Desperate woman seeks a plus one
“Change that,” Petra says, cackling. “Jesus Christ, you’re sure you don’t want me to come as your plus one?”
“I’ll look pathetic,” you say.
She gives you a look.
“Contrary to now.”
“Petra, you know I can’t. My family knows you, and if I want to beat the lesbian allegations that won’t do.”
“’Cause posting about needing a plus one is much better,” she says. “And you do like women.”
“That’s beside the point,” you argue. “I need to take a man. I’m a bridesmaid, for fuck’s sake. I won’t hear the end of it if I go alone. You know how my aunties are.”
“Babe, you need to get your shit together, and your cousins are worse.”
“See? You do know they’re awful.”
“So? Ask Erwin.”
“They will never buy it!”
“Fair point. You’re too much of a mess for a guy like him.”
“Gee, thanks, Petra!”
“What happened to self-awareness?”
“It jumped through the window,” you quip. “Man, I really need it. I’m tired of the looks, and I’m sick of her condescending comments. ‘Meh, I’m a lawyer and my life is perfect.’ You don’t know how bad it is. I need this, Petra. My ego cannot take it anymore.”
“And you agreed to be her bridesmaid?”
“It was a lapse of judgment.”
“Well, now you’re fucked.”
“Oh, tell me about it!”
You end up finishing the carton of wine.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
Then the next morning, your head is throbbing like a dick after dry humping for two hours.
You groan.
Petra is gone.
You love bitching and moaning like the next person, but man, your ego had to be bruised yesterday for you to be drinking carton fucking wine.
You look for your phone and cuss loudly the moment you see what time it is. If you don’t hurry you’ll miss Ethics. Not that you mind—you do, your grades are slipping fast and hard—but then you see notifications about the fucking post.
Oh my god.
You’re halfway through Linguistics by the time you’re finally able to read the answers to your post.
You blink at the dick pic on your screen.
There’s a guy whose only comment was ‘8”’.
Some weirdo is trying to ask for your bra size.
And then you see it.
‘Is this post for real? If you’re not a creep, and you’re willing to go up to $300 cash only, then dm me.’
You stare at the comment.
Is the guy for real?
You go to his profile. It looks real enough. Joined in 2009, has made some exchanges, the profile pic is just a black cat.
You cannot help but wonder: does he own a cat, or did he take a random pic of a black cat off the internet?
You should tell Petra about this.
You would laugh and forget about the whole humiliating ordeal.
But here you are.
Sending a total stranger your phone number over an ad that reads:
‘Desperate woman seeks plus one for cousin’s wedding. Requirements include tolerance for passive-aggressive relatives, decent acting skills, and willingness to pretend you’re totally whipped with me.’
You lock your phone and push it into the mysterious confines of your never-been-cleaned bag.
You almost forget all about it and attribute it to a fever dream or a post-drunk delusion when your phone rings in the middle of your Parks and Rec rewatch.
“What is it?” Petra asks.
You open the notification, hoping it’s the pizza you irresponsibly ordered while high.
Instead, there are messages from an unknown number.
‘Hey.’
‘This is dontbotherme7328, from Craigslist.’
‘In regard to the ad you posted, about a plus one? You gave me your number.’
“Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod,” you repeat, barely enunciating each word, absolutely mortified. “What was I thinking?”
“What?” Petra pauses the show, finally looking away from the screen. “You forgot to add cheese to the crust?”
You shake your head.
“What did you do?” she asks, genuinely confused.
“I gave a guy my number.”
“That’s great!” She sounds excited. Almost offensively excited. “Unless he turns out to be a stalker like the last guy.”
You keep reading the messages.
Petra looks at you expectantly.
“Bitch, what did you do?” She must have realized by now that you giving a guy your number is an actual disaster.
“A guy answered the ad,” you admit.
Petra snorts.
“For fuck’s sake.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The wedding is in two weeks.
If you consider your options in a rational manner, you don’t have much of a choice.
The grown-up, put-together, well-centered version of you would probably go alone and deal with it.
But the person you know you are—the little girl who never did well enough in school, who wasn’t a cheerleader, who just wasn’t a stuck-up bitch—is dying to show up with a fucking date to the cousin’s wedding, someone who was, in fact, all that.
You reply three days later.
Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe it was a scam and you didn’t reply fast enough for their scammy evil standards.
The unknown number sends a text two hours later.
‘Offer still stands?’
‘I thought it was a scam.’
You laugh.
Of course you laugh.
“You’re seriously considering this?” Petra is absolutely judging you.
And for Petra to be judging you, you know you have to be in deep shit.
You thought that at this point nothing you did could surprise her.
“Yup.” You pop the p.
