An uneasy feeling wrapped greasy fingers around Sebastian’s midsection. “What?” he asked.
“Did you, by any chance, look at TikTok last night?” Lincoln said. Sebastian shook his head. “You might want to sit down.” Lincoln cued up the app and handed Sebastian his phone. Sebastian sank onto the side of the bed as he looked at the screen, which displayed a young woman’s face—her handle, he saw, was MissAlyssy.
Lincoln leaned over his shoulder to hit play, and Sebastian recoiled as he saw his own face, in the center of a Wild West–style WANTED poster. Have You Dated This Man? read the text. As he watched, a girl’s head and shoulders popped up in front of the poster. “Hey, my BK ladies and they-dies,” she said, in a high, breathy voice. A high, breathy, familiar voice, that Sebastian could recall, all too well, only the last time he’d heard it—two weeks ago? Three?—it had been squeaking his name in ecstasy. “Storytime! This morning I got together with my besties for brunch. We were comparing dating app horror stories—as one does—and it turns out that seven out of eight of us—I REPEAT, SEVEN OUT OF EIGHT—had all, um, spent time with this gentleman.” The picture behind her switched to a screenshot of Sebastian’s dating profile. His face was clearly visible, as were the words “free tonight?” circled in red. “Now, he’s clear about just looking for a hookup, and you know ya girl is down for that. I’m not saying I was ghosted, or gaslit, or love-bombed, or in any way traumatized. No single ladies were harmed in the making of this video. But when you find out that the same guy has had”—she paused delicately—“encounters… with literally seven-eighths of your friend group?” Here, the camera panned briefly toward a clutch of young women seated around a table. Sebastian saw mimosas, French toast, and more than one familiar face as the women waved at the camera. “It kind of made me wonder how many more of us there are out there.” The narrator smiled, a smug, cat-that-got-the-cream kind of smirk. “So I thought I’d ask. If you’ve met this fella, drop your name or your story in the comments. And let me know if you want part two.”
Sebastian felt his eyes getting wide and his cheeks getting hot as he read the hashtags—#kissingbandit #datinghorrorstories #singleinbrooklyn #manbehavingbadly #manwhorealert #redflag #mensuck #ladiesbeware.
“Kissing Bandit?” he said, mostly to himself. Even though he knew he hadn’t done anything wrong—even though the girl who’d made the video had clearly said so—he still felt guilty, like he’d been called down to the principal’s office for cheating on a math test, or he’d been caught lying to his parents. Sebastian, we’re very disappointed in you, he heard his mom saying—for once, she was the hook; for once, she wasn’t the problem—while his dad stood behind her, shaking his head.
“I guess that’s what they’re calling you,” Lincoln said. While Sebastian had been staring at his phone, Lincoln had gotten into the shower, and out of it, and was dressed in his cycling shorts and jersey, brushing his teeth with the electric toothbrush he’d insisted on packing.
“They?” Sebastian stared at his friend. “What do you mean they? Is there more than one post about this?”
“There are several,” Lincoln said stiffly.
“It’s not that bad,” Sebastian said, half to himself, half for Lincoln’s benefit. He started to scroll, then stopped. Was it better to know exactly what was out there? Or would he just be torturing himself?
“Well, that post isn’t,” said Lincoln. “It’s the, uh, other posts. And there are a number of replies that are…” He sat down in the chair in front of the hotel room’s desk, wheeling it forward, then back, then forward again. “… somewhat problematic.”
Sebastian steeled himself before looking at the number of responses, which was in the low four figures. He clicked. “OMG I KNOW THIS GUY TOO!” said the first reply, with a screenshot of a text exchange. “So do I,” read the reply after that. “Me three,” said the one below that.
“Is this trending?” Sebastian asked sharply.
“No,” Lincoln said, and Sebastian did not have to stretch very far to imagine he could hear not yet. “But there’s a counter.” Lincoln sounded apologetic. “It’s already in the triple digits.” He shook his head, muttering, “I don’t know whether I should be impressed or horrified.”