Page 1 of Dating Mr. Right A Collection
Lucky Suit
ABOUT
I’m breaking up with set-ups. No more “can I introduce you to my son, nephew, grandson, the butcher, the guy down the street who mows my lawn.” Machines know what’s best, and I’ll rely on the great dating algorithms of the web to find the ideal man, thank you very much.
Soon enough, it looks like I’ve found him — his nickname is Lucky Suit, and he’s hilarious, quick-witted and full of heart. But when I finally get together with him in person, I have the distinct feeling I’ve met him before.
Turns out there’s more to our meeting than I had thought, and when we discover what truly brought us together, all bets are off.
1
Kristen
I’ll tell Grams as soon as I see her.
I’ll break the news to her and then explain why my new plan is the logical one.
First, though, I adjust the aperture on my telescope, and one of my favorite sights comes into view. The Andromeda Galaxy is such a show-off tonight, and nothing beats that billion-star galaxy. It’s all yummy and triumphant in the sky, as if it’s saying to the Milky Way, “I’m coming to get you in four and a half billion years.”
I’m savoring the view, because the night sky rocks, when I hear footsteps.
“Tell me what?”
I startle, yank my eyes away from the telescope, and stare at my grandma, who’s snuck out on the balcony we share, since her condo is right next to mine. “Were you here the whole time?”
She quirks up her lips in a gotcha grin. She is so good at that. She could teach a master class in giving that grin to grown granddaughters.
“Long enough to hear you had something to tell me.”
“I said that out loud?” I shove my glasses up the bridge of my nose.
She parks her hands on her hips, still fabulous in her skinny jeans at seventy-five. Dear God, may I please have her genes, with a capital G? “Yes. So . . . spill. What do you have to tell me? You car-napped my Mustang and did donuts in the 7-Eleven lot last night? You borrowed my new Louboutins without asking? Or you’re selling your half of this Key Biscayne duplex because you feel guilty about the way you cramp my style?”
“One, you don’t own Louboutins. You shop for shoes at Payless, and don’t deny it. Two, it’s a Corvette, not a Mustang. You can’t trick me on that count either. And three, I can totally handle the way I cramp your style.” I add a saucy finger snap for effect.
“You take after me way too much,” she says, laughing. Her tone softens, the sass stripped away. “Seriously, what do you need to tell me?”
I take a deep breath. “Sit.”
“Uh-oh.”
I point to the table where I left my tablet. I swipe across the screen, opening it to an email I wrote earlier.
Dear Mr. O’Leary,
Please accept this letter as notice that I will be resigning from our third date, effective immediately.
Thank you for the compliments, the cup of coffee (really, that was some seriously great joe), and the chance to chat for forty-six minutes after we learned how to coagulate cheese. You are a fine man and will likely prove to be an exemplary partner for a mate someday.
If I can do anything to help with your transition in finding and training my replacement, please let me know. I feel it’s only right to tell you that I am officially 100 percent done with IRL dating. So it is with utmost honesty that I say, it’s not you. It’s definitely me.
Sincerely,
Kristen Leonard
I look up to see the side-eye.
Wait. That’s not the side-eye. That’s the you-can’t-be-serious eye.
Then it morphs into the doubled-over-in-laughter hoot.
And I maintain my best oh-so-stoic face.
“What?” I feign confusion. “Is it because I didn’t spell out IRL? He’ll know what it means, right? Was I too internet-y? That’s totally possible.” I play up my innocence, like little ole me made an etiquette faux pas. “Sometimes I get caught up in the lingo. I can just spell it out. You want me to spell it out?”
She fans her face like she can restore the oxygen she lost from her laughing fit. “Training a replacement? It was only two dates.”
“Two dates too many.” I straighten my shoulders. “And I thought I should be considerate in sending a breakup letter. Establish a new standard, if you will.”
One eyebrow climbs. She studies me quizzically, scanning my long brown hair, my green eyes, my freckles as if she’s never seen me before, then her eyes narrow. “Wait. I’m onto you. Did you simply google resignation letters?”
I let my smile spread. It’s not often I can pull a fast one on her, and it’s glorious. “Gotcha.”
Her lips quirk up, and she wags a finger. “You little prankster. I thought for sure you were going to send this.”
