I blink. “I don’t?”
She smiles as we turn the corner. “It’s cute. He probably has a niece or a daughter.”
I groan abjectly. “Ugh. He’s married.”
“Hello? Have you heard of this thing called divorce? Divorced men have kids. You can date a divorced man. You are a divorced woman.”
“I am?”
She rolls her eyes. “Stop it. You’re putting on your armor because you don’t want to get hurt again. You’re looking for excuses. But sometimes you have to dive in and wade through the dating pool.”
I shoot her a hard stare. “You literally just name-checked our website in your argument on why I should consider this guy.”
“I did. Clever, huh? So, date the hot divorcé.”
“I’m not dating him. That’s my point. We had a moment. A fantastic, fiery, flirty moment that was veering this close to something more.” I hold up my thumb and forefinger, showing a sliver of space between them. “I practically served myself up on a silver platter. I had ‘ask me out’ in neon on my forehead.” Then I shrug. “But he got a call, and we didn’t exchange numbers, and I’m not going to go haunt Your Little Loves every day at ten in the morning in case he returns. Thus, there is no dating pool to dive into with this guy.”
We reach the conference room, a visual reminder of my to-do list. It’s a list I thoroughly enjoy, since making this site sing is my passion.
I say hi to the writers, editors, and designers who make The Dating Pool one of the most trafficked relationship and lifestyle sites on the web.
After quick hellos and what-are-you-up-tos, we segue to business and review the newest columns, lists, tips, and articles, including the eye-contact piece.
Then it’s time for Idea Palooza. I nod at everyone gathered around the conference table: Teagan; chestnut-haired Rosario, an eager junior editor; dimpled Matthew, a clever senior writer who edits my pieces; hawk-eyed Quentin in graphic design, whose analytical eye is crucial for our success; and baby-faced James, who’s young, brilliant, and sassy.
“So, talk to me,” I say, “What are your ideas for new pieces? What do we want to work on next?”
For the next thirty minutes, the team brainstorms, and we pick our most promising ideas to pursue.
“I have a concept for a piece,” Rosario chimes in with a hint of her Puerto Rican accent, tapping a pen against her lip, then sitting up straighter.
“Hit me,” I say.
“There’s a new app that’s all the rage. Like when Missed Connections on Craigslist was in vogue?” Her big brown eyes canvas the room. More than half of us sigh wistfully.
“Those were the best,” Matthew says, bringing a hand to his flannel-covered heart. Our top writer puts the “lumberjack” in “lumberjack look.” “Or like those PostSecrets where people would mail in confessions on postcards. I could read those all day.”
Across the table, Quentin’s dark eyes sparkle with mischief, and the graphic designer leans in closer, whispering, “Same here. What’s better than a peek at everyone’s dirty secrets?”
“Exactly,” Matthew agrees. “Missed Connections on Craigslist is the same. Seeing all the near-misses and almost-chances that happen every day, all the times people should have met but didn’t. My boyfriend and I used to speculate whether they found each other, and what might have happened on their first dates.”
“That’s a fun pastime.” I smile, picturing it myself. “Daydreaming that the cute guy from the ice cream shop looks for you and imagining how it would go. Would you bond over the potato-chip-and-chocolate-chunk swirl, or would one of you love the strawberry fennel and the other obsess over the marshmallow mint?”
Matthew’s brow knits. “No one obsesses over marshmallow mint. Also, are you speaking from experience? Is there someone you once had an ice cream shop moment with?”
James whips his gaze to me. “Was that back in the days when you dated without apps, Bryn? Also, how did you handle all that . . .” He flaps his hand like he’s hunting for words he doesn’t know. “All that weird IRL stuff? I just don’t get it.”
“It was the dark ages,” I deadpan. “We barely made it through. Thank God Tinder lets old people like me sign up.”
James stretches an arm across the table to pat my hand. “You’re not that old.”
I narrow my eyes. “You do know I’m thirty-two? And your boss?”
He laughs. “Like I said, you’re not that old.”
“And to answer your question, yes, it’s an example from real life. Last summer, I chatted with a guy at Sweet Nothings in Soho over the absurdity of ice cream flavors, and I remember thinking he’d have been fun to talk to more. I had a fleeting wish that I’d found a way to get his number, or that he’d asked for mine,” I admit.
The site is about relationships, and we talk openly about dating—personally, not just editorially. It’s always been refreshing.
