Saudade

“Quincy Jones, I can’t believe you.”

Quincy has finally lost her damn mind. I know she has, because if she hadn’t, we wouldn’t be parked in front of a brick building with a very obnoxious, SPEED DATING TONITE 6-10, banner hung from its’ second story window. But since we’re here, I know she has. I knew this would happen one day. It's all the damn tofu and gluten-free food she's been eating lately.

I’m okay. Just because I cried a little, didn’t answer Luke’s calls or texts, and may have left him a very strongly worded drunk voicemail where I may or may have not told him to shove a prickly cactus somewhere where the sun didn't shine and that I never wanted to see him ever again, Quincy thinks that I’m in a rut and that I need to meet someone else. She keeps insisting that it was a big misunderstanding - Luke doesn’t want to see anyone but me because he really likes me (or something) but what I saw on Friday night really does beg to differ - and that I should give him another chance, but I don’t care about how great she thinks he is. He stood me up and had the nerve to bring some other girl to where we were supposed to meet up and thought that there wasn’t anything wrong with that.

He didn't even say he was sorry.

“You leave me no other choice. I’m sorry, Maisie! I just - I hate seeing you be so unhappy,” she frowns, pouting as she pushes some of her black hair behind her ears.

“Who said I’m unhappy?”

Even if I really am unhappy, she doesn’t have to worry about that - she’s got the wedding and Ryan and all these other things to think about. And even if we are friends, right now I should be the least of her concerns. She looks at me plainly, sighing as she locks the car with her black beeper on her lanyard full of odd little key chains that Ryan bought for her (it was one of their weird inside jokes).

“C’mon, you.”

“You’re coming? What about Ryan?” She slips her engagement ring off and into her purse, smiling as she wriggles her eyebrows at me.

“What Ryan doesn’t know won’t hurt him. And I’m doing recon for you, if he asks.” She winks, giggling as she loops her arm with mine. “It won’t be that bad.”

Speed dating wasn’t bad. It wasn’t terrible or awful.

It was a pure unholy disaster and mess of sweaty hands, awkward men whose voices cracked and who apparently didn’t understand how to use a shower or really even have any sense of basic hygiene. I never want to do this ever again. Why did I even agree to it in the first place? I want to throw up at the end of it all. The night is officially a bust. I didn’t even meet anyone. Not one single guy that I actually liked, anyway. Not even like romantically. Just as a friend or a person, even. I felt uncomfortable even going at all, and maybe that stopped me from finding someone, but either way, I don’t care. At least the night is finally over.

Quincy and I go out for dinner, most of which I spend sulking and making faces because I’m angry that I had to waste my entire, perfectly good evening on some weird creeps because Quincy felt I was in a rut. Which I totally wasn’t.

When we get home, Ryan’s waiting for us in the living room. Because, of course, Ryan feels that it’s okay to just let himself in since Quincy lives there. And it’s not like it bothers me, because it doesn’t, but it does bother me when he rifles through my cabinets and then lectures me on ‘free radicals’ and all the junk that’s in my junk food. He thinks that since he’s a health nut, everyone needs to be too. Quincy likes to eat healthy too, but that was before she met Ryan. And she wasn’t nearly as bad as he was about it.

He’s eating kale or something and of course he’s watching Teen Wolf. (The show is both Ryan and Quincy’s guilty pleasure.)

“Hey!” he greets cheerfully, waving at us with a cheesy grin.

I leave them be in the living room, scoop up a chipper Frieda (but she’s always really excited about everything) and head into my room. I set her down and kick off my shoes, then pad over to my bed. I flip on the TV as I sit on the edge of the mattress, taking off my earrings as I watch the film with mild interest. My phone starts ringing in my purse so I dig around for it, but I can’t find it. I can hear it, though, so I know it’s in here somewhere. I end up dumping the whole purse on my bed, and sure enough, there’s my phone. It’s just Luke - again - so I ignore the call, then go about organizing my purse again.

I stumble upon a card with a website on it for singles.

I’m not desperate.

That’s what those sites are for, right? Desperate people, I mean. And I’m not one of those people, because I like who I am right now, I like being single, I like my life. I’m happy and not desperate. I’m the opposite of desperate.

So why do I find myself pulling the site up on my laptop?

I glance nervously at the door, like Quincy is going to bust in any minute and catch me doing this. And so what if she does? Why does she have to worry about what I do? She’s got Ryan to keep her entertained, after all. I bite my lip as I sign up. Frieda glances at me from her post on the floor, curious.

It’s not like anyone’s going to find out or really even try to talk to me or message me, so what’s the point? There’s probably thousands of people on this site or sites like these. Who cares, right? It’s no big deal. No big deal at all. It’s okay. This is okay. I’m okay.

And a lot of people meet online anyway, nowadays. It’s not a big deal. I sit and stare at my screen for a few seconds before I shut it off and put it on my nightstand. I’m going to be fine. I’m not desperate. That was a moment of weakness. It’s not a big deal at all.

So why do I feel so pathetic?



Today may be the day that changes my whole life.

Okay, so it’s not like I did much on that stupid site Harry signed me up for. I check it once a day, if that. I don’t care for it and I’m really not interested in meeting someone through there, but sometimes my curiosity gets the best of me. It’s not like I have messages from people who interest me, anyway. But that’s because none of them are Maisie.