You know that annoys her.
Also the vagueness.
“For all we know the guy could be a homicidal murderer!”
“That’s awfully redundant,” you deadpan.
She groans, clearly frustrated.
“Petra, love, don’t worry,” you say. You can’t annoy her too much; she might not feed you. “I have a plan.”
“Oh, really?” You think she’s mocking you. “Let’s hear it. She has a plan! I’m so relieved.”
“We’ll go for coffee tomorrow,” you tell her your well-thought-out plan. “I need to interview him. We need to do a chemistry read.”
Petra actually laughs.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says.
But you hear the love in her frustrated laugh.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
The café is deserted.
If a tumbleweed were to roll by, you wouldn’t even blink.
Which means he’s also very much absent.
What if he stands you up?
What if it was never real?
What if the asshole only agreed to the coffee so you would come and wait for hours, only to realize how truly and utterly pathetic you are?
Then he texts.
‘Be there in five.’
You’re spiraling.
You got it under control.
Petra made you live-share your location. Your phone’s battery life is being drained at the same rate as your will to live.
A girl from your Literary Theory class leaves the café.
You start texting Petra when a guy drags the chair in front of you.
“Seat’s taken,” you say. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“You’re CarelessWhisperer”
It’s not a question.
This guy is stupidly hot.
What the fuck?
Is this him?
“Dontbotherme7328?” you ask. “You’re shorter than I thought.”
You say it like an absolute idiot.
“You’re funny,” he deadpans. “Looking.”
You wince.
“Fair enough.”
You put your hand out, because apparently you’re awkward like that.
He looks at your extended hand and raises an eyebrow.
God, he’s infuriating.
And also, infuriatingly good-looking.
“So,” he says. “This the chemistry read?”
You hate that you laugh.
There’s a twitch on his lips, a shadow of a smile.
“You joke,” you tell him, “but this is a very rigorous screening process.”
“Right.”
“I have questions.”
“I figured.”
“You could be a serial killer.”
“You could be a serial killer.”
“I’m too anxious for murder.”
“And talk too much, too.”
He points.
Who does he think he is?
You squint at him.
“You talk weird.”
Again with the talking?
“I’m an English major,” you say, as if that explains it all.
“Hence the dramatic,” he counters.
You gasp.
“You’re being incredibly judgmental for a man who answered a Craigslist ad offering fake emotional labor for three hundred dollars.”
That finally gets a real laugh out of him.
It’s unfairly nice.
“It was two.”
“Huh?”
“You offered two hundred,” he says, all business again.
“Right.”
“Upfront.”
“Nah-huh.”
You shake your head.
So this is a scam after all.
Probably wants you to hand him the money and disappear.
“Half before, half after the deed is done.”
Again, the twitch.
There’s a trace of humor in his gray-blue eyes.
“Do you have to say it like that?”
He’s making fun of you.
“I talk how I talk,” you say, dismissing his evident attempt to make you falter.
“Evidently.”
He drinks from his cup.
“My name is Levi.”
Truce?
You tell him your name.
“So tell me, Levi...” you try to regain control. “Are you plus-one material?”
“What’s the standard?” he asks.
“The ad explains it. You sit there for a few hours while my family silently—or not so silently—judges us. Any questions?”
“How soon can I leave after getting there?”
“I’m a bridesmaid, so not that soon.”
At that, he looks shocked.
“You’re a bridesmaid?”
You don’t see the point in asking.
You’re sure he heard you.
Is he slow?
He didn’t sound like it up until now.
“Yup.”
“No offense,” he starts, like any person who’s trying to offend. “But you don’t exactly look like the bridesmaid type.”
“Not pretty enough?”
You brace for the insult.
He shakes his head.
“Not tamed enough.”
Oh.
You slurp your caramel frappe loudly.
“Any other relevant question?”
“Dress code?”
“Black tie.”
“How predictable,” he says.
A laugh almost slips.
“Anything else?”
He shakes his head again.
Is verbal communication equivalent to torture for him?
“Then you’re hired.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
“He said what?”
Petra seems to be having the most fun she’s had in a while.
Erwin looks at you.
Are you okay? his eyes silently ask.
You nod.
“Can you believe that?” you say to Petra. “The nerve, man. The fucking nerve.”
“What I can’t believe is that your first words to him were ‘you’re shorter than I thought.’ That is so you.”
She laughs again.
Erwin actually smiles at that.
He’s been silent for most of the conversation.
“You should’ve asked me,” he says again.
“It wouldn’t have worked, Erwin.”
You repeat it for the third time.
“Because?”
He sounds hurt.
“You’re too Erwin.”
He looks like he wants to argue.
“It’s a compliment. Take it.”
