Page 13 of Snatched
ELENA
The second I step onto the sidewalk outside the gym, my phone buzzes.
DATE GUY: Hey, sorry… something came up. Rain check?
I stare at the screen.
Something came up?
On a Tuesday night?
At eight p.m.?
What came up? A meteor?
I sigh and text back a polite, “Sure, no problem,” because I'm mature, stable, emotionally regulated, etc.
But inside?
I am already pre-exhausted by the modern dating landscape.
I call Harper before I even reach the subway entrance.
“Tell me everything,” she says.
“He canceled.”
“What? Girl, that’s the universe telling you you’re meant for someone hotter.”
I snort. “He was cute.”
“Eh. Did he have abs like your trainer?”
“Harper!”
“I’m just saying the quiet part out loud. Now get home and get on the apps. We’re fishing tonight.”
By the time I change into sweats and heat up leftover pasta, Harper is FaceTiming me with a glass of wine the size of a toddler.
“So,” she says, “show me the new prospects.”
I flop onto the couch. “This is sad.”
“This is self-care.”
“That’s a stretch.”
She grins. “Stretching is good for you. Swipe.”
So I do.
Swipe.
Swipe.
Immediate left.
A maybe.
