Home > Wish You Were Here(12)

Wish You Were Here(12)
Author: Renee Carlino

Underneath my prom photo, I read the profile details while Helen laughed so hard she couldn’t breath.

My name is Charlotte and I am an average twenty-seven year-old. If you looked up the word mediocre in the dictionary you would see a picture of me—more recent than this nine-year-old photo, of course, because at least back then I hadn’t inked my face like an imbecile.

Did I forget to mention that I have a tiny star tattooed under my left eye? Yes, I’d been drunk at the time. It was a momentary lapse of judgment. It would actually be cute if it was a little bigger, but it’s so small that most people think it’s a piece of food or a freckle. I cover it up with makeup.

I like junk food and watching reality TV. My best friend and I like to drink Champagne because it makes us feel sophisticated, then we like to have a farting contest afterward. I’ve had twelve boyfriends in the last five years so I’m looking for a lifer. It’s not a coincidence that I used the same term as the one for prisoners ineligible for parole.

“Chuck the Fuck,” Helen squeaked through giggles.

I turned and glared at her. “He still doesn’t know that you watched him jerk off like a pedophile when he was fourteen.”

“He’s only three years younger than us.”

“Four. And I will tell him. I’ll unleash Chuck the Fuck on you if you don’t quit.”

My breasts are small and my butt is big and I have a moderately hairy upper lip. I also don’t floss, clean my retainer, or use mouthwash with any regularity.

“God, my brother is so obsessed with oral hygiene!”

“That’s what stood out to you? He said you have a mustache.” Helen grinned.

“Girls, get out of there and come clear the table,” my dad yelled.

“What do you think the password is?”

“Try ‘Fatbutt,’ ” I said.

“Yep, that worked. Okay, I’ll change your profile while you clear the table.”

My parents had retired to the living room while I cleaned up and Helen tried doing damage control for the sake of my love life.

“I have a good picture of you from Facebook,” she said. “Oh my god, Charlie, you have three messages from men who want to date you.”

“Read them to me,” I called out.

“Okay, this is from Rod in Hollywood. It says, ‘Charlotte, I’m dying to see your ink. I also like your candor. Can we chat?’ ”

“What does he look like?”

“Oh no, his entire face is tattooed.”

“Move on. Read the next one.”

“This is Ben in Encino. He says, ‘Charlotte, hit me up, yo.’ ”

“Next!” my mother and I said in unison.

“Okay, this is Charles from TO. It’s your brother.” Helen starts chuckling. “It says, ‘Hey Fatbutt, guess you figured out the password. Please don’t trick any poor fools into dating you by lying about your disgusting habits and sick-ass halitosis. Love, Chucky.’ ”

“Bastard,” I said under my breath.

“Charlotte Ann Martin!” my father scolded from the other room.

I didn’t think he could hear me.

“Okay, I’m fixing it,” Helen said.

The picture she changed it to was of me in a skimpy bikini, standing in a house in Cabo, holding an ice pack to one eye and frowning. Our families were on vacation there the year before. I had gotten stung by a bee on my forehead and my entire left eye had swollen like a puffer fish.

“That picture?”

“You look vulnerable and cute and your body looks hot.”

The new profile details read:

I’m Charlotte, 27, and mildly allergic to bees, but I do love being outside, going to the beach, live music, baseball, and dining out! I love life and adventure, especially when I have someone to share it with.

“I like it, but baseball?”

“You love going to baseball games,” Helen said.

“Right, but I wouldn’t call myself a fan. I don’t even know any of the players on the Dodgers.”

“Listen to me. Guys like girls who are willing to watch sports with them. I wouldn’t be caught dead at a baseball game, but you love that shit.”

“Honestly, it’s the butts in the baseball pants I love.”

“Nevertheless, Charlie, you only have so many angles. Would you rather I include your proclivity for men with debilitating phobias and cross-dressing fetishes?”

“Fine, leave the baseball thing.”

When we left my parents’ house that night, my mom told me to be patient and my dad said, “You better figure it out. Your college fund is gone and I can’t help you out of a pickle.”

I hugged him even though I felt wounded. “I will, Dad. I’m gonna be a hairdresser.”

“What, like how you were gonna be a real estate agent?”

That stung.

Helen tugged on my arm. “Come on, Charlie. Bye Pops, bye Mom, we gotta go.”

Sometimes she saved me from their scrutiny, and I did the same for her with her parents. We relied on each other a lot. Maybe too much.

8. Jedi Mind Trick

A week later, I was checking Match.com. I laughed out loud at a message I had gotten.

Charlotte, hello, my name’s Seth Taylor and I’m also mildly allergic to bees, love baseball, and have asshole family members who think they’re hilarious. (I caught on pretty quickly to your original profile details.) I live south of LA. I’m not great at emailing or texting, so if you want to talk, here’s my number. I’d love to chat with you.

I was sitting on the couch in our apartment, waiting for his profile picture to load.

“Oh my god.”

From the bathroom, Helen yelled, “What? Is he ugly? Or is it an old guy?”

I was speechless. Seth Taylor was hot. Like, surpassing a ten on the range of hotness into he would never give me the time of day territory. Of course he posted a picture of himself lying on a beach, shirtless, with an adorable sleeping black Lab splayed across his twelve-pack abs. I wanted to be lying across his twelve-pack abs. I’d polish his twelve-pack abs with my tongue if I could.

“No, he’s cute!” I called out. “But he’s a dog guy.”

Helen came out of the bathroom and looked over my shoulder. “He’s gorgeous.”

“He would never like me,” I said.

“Give it a chance.”

It was a Monday at ten in the morning. “Do you think it would be weird to call him now?” I couldn’t take my eyes off his photo. He had short, golden-brown hair, blue eyes, and a perfectly scruffy jawline. He had a playful expression in the photo, like those people who can smile with just the corners of their eyes.

“You should call him. He’s gonna get snatched up. And look, he’s younger than you, you cougar.”

“He’s two years younger than me,” I protested.

“Call him!” Helen messed up my hair, then skipped off to her room.

I dialed his number. “Hello,” he said. His voice was deeper and smoother than I expected. It radiated through me.

“Hi.”

“Hi.”

I should have written down at least five go-to lines before I dialed his number.

“I’m Charlotte. I’m the girl you messaged on Match.”

“Hi, Charlotte, I’m Seth.”

Awkward silence. “Hi, Seth.”

“Well, I think we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way. Your profile was pretty brief, although I did appreciate the prom picture that was up before this new one, which, by the way, is hot, even though you’re holding an ice pack to your face.”

He called me hot. Is that good or bad? Stop overthinking this, Charlotte, and talk to the poor guy. “Oh, thank you. That first profile was my brother’s creative genius.”

“I figured. I’m actually the youngest with three sisters—so I fully understand how sibling love works.”

“Three sisters? My goodness. That must have been interesting.”

“There was a lot of drama and fighting over the bathroom. I’m also very skilled at painting nails and picking out accessories.”

   
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