“Uh-huh, sure I am. So, here it is. You’ve got like a thousand notifications already, but most of them are pretty old since you never really gave the thing a chance in the first place. Still,”––she turns the computer toward me––“it might be worth the effort of sorting through a few of these.”
There’s a blinking envelope in the top right corner of the screen. It’s stamped with a black bird silhouette across the front and grabs my attention right off the bat. Pointing to it, I ask, “What’s that?”
“Those are the private messages that possible suitors have sent you.”
“Suitors?” I laugh. “Are we in fifteenth-century England?”
“Maybe. Take a look.”
Her finger glides across the touchpad before clicking on the envelope where name after name is lined up in bold ink. Some of them have pictures beside the usernames, while others are a silhouette of a man with a question mark where a face should be.
“Why can’t I see their faces?” I ask.
“It’s one of the perks of the site. You can connect with someone before giving them access to your pictures so that you can see how well you fit emotionally before diving into the physical stuff. Make sense?”
“But what if they’re ugly?”
She snorts. “And I thought I was the superficial one.”
“Har, har.” I take a thick gulp of my grown-up grape juice, desperate for a little liquid courage before asking, “Okay, so…what are my privacy settings? Can people see my picture already, or is it hidden?”
“I think yours are shown, especially considering all of these notifications. You get more when you’re hot,” she clarifies with a wink. “But I’ll check in a few. Let’s focus on sorting out these message requests.”
Another groan claws its way up my throat, but I swallow it down with another chug of wine before diving in.
Well into my fourth glass, a familiar face with the username OD catches my attention. “Is that…?”
“No freaking way,” Skye gasps beside me, leaning closer to make sure she isn’t seeing things. “Looks like The Big O wants to connect.”
I shake my head, then pour my glass to the brim before chugging half of it down. My face wrinkles, but I shake it off. “No. No way.”
“Yes way.”
“He can’t honestly think he still has a chance, right?” I turn to Skye.
“Did he send a message too? Or just a buzz?”
My brows furrow. “A buzz?”
“You know, since it’s called the Birds and Bees app, you can buzz someone?”
My deer in the headlights look spurs her on.
“It’s kind of like a friend request or a poke on Facebook, but, ya know, classier,” she explains.
“So…he wanted to connect with me?”
“Yup. Ooo, look! There’s a message too! We should read it––”
I slam the laptop closed, narrowly missing her finger. With a yelp, she pulls her hand away before delivering a death glare.
“Hey!”
“Sorry,” I mutter, “I just…nope. I don’t wanna know what he has to say.”
“Not even a little bit?”
“Nope. No, thank you.”