Page 48 of Meet Cute Reboot

“Sorry. I meant it in a good way. I enjoy matchmaking challenges. Clearly.”

“If my love life is a challenge for you, think about how bad it is for me. Never mind.” She flutters her hands by her ears. “I don’t want to think about it. I need to pay your bills.”

“I couldn’t run two businesses without you.” I give Sarah an air fist bump. She’s not a toucher. Also, she’s ignoring me.

“I know,” she finally quips as I slide up to my desk.

Rain patters against the small window next to my bed while occasional thunder rumbles through the clouds. My wide eyes catch each flash of lightning, my loft captured in frames, imprinted on the camera roll of memory. I reach for my phone and tap the screen to check the time.1:30. I should be asleep. But like last night, my mind is running on a hamster wheel.

I’m not thinking about Luke tonight. Not entirely. I’m mostly thinking about Michael, the “wet rag” I married.

When Michael returned to Charleston after his stint with the Army, we happened to join the same Bible study group. It was at Patty and Roger Jarret’s house on Saturday evenings, two-hours long and no later. Roger was a stickler about that. The first hour,we ate and fellowshipped on their back patio that Roger himself installed, each hexagonal paver meticulously placed over a bed of level sand. He was proud of that patio. The second hour, on the same patio, we pulled out our Bibles and guides and dug in.

The group was five married couples with their assortment of kids along with Michael and me, the two single sore thumbs. Naturally, we gravitated toward each other. We weren’t left out of conversations, we just couldn’t fully relate to the mayhem of children darting between our chairs and jokes about husbands who always leave the gas tank empty for their wives to fill up before she takes the kids to school.

So, we sat next to each other week after week learning about the Bible, thinking about how we might apply the concepts to our lives. And then, one night, Michael asked me out for coffee afterward.

We jumped right in. There was no, “What music do you listen to?” We already knew that about each other. No, “Where do you work? Where did you go to school? Do you have pets?”

Check.

Check.

Check.

Thus began our courtship, every Saturday evening after our small group, we went to Joe and Go, ordered our chai latte and butterscotch mocha, closed every date with a kiss that caused a tiny flutter in my stomach.

That flutter. It was something, right? Biblical love. Calm. Predictable. Trustworthy. No frills. No risk. So what if I sometimes felt bored? We had the rest of our lives to become un-bored. Once kids entered the picture, there’d be no time to be bored. We’d checked all the boxes. What could go wrong?

Now here I am. Twenty-eight. Too busy to date. Too busy to think about starting a family. Busy, busy, busy. With that busyness comes a buzz of white noise that mutes emotions,worries, doubts. Until it’s one thirty in the morning and I’m drowning in a downpour of regret, with a few rumbles here and there, Luke’s voice echoing through me.Do you want to come to my neighborhood meeting?

I was never bored around Luke.

A flash of lightning pierces the darkness. The clouds voice their annoyance with low, penetrating grumbles.

I sit up and grab my phone.

Nerves tickle my stomach as I open Instagram and click on my first Live with Luke. The video plays.

He’s sitting on the bench in Wetlands, standing up to greet me. We introduce ourselves for the “first” time. He’s not looking into the camera. He’s focused on me. Only me. There’s something about his expression. Like he just drank a glass of ice water after hours in the hot sun, that satisfaction of replenishing something that was sorely lacking.

Why didn’t I notice it during our date?

I was too caught up in past hurts, understandably so. Too stressed out about my launch, about Luke weaseling his way into my life.

My heart wasn’t ready.

A burst of wings flutters in my stomach, a chattering of starlings shifting in mid-flight.

I continue to watch.

We walk back to our corner table, and I set the phone on the stand so we’re both in view. Luke’s eyes linger on my hands for a moment, and then he sneaks a nervous look at my face while I focus on the camera, all business.

The tightness in my expression is almost imperceptible. I can see it. I’m not sure if the audience does. Luke has picked up on it. Everything about him reads caution: his posture, his frequent glances at me, the placement of his hands side-by-side on the table like he’s searching for equilibrium.

It’s nothing like the image I had in my mind that night. Through the filter of my anger, I saw an arrogant and pushy, manipulative man who was only out for himself. To be fair, what was I supposed to think? Was I supposed to welcome him with open arms? I don’t think so.

Next comes the part of the livestream where I field questions from the audience.