Page 13 of Two Guys, a Girl, and a Tripod

Miles makes dinner again, something he’s been doing since he moved in because “If you won’t let me pay rent, at least let me do something for you.” I’m not upset by it. He’s much better than I am and it’s healthierthan eating out every day.

When I walk out to the kitchen, he’s not there. There’s a chopping board with sliced red onions and a bag of burger buns sitting out, but nothing else. While I stand there, wondering where my best friend has disappeared to, the back door opens and Miles walks in holding a plate of cooked burgers.

“I wanted to fire up the grill,” says Miles with a shrug.

“Four?” I ask, looking down at the plate of cheese-covered patties.

“Protein, man. You saying you won’t devour two of ‘em?” He raises his eyebrows, setting the plate on the kitchen island.

“No one said that.”

“That’s right. It’s leg day tomorrow. Get the lettuce and the tomatoes out.” Miles points with the spatula toward the fridge. “Top shelf,” he adds when I open the door.

I grab the plate of tomato slices and the bag of washed lettuce. After setting them on the island, I turn back to find the pickles, mustard, and ketchup. Miles pulls plates from the cabinet and sets one at each of our usual stools at the kitchen island.

We work around each other to build our burgers. I avoid the tomatoes but go for the jar of pickle slices while Miles avoids the pickles with a face of disgust.

“How, man?” He asks the same question every time he sees me pile them onto my sandwiches and burgers, but I grin and pop a single one into my mouth. He shudders dramatically and sits at his spot. “I guesssomeoneneeds to eat my pickle.” He pauses and closes his eyes, not turning to face me. “I mean the pickles that come with my sandwiches.”

“Mmhmm.” I nod and take a bite of my burger. “I don’t swing that way,” I say with a mouthful. Something crosses Miles’ face that I can’t recognize.

I’m barely finished with my first burger when he pops the last bite of his second into his mouth. He stands and sets his plate in the sink.

“I’ll clean up.” I don’t know why I say it. It’s our system. He cooks, I do the dishes.

“Thanks, I’ve gotta get back to work.” He practically runs back toward his studio.

I take my time with the second burger, sitting with my thoughts. I haven’t openedKinkRinksince I posted the photo, afraid of what comments I might get. I don’t have the notifications on, so I have no idea if anyone even reacted at all. The consultation on Friday–Moira didn’t correct me when I called it that–looms like a storm cloud in my mind. I have never liked pulling focus in a room and now, not only will Miles be there, but I invited my sister.

Fucking idiot.

I finish the burger, still swallowing when I stand and take my plate to rinse it off in the sink. I clear the burger toppings, saving the excess, and bring the cutting board and knife over to rinse off. I finish the rest of the cleanup quickly. Easiest cleanup in weeks. Miles gets to clean the grill.

Instead of returning to my room, I sit on the couch and open up Netflix, looking for something to take my mind off of my impending doom. Nothing. I go through the different apps on the TV, but nothing jumps out at me. I switch to the movies and shows I digitally own, hoping something familiar will be enough.

I land onParks and Rec. As the episode starts, I bite the bullet, unable to wait any longer. I pull my phone from my pocket and open upKinkRink. Sixty-seven notifications await me and I notice my inbox has a little dot next to it too. My hands feel clammy as I tap the notification button.

People liked the photo, I see. It’s not even impressive, but fifty-three of the notifications are just people havinglikedit. They actually went and clicked the little heart below the photo to show some love. Another dozen notifications show that people followed my profile. Finally, the last two are comments.

A necklace?What does that even mean?

A smile spreads across my lips at the responses, even if one of the comments is unintelligible. I click the heart icon to ‘like’ both of them and click on the envelope icon for my inbox. Six messages await me.

One is a man asking if I’ll fuck his wife. Nope, deleting that bad boy.

Another is a woman whose profile says she’s located in England. She’s traveling to the US and wants to hook up. Also no. Even if she wanted more, I’m not doing long distance.

A second woman tells me she wants to ride me into the sunset. That makes me crack another smile, but there’s no way I could contend with that level of confidence.

Another man, but this one wants me to- Nope, can’teven finish reading that one.

Another woman who only says one word in greeting. Since I don’t have anything to go off of and her profile is emptier than mine, I ignore it. I don’t want to be rude, but if I’m going to force myself to interact with people, I’d like to be able to do my research.

The last message just has an emoji with no photo and no gender even listed. Yep, that’ll get a response. I see what Miles means about no one interacting with profiles that have no photos.

I shake my head while Leslie Knope starts up her well-meaning shenanigans and decide to start on my homework. Since I’m not sure where to begin, I explore the site. There are groups I can join, some focused on specific kinks, some on locations, and a variety of other things.

There’s one calledLos Angeles LTR. The group description tells me it’s for people looking for long-term relationships. I decide to join and start scrolling through the discussion posts. Many of these people don’t actually seem like they’re looking for a relationship, but what do I know?

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