Guilt eats at me that he seems to want to chat, that we went on a movie date and I never said a word about it. I had every opportunity to come clean when I walked through the door, and I didn’t say a peep.
Liar, liar, pants on fire…
Jack: You’d think I’d be in bed I’m so knackered, but I’d rather sit up and talk to you.
Jack: You have some interesting apps.
Me: HEY!!! DON’T BE NOSEY!!!
Jack: I’m sorry, mate, but what’s this dating app? Are you actually…
Me: JACK JONES PUT MY PHONE DOWN.
Yes I have dating apps, but I haven’t been on them in forever—maybe a few months? What single person doesn’t?!
I swear to God if he opens them, I will die.
Jack: This bloke Adam seems nice, and he’s only .01 miles away…
Me: DON’T YOU DARE START SWIPING OR I’ll…
Jack: Or you’ll what?
Me: Put an app on YOUR phone and start matching you with people.
Jack: Sounds fun. Go right ahead. I could use a wingman.
Is he serious?
Or is he calling my bluff?
Not to be outsmarted, I go to his app store, find the world’s most popular dating app, and download it onto his device.
Jack: I think your bio needs to be updated. Allow me.
That’s it.
I can’t take it anymore.
Punching in my own number, I call myself—or him—and raise the phone to my ear as it rings.
“Hallo?”
“I swear to God, Jack Jones…”
“Actually, it’s Dryden-Jones, but for you I’ll make an exception.”
“You’re not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be.”
“Leave my phone alone, would you? No screwing around on any of my apps.”
“Too late.” He yawns. “This is way too entertaining. Did you a favor and updated your bio—you can thank me later.”
“I’ll not be thanking you at all!” Is it just me, or do I sound a bit British?
“Hmm…looks like Adam is also interested in you, and there’s this chap Steve who looks like he’d crack on as well.”
“Fine. If you want to be that way, I’m going to create an account for you.”
“Goody. Perhaps we’ll match. I’ll watch for me and swipe if I see me.”
Huh?
I cannot tell when this guy is joking. Not sure if it’s his accent or his dull, bored tone that’s completely throwing me off, or something else.
He makes me nervous.
“Are you taking suggestions for my bio, or do you want me to be surprised?” he asks.
That makes me laugh. “You’re a dork.”
“A dork, hmm? Can’t say anyone has ever called me that. A dunce, maybe.”
“Dunce does sound more British than dork does.” I pause. “What did you change my description to?”
“I’m not telling, but it’s good—I’m very clever when I’m in the mood.”
God. He did not refer to himself as clever.
“Well,” I say at last, “I’m hanging up then so I can work on your account.”
Another yawn on the other end of the line. “You’re the one who called me, love. You hang up whenever you want.”
Ugh! “Were you this infuriating earlier tonight?”
“No. But I told you—I’m in the mood.”
“Good day, sir.”
I end the call with a heated poke to his cell screen then check to see that the dating app has completed downloading. Satisfied that it has, I go through the motions of setting up his account.
Name: JACK
Hmm. Maybe I should give him a nickname instead.
Name: KING OF CAMPUS
Much better and far more accurate.
Age?
Dang, not sure about that one, but I’m guessing he’s the same age as me.
Age: 20
Height?
Again, this I’m going to guess, estimating he is around six foot four—at least I’m pretty sure that’s what he told me at the coffee shop a few weeks ago—has zero children, and is from Great Britain. I tag a location and add a radius for searches, completing the basics for his profile. Now it’s on to adding photos, and I need up to six.
It feels slightly bizarre going into his photo gallery—like going through someone’s closet, or their desk, or their private things…but I immediately begin smiling when I see the first few photographs.
Pictures of Jack and a guy who is the spitting image of him.
This must be his brother, Ashley.
They could be twins, both of them tall and exceedingly handsome, although Ashley looks way more rugged—bit like a lumberjack, with dark tattoos peeking from beneath his shirt sleeves and over the collar of his shirt.
That can’t be normal for a British blue blood.
Give me a break, Eliza—what do you know about the aristocracy?
Zero things.
There are pictures of Jack on a horse, playing polo, about to take a whack at the ball that’s on the grass. More photographs of him at some party, more recent pictures of him at the rugby house laughing with his head tipped back.
I wonder who could have taken those…
He has a few selfies, but not many. Pictures of an older woman with dark hair twisted into a coif at the base of her neck. She’s wearing pearls and a button-down shirt tucked into a tweed pencil skirt.