Dear Single Dad,
Well, that does explain the lunch box purchase.
Also, I’d been hoping you’d want a mojito. Here is my number. I’m free Sunday night.
From,
Fan of Snoopy
I smile as I reread it, and then tap her number into my phone. She’s quick, to the point, and direct. Makes me wonder if we’d be up-front in other ways. If I can be direct with her too.
I waste no time with her number.
I switch to my text app and send a message.
Logan: Hey . . . this is Logan. Sunday night would be great. The mojitos are insanely good at Gin Joint in Chelsea. Is seven a good time to meet? Also, I’m glad you found my post.
In seconds, a reply arrives from a 917 number.
Unknown: By the way, I’m Bryn. Insanely good mojitos sound like a perfect end to the weekend.
I add her name to the number and start a reply, when another message comes through from her.
Bryn: Also, I’m not sure if you saw it, but I posted too. Thought you might like to know that.
Whoa.
I sit up straighter, return to Made Connections, and hunt through the new posts, sifting through dozens until one makes me laugh.
Looking for Mr. Lunch Box.
I read it, smiling the whole time. Damn, if I’d known the key to meeting a woman like her was random chance, well, I’d have pursued a random chance sooner.
Logan: Since we discussed the value of fun, let me say this—Sunday night sounds like a lot of fun.
Bryn: It absolutely does.
I read her texts one more time, then her reply on the app. Yeah, she seems like a Bryn.
Bryn is sexy, confident, witty.
And Bryn is my date on Sunday night.
I toggle to my text app one more time, sending a group text to Oliver, Fitz, and Summer.
Logan: Guess who’s not pathetic anymore? She replied. I’m seeing her Sunday night.
Fitz: Miracles do happen.
I set down my phone when my daughter speeds into the living room, wearing her Snoopy pj’s and swinging her new lunch box. “Daddy, I have been writing letters to my favorite authors, including this author who tells stories about superhero cats, because I want her to give the cats some new superpowers. Like flying. Do you want to read it before bed?”
“I absolutely do.”
She climbs onto the couch next to me and parks herself in my lap, then proceeds to read her letter about flying cats and invisible ones too.
After, we hunt down the author’s mailing address, pop the letter into an envelope, and make plans to mail it tomorrow.
At last, Amelia slides under the covers, yawns, and falls asleep in seconds.
I say good night, leave her room, and work for a few more hours on the couch. The trade is worth a late night of work.
Worth it for the extra time with Amelia.
I savor every second of my weekend with my kid, and when she returns to her mom on Sunday evening, it’s my turn to do something I’ve only done a handful of times since my divorce became final two years ago.
Go on a date.
Maybe, just maybe, this missed connection with Bryn will be a charm.
Maybe it’ll be everything I’ve been lacking, not just since my marriage ended, but since before it ended too.
A man can hope.
A man can dream.
I shower, pull on jeans and a Henley, grab my phone, and head to Gin Joint in Chelsea.
I scan the place, but she’s not here yet. As soon as I ask the hostess for a table in the lounge, though, I hear the click of boots behind me. The hair on my neck tingles.
