Page 65 of Mark my Words

It’d been months since I’d even opened it, but I did have a Tinder account. I’d only gone on two dates with women on there, and both had been mediocre. We were at that awkward age where most chicks wanted too much commitment or none. I’d stopped trying to be a mind reader, and then Kristine had fallen into my lap.

Maybe they were right, though. If things with Kristine fell apart, it would be a good place to try to get back out there. It’d make my mom happy if I finally settled down. I just wasn’t sure where to even find dating material anymore. Bar chicks were either too young or too desperate, dating apps had turned into hook-up apps, my work schedule didn’t leave too much time for hobbies, and my lacrosse league was for men. Maybe I did need to put myself out there more.

But I hesitated to try when I didn’t know where things were headed with my job. I’d never expected the last few months to take the turn they had when Adrian dropped that editing collab in my lap, much less getting to know Kristine the way that I had. Which also meant I didn’t know where my romantic life was heading either.

The rest of the night, I was distracted. Half listening to conversations, avoiding eye contact with women on the dance floor, and checking my phone to see if I had any text messages.

By the time I got home, I was ready to say fuck it all.

Taylor and Caleb were missing from their usual perch in their armchairs, the apartment dark and quiet. Grabbing a bottle of water from the fridge, I headed to my room and threw myself face down on the bed, wishing I had more answers.

I didn’t want to seem like a whiny bitch, but this does she, doesn’t she crap was really getting on my nerves. It wasn’t Kristine’s fault, she had just as much going on as I did, but I hated being stuck in limbo. I was also horny as fuck when I was drunk, and my hand wasn’t going to cut it.

I unlocked my phone screen on a whim, tapping the little flame icon and waiting for my phone to re-download the Tinder app. It wouldn’t hurt to see if there was anything else out there. As she’d repeatedly reminded me, Kristine wasn’t my girlfriend, and I needed to stop acting like that.

After it loaded, I absently pressed the little x icon, comparing every woman who appeared to Kristine.

Too blonde. Nope.

Too skinny. Nope.

Too much makeup. Nope.

Obviously too into themselves. Nope.

After nixing about fifty women, I was zoning out as a side profile picture popped up that made me lose my breath.

The screen read:

Kris, 24

Don’t waste your time if you’re just looking for a quick fling. Himbos and idiots need not apply. If you need to ask, you are one.

It had her interests listed as reading, running, and comedy.

The sarcasm and scathing insults part of the comedy routine she had down pat. There were only two pictures on her account—both profile shots taken from the side—with her hair shielding half of her face in the first, and she had a book held up over half of her face in the second, but I knew it was her. When had she done this?

Hesitating for a fraction of a second, I clicked the blue star icon, watching as the photo was stamped with a Super Like. We’d see if I got a reaction out of that. I wasn’t sure if she even used the app but I felt like it was some sort of signal that maybe I shouldn’t give up yet.

KRISTINE

CAPE CO

As the ferry slowed and turned into the harbor at Provincetown, I quickly closed the cover on my tablet and stashed it inside my messenger bag. I’d brought a small duffel for my trip, not bothering with a suitcase since I was only here for a short visit.

There was still a month until peak tourist season started, so there were only a handful of other people on the first ferry, most choosing to take in the sights of the trip from the upper deck. I’d opted for a quiet corner of the boat’s interior, using the time to catch up on my emails and make sure all the files I needed to work on were still functional. I knew that Nana’s internet service could be spotty from past trips, but I still needed to have work access if I needed it.

Isobel had been vague about when they planned to send us the manuscript trials. I didn’t want to risk missing it and end up being days behind the other candidates, especially since I had to mark up two manuscript samples.

After half the impatient passengers had filed off the gangplank and onto the long pier that took you into Provincetown, I made my way behind them, heading for the taxi stands. Nana’s house was tucked into a cove further down the peninsula, just south of Chatham. It’d been in her family for several generations, undergoing a large restoration when I was in my teens, and she’d begun to spend more time down here, away from the city.

Once my grandfather had passed away, she didn’t feel the need to keep up the façade of a dutiful society wife, deciding that spending her days lunching with the ladies and chairing various philanthropies were too politically driven for her tastes.

It only took about ten minutes to be tucked inside a local taxi and headed down Highway 6. I could have easily taken a chartered flight from Boston to the small airport near where she lived, but something was calming about the drive from Provincetown to Chatham. The roads alternated between winding through some quaint little New England villages and stretches of marshland. The Cape Cod National Seashore a calming natural beauty within view out the window for most of the trip.

The taxi driver wasn’t a talker, which I appreciated— I often used car rides to get work done—but I kept my bag tucked in my lap and just enjoyed the mid-morning sunshine and the fact that this road wasn’t crowded with tourists yet.

The drive took over an hour, the taxi finally stopping on the gravel drive that wrapped along the rear part of Nana’s property.

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