Page 14 of Pity Present

“Ouch.” I don’t ask any follow up questions and wait to see if Kyle divulges anything else on his own. He does.

“We were together for a year and a half when we went on vacation to the Bahamas. I brought along an engagement ring.” Closing his eyes, he shakes his head and inhales deeply. On the exhale, he opens them. “I mean, is there anything more romantic than getting engaged on a tropical beach at sunset?”

“I can’t think of anything,” I tell him. Although halftime at a Bulls game on the Jumbotron pops into my brain.

“I thought we were forever, man. I really did.”

“What happened with her and the other guy?” I realize this might be an intrusive question, but I’m curious.

“They got married last month. Which is the reason I booked myself on this excursion. I figure, I could either continue to sit around and feel sorry for myself or I could pick up the pieces of my shattered heart and start over.”

If Kyle wrote his story on paper, he’d have a country western song. All he’d need to add is a broken-down pickup truck and a mutt with gout. “So, you thought a matchmaker was the way to go?”

He shrugs. “I’ve never tried it before and nothing else has worked, so I figured, why not?” Then he asks, “Are you on vacation with your family?”

“I’m actually here for the same singles’ thing you are,” I tell him, feeling like a world-class phony.

“Really?” He sounds so excited I can only surmise that misery really does love company. The only thing is, I’m not miserable.

“Yup,” I tell him. “I just moved back to Chicago from LA and I figured this was the perfect way to get back into the Midwestern dating scene.” More like the perfect way to keep my job so I can finally do what I moved to Chicago to do—write about sports.

“Is dating in Los Angeles a lot different than dating here?”

“LA is generally thought of as its own planet,” I tell him truthfully. “There’s no other place on earth where out of shape, fifty-year-old men think it’s their due to date twenty-year-old swimsuit models.”

Kyle’s face contorts in disgust. “Do the women really go for guys like that?”

“If the men profess to be producers they do. LA is the land of bartering your body for career advancement.”

“Dude, that’s so gross,” he says. Although part of him looks intrigued. “What’s keeping everyone from pretending to be something they’re not?”

“I guess some people have morals. Also, smart women will look up potential suitors on IMDB to confirm their identities. Although, drunk ones at random parties often find out the truth too late.”

His expression is priceless: revolted, with a side ofI wonder if that would work for me?

“Did you ever do that?” he wants to know.

“No way,” I tell him. Then, for emphasis, I add, “Not only am Inota predator, but I want to date women who are interested in the real me.” Which, of course, is another reason I can’t pursue anything with Molly. She can’t know who I am until this event is over.

His chin lifts in agreement. “I guess the teenager in me got a little excited at the prospect of being a hot ticket.”

“Yeah, but that stuff doesn’t last.” Even though none of my relationships have gone the distance, I console myself that at least I’ve never been a sleaze bucket.

“How did you find out about this event?” he wants to know.

“I heard about it at work. I’m a barista.” While that’s notcurrentlytrue, I did work at a coffee chain for two years while I was getting my sports-writing career off the ground.

“You moved back to Chicago to make coffee?”

“I’m working on a novel,” I tell him. “The coffee gig pays the bills.”

“You can make enough as a barista to support yourself in Chicago?”

Letting the lies pile up, I tell him, “My folks have a small apartment in the city for when they come into town to shop or see a show.” Now I’m making myself sound like I’m a Rockefeller or something.

“That’s cool,” he says. “I’m a lawyer.”

“I guess you can afford a fancy place then.”

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