Or at least, none of them were Maisie.

Today, Maisie had a presentation for the higher ups. No big deal. It was a monthly requirement of all of us and she usually did really, really well. She was usually gone for an hour or so, and business went on as usual in her absence.

I was walking past her desk, which was empty, of course. I wasn’t trying to pry, really. I just happen to glance over at her screen, and there it is. There it is. Among the three tabs she’s got pulled up, one of them is that same damn site Harry signed me up for.

Maisie Wells shouldn’t have a problem meeting someone, but for some reason, she does. I look around furtively, but everyone seems to be too busy with their own tasks and projects to pay me any mind. I sit at her desk tentatively, then pull up the page. It’s her profile, with her smile and likes and favorite movies and artists and books and places to visit. I grab a sticky note and a pen, writing her username and other important things down. I’m not going to hack into it, of course. I go back to the tab she had open before I started snooping, which was for a wedding caterer. (I think her friend, Quincy or something, is getting married. She interned here last summer before settling down to work somewhere else. I can’t remember where, but I do remember that she was pretty nice and that she was a good friend of Maisie’s. Maybe she’s trying to help her out?)

I get up quickly once I hear her laugh in the hallway, making a beeline for my own desk. I’m catching my breath in my chair, staring down at the files on my desk when Maisie sits down at hers. She pulls a Snickers bar out of her one of her drawers, unwraps it, and starts to eat it as she goes about her business, oblivious to what just happened.

I spend the rest of the day a shaky, jittery mess. I can’t even look at her without hyperventilating. And I usually have it together, I do, but I’m afraid that if she looks at me, she’ll just know I know, and I don’t know what she’ll do then.

At four, I’m already clocking out and grabbing my things to leave. Maisie is about to catch this elevator, and it’s empty, but I hit the ‘close doors’ button anyway because I know that if we’re in here, alone, I’ll blurt out that I know and it’ll all be over. I practically sprint to my car and lock myself inside, throwing my bag into the passenger seat. I take a few deep breaths and sigh, leaning my head against the steering wheel.

I know it’s a terrible invasion of privacy. I know it. I would hate it if someone ever did that to me. I grab the note from my wallet, staring at it. I should rip it up and throw it away, and I want to - I’m already folding it to tear it into pieces - but I can’t bring myself to. It’s a piece of Maisie, the Maisie I don’t get to see at work everyday or during our occasional run-ins. I start my car and look up, only to see Maisie on her way out in her blue sedan. She beeps at me and waves with a smile as she makes her way out of the parking garage. I wave sadly, smiling a little.

I drive home in a guilty haze. I keep telling myself that all I’m going to do is look, that’s it. I’m not going to message her or talk to her or do anything like that. Just look. When I walk into my apartment, it’s quiet, albeit a little messy. But at least Harry’s not home. If he sees Maisie for real, I’m a dead man.

I sit in the living room with my laptop, blood pounding in my ears as I pull up her profile again. Nothing has really changed. I grab a banana from the fruit basket in the kitchen, then hunker down on the couch again.

Maisie Wells likes books, and poetry, and art. She likes going to the beach with her friends in her free time, and dabbles in baking and knitting. She likes photography, but doesn’t think she’s very good at it. She loves going to shows and music festivals (which explains why she insists on being on the marketing committee for every big festival our company sponsors).

What kind of guy does Maisie like?

She likes them tall and smart, with nice eyes and a pure heart. I mean, she didn’t say that, but it’s what I gathered from what she wrote. She wants someone adventurous and who isn’t afraid to take risks, someone fun and full of life. Someone like her. She wants someone who’s travelled and who appreciates culture and who can smile.

She wants Harry.

Obviously, she doesn’t know who Harry is, but she’s described him down to the very last detail. And I’m not him. Not at all. And I know that I can’t take what Harry says seriously half the time, but I guess he really did have a point when he said that I didn’t have a chance with her. It hurts a lot more than I thought I would.

I go through her pictures next. She’s got such a pretty smile, and she’s just so amazing and beautiful and perfect. I can’t help myself. But I know she can do better than me - than Harry even, really, because he had a pretty face but an okay personality - so I go back to her main page. And I’m about to close it out like I promised myself I would, but then I see her latest update.

When will the right guy come my way?

I sit and stare at my screen, biting my lip. This is wrong. I know it’s wrong. What I’m about to do is very, very wrong. But I’m doing this for her, because I want to make her happy, even if it’s not with me, not really. I start changing things on my own profile, make myself more attractive - literally. I change my name, sort of.

I mean, I do kind of look like Harry. A little. He’s my brother, after all. If I really did get contacts, maybe tanned outside a little, worked out and got tattoos, I would probably look a lot like him. I stare at the picture of him on my screen and sigh, hitting submit. What Harry and Maisie don’t know won’t hurt them, will it?

I’m only going to do this because I think it’ll help Maisie, maybe. Because something must have happened with whoever that guy was for her to be on that site, right? Or maybe she met him through there and it didn’t work out. But whatever it was, it muted her newfound happiness, and all I wanted to do was bring it back to her. And if that meant I had to hide who I truly was, change every single damn thing, then I would.

And it’s not like she’s going to find out anyway, right?

I send her a friend request and hope for the best. Hopefully, this won’t backfire too terribly.