Great. Now I’m talking to myself.

Yes, out loud.

Me, in my cat pajamas.

I glance down at the white, two-piece set with its orange tabby cat printed top and matching bottoms.

I don’t even own a cat, let alone a tabby, yet here I sit dressed as one—a joke from my friends, who tease that I’m going to wind up a bitter, old cat lady if I don’t put myself out there.

“Meow.”

Oh my god, stop before you completely lose your damn mind.

Nearby, my phone vibrates and I roll my eyes at it, playing the game I love to play with myself before I grab it: the Who Is Messaging Me game.

Jessica.

No—she went home for the weekend and isn’t driving back until tomorrow.

Hannah? Yeah, it’s got to be her. She ran to the grocery store and is probably asking if I need anything.

I do kind of wants chips and salsa. Or popcorn. Because I’m only going to pretend to study for twenty more minutes before ransacking the kitchen and vegging out in front of the TV. I’ll text her and put in my requests.

My phone vibrates again.

And it’s not Hannah.

It’s the LoveU app, and there is only one person I’ve been talking to, though more than thirty guys have swiped to match with me.

One guy. One conversation.

JB.

Ugh. It’s been days.

Am I just an asshole with high expectations, or should he have messaged me at least once?

Although I did tell him I was going to be gone this weekend.

On the other hand, who cares? He can still shoot me a note if we were having a good time talking and he still wants to chat? Right?

I want to be mad, but he’s just so good-looking. And insightful, and quick with the comebacks.

Reluctantly, I tap open the conversation.

JB: Hey stranger. How was your weekend? Does your throat hurt from laughing last night?

Aww, he remembered I went to see a comedian! Oh my god, he is so sweet for asking.

Me: It was so fun—we had a blast. I’m exhausted, though. I was about to wrap up “studying” and eat my feelings on the couch.

JB: Sounds like my kind of Sunday.

Me: You’re allowed to eat your feelings?

JB: Well, no. I mean—I can eat as many lean proteins and vegetables as I want…

Me: Why does that sound kind of gross?

JB: Lean protein sounds gross?

Me: It doesn’t sound like chips and salsa, that’s all I’m saying.

JB: So, no to chicken and hardboiled eggs.

Me: Maybe to chicken. No to hardboiled eggs.

JB: Noted.

JB: What are you binging on Netflix right now?

Me: Everything. I think I’ve been through them all, and now I don’t know what to do with myself. Which is why I subscribed to Hulu.

JB: It sounds like you have a procrastination problem.

Me: It’s genetic. My sister has the same affliction. She’s a solid C+ student like I am. We’re basically winning at colleging.

JB: Is she at Iowa, too?

Me: No, she goes to small private university in Missouri. Our parents are so proud of their mediocre students. Every semester they send us newspaper clippings of the dean’s list.

JB: Why?

Me: Because we’re never on it. It’s my dad’s idea of a sick joke, although my brother more than made up for it. He’s the only one who ever got good grades without even trying.

JB: Do you get along with him?

Me: Yes, mostly. He’s…a riot. But he’s a pain in the ass, always up in our business.

JB: How?

Me: He lives in Iowa too—I’m actually from Indiana—and every once in a while he’ll “pop in” unexpectedly to check up on me. It’s so annoying.

JB: That sounds kind of cool.

Me: You haven’t met my brother.

JB: How old is he?

Me: Twenty-four. He thinks he’s thirty, and he thinks his shit doesn’t stink because he started his own company with his dumb friends. Now he knows everything about everything.

Me: What about you—any brothers or sisters?

JB: Me? Um, no.

Me: Dang, you’re lucky.

Me: I would trade my brother for a few dollar bills and a package of Tim Tams.

Okay, I really have to stop making stupid jokes at my brother’s expense. He might be a total, grade-A pain in my ass, but he’s a pretty decent guy, and he only butts into my life because he loves me.

I’m kind of impossible not to love and adore.

My siblings would throw up in their mouths if they heard me saying that, and then they’d both laugh in my face.

I smirk at my bedroom full of no one.

JB: So, I guess I should have asked you this last week—and sorry I didn’t message you over the weekend but I figured you were out of town, and I had that wrestling meet and I was just so fucking tired.

JB: I know it’s not the weekend, but do you wanna grab a drink or something this week? Like Wednesday?

Me: Wednesday?

My stomach actually gurgles—gurgles for God’s sake!—from nerves, a sensation way worse than any butterflies.

A date.

An actual date.

Ugh, I think I might be sick.

I want to say yes, but I’m chickenshit, no good at this dating business.

Just say no, my stomach thunders

Say yes, you idiot! my heart pounds.

Hesitate a little longer, my brain mocks.

JB: Or…not? A different day maybe?

Me: No. Wednesday works. What did you have in mind?

JB: Maybe just drinks. Keep it simple? That way…you know…

Me: If there’s no chemistry, we both have an easy out?

JB: LOL exactly.

But we’re going to have amazing chemistry, I just know it. I can feel it—look at how easy it is for us to talk. We haven’t had a single lull in the conversation, if you don’t count this weekend when he ghosted me.

I take a deep breath and go out on a limb.

Me: We’re not going to want an easy out. We won’t need it **wink**

JB: You don’t think so?

Me: No. I think we’re going to have fun. Don’t you?

JB doesn’t respond right away, and my stomach does another gurgle, this one filled with insecurity. Did I say something wrong? Was that too forward?

Did I come on too strong with the optimism? Shit, I really need to learn to be more pessimistic.

Some people hate positive people. Maybe he’s one of them, and if he is, we’re not a good match.

Finally, he messages me.

JB: What’s your drink of choice?

I have to give this one some serious thought, because I hate the taste of alcohol, and the first and last time I got drunk was my twenty-first birthday.

Me: Honestly? Iced tea? LOL

Me: What about you?

JB: Beer

Oh.

That one words leaves me oddly disappointed. For some reason I thought he’d say he wasn’t a big drinker either, but guess I was wrong.

My phone pings again.

JB: I like beer, but because of the carbs, I usually drink vodka.

Oh, great—the hard stuff. Even better.

Nothing would thrill me more than a boyfriend who probably outweighs me by a hundred pounds getting drunk at a bar on hard liquor and forcing me to figure out how to get his sloppy ass home.

No thanks.

Still. I’m putting the cart before the horse here; we haven’t gone out on a date, let alone gone out drinking.