But for that I would need to have a kid, which means I would need to be pregnant, which means I would need to have sex, and to have sex there would need to be a man in my life. One that was not only willing to have sex with me—which wasn’t the issue—but he would also have to be willing to have a child. That’s a hell of a lot of steps and commitment for the twenty-four hours of joy a year that was pretending to be a fat guy in a red coat.
I opened the dating app on my phone anyway.
I had thought there would be slim pickings in an airport terminal, but it turned out quite a few men within a one-mile radius were looking to get their rocks off while they were in town for business meetings or heading to a ski resort.
Swipe left, swipe left. Porn stache, not the good kind, swipe left. Broody looking, Carhartt beanie, hmm… Swipe right. Which one is he in this group picture? Swipe left. Handsome suit man, swipe right. Fish photo, swipe left. Fish photo, swipe left. Jesus fucking Christ, fish photo, swipe left. Was there really nothing more to the thirty to forty-year-old men in Colorado? This one is kinda cute in a “wears a baseball hat inside” kind of way, swipe right. I could forgive this one for being blond because he’s holding a husky, swipe right.
I followed a one-photo rule with dating apps. If the man in question didn’t leave an impression in the first photo on his profile, then he was a dud. I was on the declining side of my twenties, agonizingly single, and ready to settle down. I wasn’t interested in teaching a man how to present himself to the world, and that included on Hook（Up）。
As I finished the dregs of my mimosa the gate steward came over the speaker to announce my flight to Fort Lauderdale was beginning to board first class passengers and active military personnel, of which I was neither. Instead of hurrying across the passageway to stand in line with my suitcase, I threw my usual punctual caution to the wind and ordered one more drink with my check. Then it was officially wheels up to Coconut Creek for three whole weeks.
The window seat wasn’t the most ideal place to be on an already crowded coach flight, but at least I wasn’t shoved into the middle. I’d celebrate life’s little wins so long as the person inevitably sitting next to me didn’t request to keep the shade down the entire three-and-a-half-hour trip. I could manage a few hours of headphone silence trapped inside two other people if I had a view, not so much if the view was a sticky beige wall and the ear of the person in front of me.
Luckily, the row was empty when I boarded, and I didn’t have to press my entire pelvis against the head of a person in the aisle seat while loading my bag into the overhead bin. I could shed an overbearing layer of sweater off as well and, fuck it, take advantage of the extra space to trade my snow boots for the flip-flops in my backpack.
Sweating by the time the last shoe was shoved into storage, I plopped down aimlessly in a seat just as the ping of a notification sounded from the pocket of my zip-up. I expected a ridiculous photo from Nat of the outfits she mentioned we would be wearing later that night, or a “safe flight” text from my mom signed off, “Love, Mom & Josh” like she always did. What I was shocked to see was a banner across my home screen claiming, “It’s A Match!”
Hmm.
I unlocked my phone and watched my own blue-eyed, brown-haired profile photo do a dance right alongside baseball-hat-inside man and a prompt to send a message. My timing was obviously impeccable; I was currently in a metal tube, about to be two thousand miles away for the next month, and this guy probably just caught a rideshare out of the airport.
Frankie, 35—Guaranteed admittance to the Mile High Club.
Charming. I was also now exceedingly less likely to venture into any airplane bathroom without seeing it was properly sanitized first.
I scrolled through the rest of his pictures. A candid shot taken on a beach somewhere, his hair in shaggy brown waves, eyes hidden behind a pair of Ray-Bans. The buttons of a Hawaiian half-open down his chest with a peek of the tan skin underneath. Another with him relaxed against a wooden trail fence, backpack strapped around his waist and chest, pulling his shirt taut to his body. He had a soft smirk on his face but was looking off to the right, like he was slightly embarrassed to be the subject of the camera. Reserved. Then a group shot with a bunch of guys, all arms wrapped around each other’s shoulders, beers in hand. Thank God he didn’t lead with that one. He wasn’t even at the center of the photo, and the red eye made it look like someone had taken that shit on a Kodak disposable.
Actually…
I squinted a bit and realized that was exactly what it was. An old glossy photo he must have taken a picture of with his phone camera and uploaded to his profile.
“Christ.” I giggled to myself, hiding a grin with the back of my hand. The decade of difference between us was showing, which I strangely found endearing.
Scrolling to the last picture, my nostrils flared and I groaned.
Frankie was standing in front of a helicopter wearing a tactical vest with a gun belt slung across his waist, cargo pants and shirt in muted shades of gray and beige. The stoic hard-jawed look on his face would have admittedly been ridiculously attractive if he wasn’t—
“In the fucking military,” I scoffed under my breath.
Angling my thumbs on the photo I dragged them outward to zoom in on his face—bringing the screen comically close to my eyes and squinting. A total shame, there was a lot of potential there. I could see the soft splatter of stubble, plush bottom lip. The tight sleeves of his shirt hugging all the right muscles on his arm. Even the cargo pants （which I wasn't a fan of in any circumstance besides job-related） were filled out exceedingly well. I shifted the focus until the zoom landed directly over the crotch of his pants and tilted my head.
A second later, someone cleared their throat from above me.
“Shit.” I slammed my phone facedown in my lap and looked up at the person who undoubtedly just watched me analyze a dude’s bulge. Only, it was much, much worse than that. “Oh—fuck.”
“It’s better in person.” Frankie stood above me, smirking. There was a slanted, proud lilt to his lips that subsequently put me at ease and sent a flare of embarrassed heat to my cheeks at the same time. Of course this man wasn’t catching a rideshare into Colorado Springs. Of course he was overhead carry-on tea-bagging me on the same flight.
“I—am sure that it is, that’s…” I closed my eyes and squeezed them together hoping that when the television static that was the back of my eyelids subsided, I would open them and Frankie from fucking Hook（Up） would be gone.
Very wishful thinking.
“And what’s the problem with the military?” He shoved his bag into the open storage and immediately dodged a snow boot cascading toward his head and into the aisle. “—the fuck?”
“Sorry.” I reached down to pick up the boot off the carpet. “How long were you standing there?”
“Long enough to be both insulted and then eye-fucked—so approximately five seconds.”
“I did not eye-fuck you,” I argued weakly, holding the lone boot out to him and nodding up toward the storage container. His thick eyebrows knitted together but he took it anyway, stuffing it back in the compartment.