal. And I’m more than decent.” He winks as if this little tidbit may sway me. When I don’t respond, he shrugs and turns his attention to the waitress, who hands him our bill, giving him much more of her attention than I have all evening.

As much as I hate to admit it, Ford is right. Before we even sat down, I suspected that we were a far cry from soulmates. Although he is my type, tall and classically handsome with the deep ocean shade of blue eyes that you could get lost in, he falls short in the most important attributes I look for in a partner: sensitivity, kindness, and actual interest in what I have to say.

I’m not upset we’re calling this date early. I’d much rather be home, engulfed in my fuzzy blue Snuggly, comfort-binging the final season of Carson’s Cove and watching the drama go down instead of . . . ​well . . . ​going down on Ford. Therefore, with feigned reluctance, I thrust my Visa onto the table with a “Thanks for this. I had a really nice time.”

Ford, however, waves me and my card off, his eyes never leaving the ample crack of the cleavage of our very blond waitress. I watch as he pulls a pen from his suit pocket, writes something down on the back of one of his business cards, then slips both it and his Amex out of his wallet into the black leather folder holding our bill.

The waitress opens it, giggles at whatever he has written, then leans in close to whisper something in his ear.

It’s like I’m watching the beginning of a low-budget porno, and I don’t know if I should be offended or amused.

The waitress leaves. Exactly three Mississippis later, Ford stands, extending his fist with a non-committal “So, I guess I’ll see you around then?”

I bump him back, knowing full well that this will be the last I see of Ford LeClair.

I intentionally linger for a few moments in our booth, not wanting to completely contradict my previous thought and create an awkward scenario outside where Ford and I have to make polite conversation as we wait for our respective Ubers. When I’m satisfied that he’s well on his way, I swipe open my phone screen and find the red notification bubble on my text app showing eight unread messages.

All of them are from my mother.

Mom: Thirty years ago, I was in labor, about to have the happiest day of my life

Mom: We didn’t have the good drugs like you kids have today

Mom: You were warm and cozy in your mama’s womb. Didn’t want to come out. Needed to do things in your own time.

Mom: Even back then, you were your own woman

Mom: When you finally came, I stared at your pink face for hours. I never loved something so much in my whole entire life.

Mom: Happy last day of being 29. Hope 30 is wonderful.

Mom: I love you xoxoxoxoxox

Mom: You should go out and celebrate! Call up those new girlfriends you told me about and go dancing. You may meet someone. You can’t start the next episode of your life if you keep rewatching the old one.

The last message hits like a sneaky left hook. I’ve yet to tell my mother that I’ve gotten back on the proverbial dating horse. Partially because I don’t want to answer a hundred personal questions about my dates, but mostly because—with Ford as a case in point—it’s not going like I hoped it would.

It’s weird to be dating again. Like reading a book where you’ve already snuck a peek at the last chapter and you know the ending isn’t the happily ever after you were always promised. But I will acknowledge that my mother is right in that it’s next to impossible to meet a perfect man while bundled up like a burrito in front of my television screen, so unless Uber Eats starts delivering dream dates, I’m once again swimming in this very shallow dating pool.

My thumb skims across the screen, typing back a polite Love you, Mom. As I hit send, a new text pops up on my screen from the “Brunch Bitches” group chat.

The “Brunch Bitches” are a group of Toronto girls who, as the name hints, have a regular standing brunch date every Saturday or Sunday at various “it spots” deemed brunch-worthy by Toronto Life magazine. I was added to their group chat about six months ago when I met their ringleader, Lainey Evens, at an advertising agency industry mixer at Tequila Bob’s. She spilled a margarita down my back and insisted on getting my number to cover the dry-cleaning cost. She never did pay me, but she did christen me a “Brunch Bitch” and started texting me on the regular.