Page 34 of How to Win the Girl

Don’t get me wrong, most of the time, she’s fine, and we get along, but other nights, she nitpicks everything because…well, I have no idea why.

“I don’t talk like I’m forty, but if I do, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

She rolls her eyes but still seems interested in the dating app. “How many other people are you talking to? You know—guys you actually have a chance with.”

Ouch.

Why would she say it like that?

So rude.

I glance at the clock on the kitchen wall, willing Stella to walk through the door from the nannying job she has twice a week for extra cash.

She’s totally into this online dating thing, is supportive and not a grump about it the way Gabby is.

I should mention at this point that Gabby has a girlfriend, so I have no idea why she wouldn’t want me to be happy, too. Although I’m not sure how happy she actually is.

Not with her shitty attitude.

“How many guys am I talking to? A few.” No one that I love bantering back and forth with the way I enjoy bantering with Drew, but I’m sure I’ll get there. Just have to keep swiping away and hope the odds are in my favor.

“It’s a numbers game,” Stella once told me. “Basically like gambling, only it’s people, not money. Eventually, you hit the jackpot if you play long enough.”

The thing is, I suck at math and gambling and cannot count myself out of a paper bag, so if dating is indeed a numbers game, I’m screwed.

“Be careful,” she warns. “There are a lot of creeps out there.”

“Don’t I know it,” I mutter, squatting a bit so I can see into the oven where the pizza has barely begun cooking, the frozen disk of cheese and pepperoni still at least ten minutes from gooey deliciousness. Pizza of the frozen variety isn’t my first choice, but I don’t exactly have the cash to shell out twenty-five bucks for a fresh one, delivered.

Once Gabby loses interest in me and vanishes to the far recesses of the house to her bedroom, I heave a sigh and plop down at the kitchen table to do what I’ve been doing every day for the past few days: flipping through the dating app.

There is no one new. I keep seeing the same guys, over and over on a loop, the app presenting them to me like they’re new prospects when in fact I’ve seen Kyle, 23, at least four times already and swiped NO on him.

Swipe.

Swipe.

“Oh. Who is this now?”

I hold the phone up to my good eye to inspect this new candidate for the Love of My Life, throwing caution to the wind and swiping YES on Travis, 19. Sure, he’s two years younger and most likely a freshman, but it cannot hurt to at least chat him up.

Age isn’t anything but a number.

Won’t know until I know.

Roughly thirty-five seconds after I swipe on Travis and we match, a notification pops up that he’s messaged me. Red flag? Possibly. Or he’s at home the same way I am with his phone attached to his palm.

I click it open.

Travis:Hey beautiful, what are you up to?

Hey beautiful?

Is it wrong that his greeting makes me want to gag in my mouth?

Me:Aw, I bet you say that to all the girls.

Because he probably does.

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