Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83358 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
@WafflesOverMen: This is what serotonin looks like.
I heart a few, even reply to one. Then I keep scrolling until another catches my eye.
@RealityCheckRenee: He’s way out of her league and we all know it.
The flare of anger within me burns hot and I have to restrain myself not to blast this person. Winnie didn’t, nor does she ever. I’ve seen the way she handles negativity, and that’s simply to ignore it.
She’s a better person than I am and without thinking about it, I respond: @RealityCheckRenee. You have it backward. She’s way out of mine.
“Fucking morons,” I mutter, and the old man turns around to glare at me. “Sorry.”
I continue the slow pedaling cool-down on the bike, and that’s when I get a new notification that @WinnieTheNotWild has posted.
I immediately tap on it, my heart beat speeding up when I see it’s a post-date debrief from her date with the other guy last night. I have no clue who the person was, where they were going or how it went. I haven’t talked to Winnie since breakfast and part of me doesn’t want to know.
Still, I peer at the screen as Winnie appears. She’s at home in her kitchen, hair pulled into a messy bun, no makeup, glasses on. She looks beautiful, but my stomach knots anyway.
“So, the experiment continues,” she says, as she scoops chocolate ice cream into a bowl, periodically glancing between it and the camera. “Tonight I went out for a drink with a very sweet guy named Nate.” My chest squeezes slightly that she thinks he’s sweet. “He’s a fourth grade teacher but at another school, drinks hot tea even in the summer, and has an encyclopedic knowledge of niche board games. Very normal in the best way.”
She smiles. Not the kind she gave me this morning, but it’s still… warm.
“He was thoughtful.” I hate him already. “Walked me to my car, didn’t talk over me, and like a gentleman, picked up the tab even though it was just two iced teas and some hummus.”
I pause the video.
Hummus?
I run a hand through my hair, drop my phone on the seat of the empty bike next to me, and mutter, “Board games and hummus. I’m going to lose her to Jeopardy Night.”
The thing is… I’m not mad. Not really. She told me up front she was going to keep dating. I encouraged it. But watching her talk about someone else like that—even if it wasn’t with the same energy she had with me—it stings. Because this guy? He’s normal. Predictable. Probably has a cat and records his TV shows. He’s everything she claims to want.
And no matter how many pancakes I buy her or how many laughs we share, I’ll never be that.
Still, I pick my phone back up and watch the rest of the video.
She ends it with a laugh. “Will I see him again? Maybe. But the experiment’s not over yet. Stay tuned.”
#NiceGuysFinishDates #TikTokDatingChallenge #NoHummusHate
I stare at the screen a long time after it fades to black. Fucking Nate restored her faith in men? What a tool.
Then, because I’m petty in the exact right way, I open the TikTok camera and hit stitch.
I replay her line: “He was thoughtful. Walked me to my car, didn’t talk over me, and even picked up the check…”
Then I cut in. “Shocking plot twist.” The old man looks at me again, this time curiously and I shoot him a quick wink. “I, too, walked you to your car, listened without interrupting and picked up the tab. But did he make you laugh, Winnie? The way I did? That’s the real question.”
I hit post. No hashtags.
Thirty seconds later, the comments start rolling in:
@ChaosGoblin420: We got ourselves a hummus war, folks.
@ButtermilkForPresident: Dump the teacher. Lucky is the real deal.
@ExistentialSpork: Be still my emotionally starved heart.
I smile despite myself, then hop off the stationary bike. I pick up a clean towel from a shelf and mop my face. Throwing it over my shoulder, I start walking back to my room where I intend to take a long shower and order room service breakfast.
On the way there, I pull up my contacts and hit call.
“Matty!” My mom’s voice comes through, warm and scratchy like always.
“Hey, Ma.”
“You okay? You never call me on game nights unless you’re injured or in love.”
I groan. “Jesus. Why are those your only two categories?”
“Because I know my son,” she replies dryly. “So, which is it?”
I rub a hand down my face as I step into the elevator, which is thankfully empty. “Neither,” I insist.
“Matteo,” she says, her tone warning that if I lie to her, she’s going to lay into me next time I see her.
She waits. My mom is good like that. She lets silence do the heavy lifting.
“There’s this girl,” I say finally.
“Winnie the Not So Wild,” my mom says, and well… of course, she’d know. She knows everything. “I love her channel.”