“The guy could still be a serial killer,” Erwin says.
He’s joking.
For the most part.
“Nah, he’s not,” you assure him.
“How can you be so sure?” Petra is siding with Erwin for the sake of arguing.
“Don’t get me wrong, dude’s an asshole, but he doesn’t strike me as a murderer.”
“You have shitty instincts,” Petra says.
“You’re not always a good judge of character,” Erwin says at the same time.
You try to act offended.
“Some friends you are.”
Erwin closes his laptop and comes to sit at your side.
“What are you writing?” he asks, intrigued.
He’s always interested in what you write, which is a boost to your ego as a wannabe writer-slash-English-major.
But right now you don’t want him looking at the list of facts about you that you’re about to send the Levi guy, alongside a script with possible scenarios.
“Nothing.”
You try to change tabs and fail stupendously.
“I hate fake ties?” he reads.
“What are you doing?”
Erwin’s nosy.
“I’m sending him a document. A know-your-date of sorts. He needs to know this as my loving and totally committed boyfriend.”
You say it with a bit too much sarcasm.
“What if the guy is an actual psycho?”
Dear Erwin sounds truly concerned.
Petra seems busy and uninterested, so you allow yourself to be honest for a second.
“It’s always a possibility,” you admit. “But what if it isn’t, Erwin? I could really use the win right now.”
Erwin looks at you with something that looks too close to pity for your liking.
“I need to do this. I need to stop feeling like such a failure all the time.”
Your voice is barely a whisper now, and you feel tiny and miserable beneath it all.
“Besides, you’ll be there to save me if the entire thing goes sideways.”
His look softens.
His thick eyebrows crease and his forehead folds funny.
It’s so Erwin you kind of want to scream, or cry, or hug him.
He speaks before you can do any of those things.
“You know I am.” Your name sounds good coming from his lips.
He hugs you anyway.
The guy seems to get a better reading on your emotional state than you do most of the time.
“I always am.”
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
By the time he answers your seven-page-long document on how to behave, there are only six days left until the event.
‘We need to set some rules.’
The text appears on your screen.
“Great!” you mutter.
The guy sitting next to you in Advanced Composition gives you an annoyed look.
You roll your eyes at him.
You’re going through your mailbox, procrastinating on answering the damn text.
You sigh.
‘We do.’
At least he’s not looking at you with his judgy, inquisitive, intense eyes.
‘This is ridiculous.’
His response to the document.
‘Coffee at five?’ you write back.
‘We can discuss finer details over a frap. My treat.’
‘Can’t.’
It’s the only response.
You type and erase for approximately twenty minutes before he sends another text.
‘Meet me at Sina’s Pub at 8.’
He’s not asking.
And the fucking audacity of this dude has you seething.
But again, you’re desperate.
You search for Sina’s Pub in Google Maps.
You can’t believe the dude is actually trying to take you to a dinky pub that probably reeks of cigarettes and piss.
You should be paying attention to the lecture, but there’s only so much you can do about rhythm and metrics before your soul quietly exits your body.
The guy sitting beside you has been peeking at your screen.
Nosy fuck.
‘Fine.’
You agree just as the lecture ends.
You make it to the only class you actually enjoy just to spend the entire time planning outfits in your head instead of listening to your professor.
Creative Writing is by far your best subject, but making up scenarios about Levi entering the pub while you sit on a stool at the bar sipping on a sad mojito is far more entertaining.
“Good writing isn’t just expressive. It has cadence. It has pacing. It has intention behind every pause.”
The rest of the professor’s words get lost when you try to remember Levi’s voice.
By five p.m., your bedroom is a mess.
Petra storms in complaining about a group project, looks at the state of the room, and stops talking.
She gives you a look.
“Plus-one meeting at eight,” you explain.
“And that explains this?”
She gestures at half your wardrobe lying on the floor.
“Nothing’s giving cunty, but I mean business enough.”
“Babe, get the red dress.”
You can’t believe she’s actually going along with this.
The red dress is an institution of self-confidence.
You bought it after you went from a cup A to a D.
Freshman year.
Starry eyed.
Ready to take on the world.
It all came crumbling down after that, but it’s still a great dress.
A dress that sells your assets.
“I’m trying to negotiate, not hook up,” you say.
“Oh, come on. You’ve been talking about the guy nonstop. You definitely want to jump his bones.”
“No, I’m not!”
Now you’re completely offended.
You haven’t.
Have you?
“Is he hot?”
Petra knows you too well.
Damn.
“Very,” you admit.
Petra’s face lights up.
“But...” you add. “This is just about the wedding, Petra. I can’t fuck the guy. Heck, I don’t even think he’d be down to it.”
