He looks up, narrowing his eyes. “Then why aren’t I spending time with nice, normal women right now?”
“You’re probably disqualifying them for completely petty reasons.” Everything she’s deduced about his ex and the other nameless previous relationships he’s vaguely referenced seems to indicate that yes, he absolutely does have a history of dating lovely women with real jobs, who actually read The New Yorker and don’t let all the issues pile up for several months before going through them and skimming only the movie reviews and the cartoons. “What’s the worst that could happen?”
“I could be trapped for hours at some mediocre restaurant with someone who doesn’t respect the rules of grammar.”
“Whenever I got stuck on a really bad date, my friend Gabe would show up at the restaurant and pretend to accuse me of cheating on him. It brings the date to a screeching halt, while eliminating any chance of future contact.”
“I’ll keep that in mind if I ever decide to date again.”
“You need someone more objective to do the swiping.” She places her open palm in front of him and gestures for him to hand over his phone. “I’ll show you my terrible future dates if you show me yours?”
He opens an app and begrudgingly hands his device across the table. Ari stares at the Raya profile of “Lauren,” who has a passion for travel but also loves relaxing at home. She swipes again on a “Hannah,” who does part-time fitness modeling. “Your entire feed is beautiful overachievers?”
Josh swipes left every few seconds with one hand and rubs at his fledgling beard with the other. “Are you actually going to meet any of these people?”
“I’ll risk it if you will,” she says, examining a photo of a different Lauren, who’s always up for an adventure. “So have you actually talked to the yoga instructor?”
“Two after-class conversations this week.”
“You went twice?” Ari asks, a little embarrassed by the odd tone of her voice.
He scowls at her phone and makes another swipe. “？‘No fatties’？ Really? This asshole is holding a fish.”
Ari sits up taller, craning her neck to see what Josh is doing on her device. “Did you make sure it’s set to all genders?”
“I assure you, I’m combing through every available human in the entire tri-state area. It’s quality control. Unless you want to end up with someone who uses a bathroom selfie in their profile?” He’s giving her that focused gaze again—the one that makes her feel exposed.
Ari returns her attention to Josh’s phone, now very cognizant of the way the conversation tapered off into a real-life animated ellipsis, and swipes right on “Ashlyn,” who works in program management and uses proper punctuation on dating apps.
11
UNDER NORMAL CIRCUMSTANCES, ARI WOULD text Radhya, meet her at the loading dock behind whichever restaurant she happened to be working at, and they’d grab a drink or five at the closest dive bar. She’d be buzzed from a set at one of the lesser-known comedy venues on MacDougal Street, either because it went really great or it really didn’t.
There aren’t any normal circumstances anymore. Their text thread has been silent for over a week. There haven’t been any stand-up sets for months.
Nevertheless, Ari cuts through a narrow alley, the air thick with that familiar ripe smell of kitchen trash from several restaurants—the Korean place, the Irish pub, and the “new American” from Radhya’s current sous-chef gig. Rad is a creature of habit, so she is exactly where Ari expects to find her: sitting on a milk crate against a brick wall. Phone in her right hand, cigarette in the other.
“Hi, Cum Slut.”
Usually, Rad would respond with a tired but cheerful “Twattie!” But after a poorly masked look of surprise, she barely moves her eyes from the glow of her screen.
“I just want to know why.” Radhya says it the way people sigh at their fuckup nephews who ask to borrow rent money.
Why what? Isn’t necessary.
“I like talking to him,” Ari says, choosing her words carefully.
“No one likes talking to him. Try again.”
“He doesn’t judge me or try to fix me.”
Radhya hauls herself up from the crate. “And I’m the one judging you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You needed me in the immediate aftermath. You needed me when you didn’t want to be alone in your apartment. You needed me every time you wanted to vent about Cass’s moods. You were that person for me when my life blew up.” All true. But it felt so much easier to be Radhya’s support system; it’s exhausting being the dud in a friendship. “Now you’re fooling around with—”