Chapter 5

Chapter Five

PRESENT DAY

SYDNEY

As I walk the three blocks back to my building, the depression sets in.

Yes, I just had one of the worst dates of my life. The guy almost assaulted me. And I am incredibly shaken from the whole thing.

But it's the other guy I can't stop thinking about. Mystery Man.

He saved me. There was no one else around to come to my rescue, but he was there. And when we looked at each other, there was a spark. I wasn't imagining it. We had a connection.

And yet he didn't want to pursue it. He didn't even ask me my name. Or tell me his.

Maybe this is my fault. He had just seen a man attacking me, and he most likely didn't want to be a creep, hitting on me right after something like that. Maybe he was leaving it to me to make the first move. I should have asked him to escort me home. What's wrong with me?

Well, there's no point in dwelling on it. There are millions of people in this city, and I'll probably never see Mystery Man again for the rest of my life. I blew it.

By the time I reach my building, I am thoroughly miserable. I unlock the front door, glad, at least, that there is no doorman to make insipid conversation with. I pass through the mail room, where my friend and neighbor Bonnie is sitting on the lone bench, staring down at her phone.

Bonnie lives one floor below me, and she's one year older than I am and just as single. She is also a fan of using Cynch for dating, and over the last two years she has dated fifty percent of all the single men in New York City—that's a conservative estimate. She says that online dating is a numbers game, and so, in a given week, Bonnie goes on seven dates. Sometimes more—after all, you can have lunch dates in addition to dinner, and who says you can't have drinks with one guy and then dinner with another?

But in spite of the numbers and the fact that Bonnie is very pretty, with silky blond hair, china-doll features, and a cute, curvy figure, she is still single.

"Hey, Bonnie," I say.

Bonnie is smiling down at whatever is on her phone. She's got bright red lipstick on and smoky eyes, and from the looks of her, she's been on a date tonight like me. Hopefully it went better than mine.

"Hey, Syd." She doesn't look up from her phone. "How was your date tonight?"

"On a scale of one to ten? Negative a million."

Bonnie finally lifts her eyes, and her face drops. She clasps a hand over her mouth. "Oh my God."

The look of horror on Bonnie's face makes me uneasy. Why is she looking at me like that? "What?"

"You…" Her fingers fly to her forehead. "You're bleeding—a lot."

Oh no.

I rifle through my purse of mysteries until I come up with my compact. When I finally manage to get a look myself, I let out a gasp. Apparently, when I bumped my head on that garbage can, it did a little more damage than I thought. I have a small cut that has oozed blood all over my forehead. I look like a victim out of a slasher movie.

"Oh God," I mutter. No wonder Mystery Man didn't ask for my phone number. He was probably completely disgusted by my bloody wound. Men do not find that sort of thing attractive.

And I should know. I am a bleeder.

I have something called von Willebrand disease, which basically means that if I get a papercut, I'm going to leave a trail of blood behind me. It was first discovered when I was a little kid, when I kept getting gushing nosebleeds practically every week. As a child, my friends thought it was amusing that I was spurting blood left and right. As a teenager, it was gross and embarrassing.

Thankfully, the nose bleeds are under control. I have accepted that if I get a cut, it's going to bleed more than the average person. I take birth control pills to suppress my menstrual cycles. It's not that big a deal.

Well, except when I meet a guy I like and he gets turned off by my bloody wound.

"This is just great," I grumble as I pull out one of the dozens of tissues from my bag and dab at the cut. I'll definitely need some water to get it cleaned up properly. I've got emergency Band-Aids somewhere in the depths of my bag as well.

"Are you okay?" Bonnie asks

"Yeah, it's not as bad as it looks."

"How did it happen?"

"I fell and clocked my head on a garbage can."

"Ew. Do you need a tetanus shot for that?"

I plop down on the bench next to Bonnie. "Probably not. But don't worry, I'm up to date on my vaccines."

"Good." She winks at me. "I don't want you getting lockjaw or anything."

Of all the people in the building, Bonnie would be most able to sympathize with my awful night. But the truth is, I don't feel like talking about it. I want to forget the last two hours ever happened.

"So what are you smiling about?" I ask her. "Hot date tonight?"

Bonnie pats her blond hair, which is pulled back into a purple scrunchie that matches her top. Bonnie is the only grown woman in the twenty-first century who wears scrunchies, but she somehow pulls it off. It's kind of her signature. "Yes, actually. He just walked me home."

Despite everything, I'm happy for her. Besides, if a girl like Bonnie, who is smart and gorgeous and funny, can't find a significant other, there is absolutely no hope for the rest of us.

"I don't want to jinx it," she says, "but I've been dating this guy on and off for a year now—mostly off. He is really hot, but a total commitment-phobe. I am basically a booty call for him. I wouldn't even bother with him, but like I said, he's hot, and also he's great in bed." She glances down at her phone again. "But tonight he was talking about being exclusive. He was ranting about how he's sick of dating and wants to settle down."

"I don't know…" I don't want to rain on her parade, but guys like that are trouble. "You really think a guy like that could be serious about commitment?"

"The thing is," she says, "he's a serious guy. He doesn't seem like a player. Honestly, even though we mostly just hook up, I don't think he's hooking up with anyone else. He's super nice, and he's smart, and he's funny. He's actually a doctor ."

A hot, single doctor who just hits her up for booty calls? She's got to be out of her mind if she thinks this guy is settling down anytime soon.

"Well," I say, "good luck. Are you coming to yoga tomorrow?"

Bonnie, Gretchen, and I have been taking yoga together three afternoons a week for the last year. It's how we got to know each other. "Sure," she says.

"Great," I say. "And you can let me know any updates on Dr. McHottie."

But Bonnie isn't even listening to me. She's back to smiling down at her phone again. Yeah, she's totally gone. I hope Dr. McHottie doesn't turn out to be Dr. McJerkface.

I take the elevator up to the tenth floor, where I've been renting out a one-bedroom apartment since my last live-in relationship fell apart very abruptly. I was dating this great guy, and I honestly thought he might be the One. I mean, we were living together, so it was obviously pretty serious. But then…

Well, I don't like to think about it. Or him.

When I get up to my floor, I walk down the dimly lit hallway, on the way to the last apartment on the left. Even though I live in a decent neighborhood, and I've got two locks on my door, there's part of me that is always a little apprehensive when I walk into my apartment. Every once in a while, you hear about some single girl in the city getting strangled or stabbed to death in her own place.

But that's unlikely. There are no signs of a break-in. I'm sure there's nobody lying in wait. Besides, what're the chances of being attacked twice in one night?

I fit my key into the lock, jiggling it a little like I always have to. After a few seconds of struggle, the lock turns and the door swings open.