When Sparks Fly

Now that the hobbyhorse awards dinner is over, the three of us are gathered in the office, eating leftovers and engaging in a post-date debrief.

“But he was so hot.” London pops an olive into her mouth.

“And that, sadly, is all he has going for him. At least one of us has had success with this app.” I pull up Brock’s profile on IG since he made sure I followed him within two minutes of sitting down. Then he proceeded to go through every single photo and explain, in painstaking detail, how much time, effort, and energy went into training to become as physically perfect as he proclaimed himself to be. I set my phone on the table facing my sisters, presenting them with the glory of everything Brock Stone. Shirtless, muscle-popping wonder with the intellectual capacity of a gnat. “If I’d had all the necessary information, I could have done the requisite social media check pre-date and avoided wasting my time.”

Even as we were walking out to our respective cars, Brock continued to regale me with his impressive lifting stats. We split the bill, although he didn’t seem to think leaving a tip was necessary, so I went ahead and padded mine to make up for it.

Harley and London pore over his profile, scrolling through his pictures, both wearing matching unimpressed expressions. There are a lot of pictures. Of him. Posing in front of the mirrors at the gym. There are also a few pictures of food, but otherwise it’s selfie central.

“Yeesh, I’ve never seen a guy do the duck face before. It’s…”

“A lot like Blue Steel?” I supply.

“Exactly!” Harley covers her mouth with her palm and snorts a laugh.

“I’m so sorry I encouraged you to go out with him.” London slides the phone back to me, and I drop it in my purse.

“Eh, it could’ve been worse. I have to admit it was fascinating to count the number of times he looked at his own reflection in the window. By the end of the date, he’d checked himself out a hundred and seventy times.”

“That’s beyond excessive.” Harley looks appropriately shocked.

“Do you want to hear the best part?”

“Best as in worst?” London asks.

“He invited me back to his place and seemed legitimately surprised when I said no. Like, he was honestly dumbfounded and asked me three times if I was sure I didn’t want to go home with him.”

“No!” London and Harley say at the same time.

“Oh yes, and then he told me I’d be missing out on a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and asked whether I wanted to reconsider.”

Harley leans forward in her chair. “What did you say?”

“That I appreciated his offer, but losing out on that once-in-a-lifetime opportunity was a risk I was willing to take.”

London arches one perfect eyebrow. “I feel like that wasn’t the end of it.”

“You would be absolutely correct.” I lean back in my chair, remembering how confused he seemed. “He told me I shouldn’t send mixed messages and that my dress was a green light for a good time.”

“He did not.” London slaps the table, rattling the charcuterie board, causing a loose grape and several chocolate-covered almonds to roll off. She covers them with her hand before they can do a swan dive over the edge of the table. “Please tell me you told him off. You had to have told him where to go. There is absolutely no way you would ever let someone say something like that to you and get away with it. And that dress isn’t a green light for anything but looking sexy. And since when is it a crime to have great legs and a fabulous, toned body?” She huffs indignantly.

I love London. People who don’t know her well sometimes think she’s pretentious, or maybe even a bit stuck-up, but in reality, she’s full of fire and incredibly protective. She likes to keep things close to the vest, and as a result, she’s a bit more reserved than me or even Harley. Being the middle child of three girls puts her in a weird position. She’s always been a pleaser and a mediator. If our parents suggested an after-school activity, she would sign up. If I wanted to play soccer after school, she’d come outside and stand in as the goalie, even though she doesn’t like playing sports. And if Harley wanted to play babysitter, it was always London who’d play the child. She was always happy to step into whatever role was needed. And she was always there to stand up for us, just like she is now.

“Of course I told him off, not that it made an impact. I honestly think this guy had three brain cells to rub together and all of them were on vacation.”

“Are you going to try again?” Harley asks, slathering goat cheese on a cracker and topping it with a sliced fresh fig. “Obviously not with Brock the Rock, but someone else? Maybe London and I can help vet someone new and not base it solely on the fact that he’s hot and plays sports.”