“Thanks for the brownies.” I hold up the warm tray that’s been singeing my palms this entire time. “I’ll be sure to return the pan.”
She knew what she was doing.
Melissa smiles, coiling a strand of hair around her fingers. “Take your time. Like I said, I’m in the yellow house across the street if you need me.”
If I need her …
I stifle a chuckle before turning back to the house. The movers have made a good dent in the load already, and I walk into a living room stacked high with cardboard boxes. How one single man can accumulate so much shit by his late twenties is beyond me, though in my defense, most of my belongings are books—mostly college texts and literature classics—and I refuse to throw them out.
Good words never expire.
Moving to the kitchen, I grab a box cutter from the counter and get to work. My new job as principal of Rosefield High doesn’t officially start for another couple of months, and I’ve got all the time in the world, but the clutter and boxes are going to drive me insane. The sooner everything gets to its place, the better.
I can’t live with chaos. It’s nails on a chalkboard.
A couple of hours later, my kitchen is done and the movers are bringing the last of the furniture pieces in. I tip them each a hundred bucks and walk them to the door. The second they leave, I spread across my sofa, kick my feet up, and rest my eyes for a minute.
My stomach growls, a reminder that the purchase of this house didn’t include a stocked pantry, so I slide my phone from my pocket and see if there are any places around here that deliver something other than lightning-fast submarine sandwiches or soggy pizza.
Within five minutes, I settle on Thai food, place my order, and pull up my Karma app to kill time.
Starting a job like this in a town where I don’t know a soul means hook ups can be risky. I need to establish my reputation first, and the concerned residents of Rosefield, Illinois would be aghast if they found out their children’s principal is a commitment-phobic man whore.
Karma is safer.
I can actually get to know someone before deciding if they’re worth hooking up with, though at this point in time, I’ve opted to use a stock photo and stick to phone sex. It’s less risky, and my career isn’t worth an hour of electric sex with a stranger.
Tapping the app, it asks if I want to “search singles in the area searching for no-strings attached experiences.” I press “okay,” and the screen displays a list of options in alphabetical order.
Woman number one is named Absinthe, and her bio is an F. Scott Fitzgerald quote, which tells me she’s introspected and a fan of the literary arts. Sticking in a pin on her profile, I move on to the next options and make my assessments.
BlaireWS1989. Her bio is a list of her college degrees and various professional certifications.
Pass.
DaringBoldly_SoulfulAries. Addicted to self-help books. Probably consults psychics on a regular basis.
Nope.
FoxyMamaIL. Her bio says she’s a mom to three and fur-mom to four. I can’t do the single mom thing. They always want more, even if they say they don’t.
Moving on.
HeavenlyHannah. Is that … is that a Nickelback song she’s quoting?
Seriously, people.
I check out another dozen before going back to Absinthe, making absolutely certain I want to send her a message. Once I do, I won’t be able to communicate with anyone else … though the last five minutes of my life have shown me that I’m probably not missing out on much anyway.
Tapping the “initiate contact” button, I type a message and press send.
Chapter 3
Halston
I barely hear the ding of my computer over the music piping through my earbuds, but sure enough, there’s a push notification coming through from Karma.
Kerouac would like to introduce himself! Do you accept?
Kerouac? Ugh. Jack Kerouac is one of the most overrated writers I’ve ever had the disservice of subjecting myself to. On the Road was boring and self-indulgent.
I check out his message next.
“Pretty tech savvy for being 100,” he writes.
Laughing out loud, my head tilts to the side. He’s got a sense of humor. I can work with that. And I can maybe forgive him for the screen name if he’ll allow me to broaden his horizons with some hand-selected book recommendations.
Clicking on the “reply” icon, Karma tells me that by responding to this conversation, I won’t be able to communicate with any other users. And if I decide to cease conversation with this person, I need to click on the black “x” in their profile, which will prevent them from being able to contact me again and vice versa.
Forever.
Absinthe: My grandkids got me one of those iPad things for Christmas.
Kerouac: How many grandkids do you have?
Absinthe: Way too many. I was a bit of a floozy in my younger days, popping out babies left and right. I couldn’t help myself. They were so damn cute and so were the men. Sadly, I think I peaked in the 1940s. I never could resist a man in uniform! Those sailors with those little round hats got me every time. Never missed a Fleet Week!
Kerouac: No regrets?
Absinthe: No regrets.
Kerouac: Seriously though. How old are you?
Absinthe: Does it matter? Age is literally a number.
Kerouac: It matters to me.
Absinthe: How old are you?
Kerouac: Didn’t you read my profile?
Absinthe: No. I was too distracted by your horrendous screen name. Kerouac? Seriously?????
Kerouac: On the Road is a classic.
Absinthe: On the Road is shoddy drivel at best. Anyone who thinks otherwise doesn’t deserve the privilege of calling himself a reader.
Kerouac: That’s the cool thing about being a reader though, YOU get to decide what you like and other people’s opinions don’t matter.
Absinthe: Doesn’t make me judge you any less.
Kerouac: How old are you?
Absinthe: So you’re going to change the subject, just like that?
Kerouac: Answer the fucking question.
Absinthe: Oh, man. You said “fucking.” Are you pissed? Or trying to prove that you’re some big, bad alpha male who needs to be in control at all times?
Kerouac: Not pissed. Just impatient.
Kerouac: But control is a good thing. I like to be in control.
Absinthe: Then that’s going to be a problem, because I like to be in control too.
Kerouac: Your age, Absinthe.
Absinthe: Old enough to drink.
It’s not a lie. I mean, I might not be old enough to drink legally, but I’m still old enough to drink in the literal sense.
Kerouac: That’s the best you can do?
Absinthe: I need to keep a low profile.
Kerouac: Are you someone important?
Absinthe: You’re being sarcastic. Ass. And no, I’m not anyone important. I’m just me. And I want to keep a low profile because for all I know, you’re a creepy stalker.
Kerouac: Even if I was a creepy stalker, I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t be able to locate you simply based on your age. I think you’re safe.
Absinthe: Anyway, back to your horrible taste in literature …
Kerouac: My extensive library collection would beg to differ.
Absinthe: Oooh. You have a library. You must be fancy.
Kerouac: Not fancy. Just well read.
Absinthe: You know what would be really fucking hot?
Kerouac: What?
Absinthe: Sex in a library. A public library.
Kerouac: Way to get to the point. I was content discussing great American writers of the 20th century for another hour, but this works too.
Absinthe: If you could see me right now, I’m rolling my eyes at you. Don’t be lame. Just go with it. Tell me how we’d do it. Tell me what you’d do to me.
Kerouac: What do you look like?
Absinthe: Why?
Kerouac: I need a visual. For my fantasy.
Absinthe: Blonde hair. Green eyes. Big tits. Long legs. That work?
Kerouac: Highly doubt that’s what you really look like, but okay.
Absinthe: It’s true. Maybe one of these days, you’ll get to see for yourself.
Kerouac: Doubtful. I have no intentions of ever meeting you.
Absinthe: Why not??? Oh, shit. Are you married?!?
Kerouac: No. Not married. Just a professional starting a new job in a new town.