“Honey,” Petra says, “I say this objectively. The guy would be lucky to have you.”
“Petra, shut up.”
“Fine. Suit yourself. Pay a guy to take you to a wedding you don’t want to go to.”
Her words hit a tiny part of you that you usually keep hidden.
You think she knows she hurt you.
You end up wearing slacks and a vest.
What can you say?
You are theatrical.
You know that.
You hope the outfit gets the message this is purely transactional across.
Petra makes you share your location again and wishes you good luck.
Things are a bit awkward, but you’ll get over it.
Your friendship has recovered from worse.
⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯⎯
You’re expecting him to be late, just like last time.
You’re expecting him to be an asshole and say he forgot.
You’re expecting him to text you saying he’s no longer interested.
What you’re not expecting is for him to already be here.
Dressed up.
Apron on.
Behind the bar.
He’s a waiter.
He nods when he sees you.
You go straight to the bar.
He’s drying glasses.
“You’re working,” you say.
You want to hit your head with a bat.
Why are you like this?
“Evidently.”
Does he only speak in one-word sentences, or is this just his default personality setting?
You take a seat.
“You seem surprised,” he points out.
“That explains the place,” you say.
He looks at you, confused.
“You working here, I mean. I thought it odd for you to suggest we meet here.”
“Too lowly for you?” he asks.
There it is.
A voice that apparently comes in two modes:
Silence.
Or insult.
You lean back slightly on the stool.
“I’m just saying it’s not exactly neutral ground.”
“Neutral ground.”
He repeats it like it’s funny.
“Yeah.”
You stick to it.
A person with a messy short ponytail and weird glasses appears behind the bar.
Levi tsks at his coworker.
“What are you taking?” they ask.
Levi answers before you do.
“It’s okay, shitty glasses. She’s with me.”
“Oh, short-stuff has a date?!” they ask, sounding far too energetic.
Levi makes a face.
“She’s the wedding girl,” he says way too harshly.
You’re guessing by his tone that they’re friends.
Only friends can talk to each other like that.
If they’re not, this is a terrible working environment.
Shitty Glasses—as Levi called them—starts cackling.
“I’ll have a margarita,” you interrupt. “Three ounces of Don Julio.”
“Top shelf, huh?”
They grin.
“I’m Hange, by the way. Levi’s best friend. It was me who sent him the ad. Really funny ad. I love your style.”
They sound unhinged.
And Levi looks like he wants to protest when Hange says best friend.
You decide you like Hange right there and then.
“Thanks.”
You smile.
Hange hands you the margarita.
Oh, heavens.
It’s good.
“Ceremony starts at six and party at nine?”
Levi cuts straight to the chase.
Right.
The reason you’re here.
“But we have to be there around five-thirty.”
You lick the salt around the rim of the glass.
You swear you see his eyes widen for a moment.
But he finishes drying the glassware and disappears for a second, only to return holding a folded piece of paper.
Your paper.
Oh no.
He unfolds it with the patience of someone who regrets every life choice that led him here.
He clears his throat once.
Then reads.
“Clause three. Subsection B. ‘Arrival time shall be no later than ceremony minus zero point five hours to allow for controlled emotional preparation, seating strategy assessment, and introduction to hostile relatives under supervised conditions.’”
He looks up.
“You wrote controlled emotional preparation.”
Hange is openly laughing into their hand.
Levi continues, unfazed.
“Clause five. ‘Plus one must maintain plausible romantic affiliation for the duration of all wedding-adjacent events, including but not limited to: ceremony, reception, photographs, and unsolicited interrogation by elderly family members.’”
He taps the paper once.
“That part I can do,” he says.
You sit a little straighter.
“Good.”
He flips another page.
“Clause seven. ‘No excessive drinking prior to family interaction phase. Emotional stability must be preserved at all times, even when provoked.’”
“It applies to me too,” you try to defend yourself.
Levi doesn’t react.
He just keeps reading.
“Clause nine. ‘Physical affection is permitted strictly for performance purposes. Any deviation will be considered a breach of contract.’”
He pauses there longer than the others.
Then he folds the paper neatly, like it’s done being useful.
“You forgot clause eleven,” he says.
You frown.
“There is no clause eleven.”
“There is now.”
He slides the paper back under the bar and leans slightly forward.
“No improvisation,” he says. “No surprise social experiments. No last-minute changes because you get anxious and decide to optimize outcomes.”
You open your mouth.
He cuts you off immediately.
“And,” he adds, his tone sharpening just enough to make it clear he's serious, “no dancing.”
A beat.
You stare at him.
“No dancing?”
Levi doesn’t blink.
“No dancing. This is non-negotiable.”
