Page 71 of People We Meet on Vacation

“Not my type,” he says.

“Hokay. Moving on.”

He rejects a rock climber, a Hooters waitress, a painter, and a hip-hop dancer with a body to rival Alex’s own.

“Alex,” I say. “I’m beginning to think the problem lies not with the bio but with the biographer.”

“They’re just not my type,” he says. “And I’m definitely not theirs.”

“How do you know that?”

“Look,” he says. “Here. She’s cute.”

“Oh mygod, you’ve got to be kidding me!”

“What?” he says. “You don’t think she’s pretty?”

The strawberry blonde smiles up at me from behind a polished mahogany desk. Her hair is clipped back into a half ponytail and she’s wearing a navy blue blazer. According to her bio, she’s a graphic designer who loves yoga, sunshine, and cupcakes. “Alex,” I say. “She’s Sarah.”

He rears back. “This girl looks nothing like Sarah.”

I snort. “I didn’t say she looks like Sarah”—though she does—“I said sheisSarah.”

“Sarah’s a teacher, not a graphic designer,” Alex says. “She’s taller than this girl and her hair is darker and her favorite dessert is cheesecake, not cupcakes.”

“They dress exactly the same. They smile exactly the same. Why do all guys want girls who look like they’re carved out of soap?”

“What are youtalkingabout?” Alex says.

“I mean, you had no interest in all those cool, sexy girls and then you see this wannabe kindergarten teacher and she’s the first person you even consider. It’s just... typical.”

“She’s not a kindergarten teacher,” he says. “What do you have against this girl?”

“Nothing!” I say, but it doesn’t sound like it’s true, even to me. I sound annoyed. I open my mouth, hoping to walk my reaction back a little, but that’s not what happens at all. “It’s not the girl. It’s—it’sguys. You allthinkyou want a sexy, independent hip-hop dancer, but when that person appears in front of you, when she’s a real person, she’s too much and you’re not interested and you’ll go for the cute kindergarten teacher in the turtleneck every time.”

“Why do you keep saying she’s a kindergarten teacher?” Alex cries.

“Because she’s Sarah,” I blurt out.

“I don’t want to date Sarah, okay?” he says. “And also Sarah teaches ninth grade, not kindergarten. Andalso,” he goes on, picking up steam, “you talk a big game, Poppy, but I guarantee that when you’re on Tinder, you’re swiping right for firefighters and ER surgeons and professional fucking skateboarders, so no, I don’t feel bad for homing in on women who look like they’re probably sweet—and toyou, yes, maybe a little bit boring—because it doesn’tseem to have occurred to you that maybe women like you thinkI’mboring.”

“Fuckthat,” I say.

“What?” he says.

“I said, fuck that!” I repeat. “I don’t think you’re boring, so that whole argument fails.”

“We’re friends,” he says. “You wouldn’t swipe right on me.”

“I would too,” I say.

“You would not,” he argues.

And here’s my chance to let it go, but I’m still too fired up, too annoyed to let him think he’s right about this.

“I. Would.”

“Well, I would for you too,” he retorts, like somehow this is all some sort of argument.

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