Twenty-nine-year-old Charlotte Rosen has a secret: she’s a widow. Ever since the fateful day that leveled her world, Charlotte has worked hard to move forward. Great job at a hot social media analytics company? Check. Roommate with no knowledge of her past? Check. Adorable dog? Check. All the while, she’s faithfully data-crunched her way through life, calculating the probability of risk—so she can avoid it.
Yet Charlotte’s algorithms could never have predicted that her late husband’s ashes would land squarely on her doorstep five years later. Stunned but determined, Charlotte sets out to find meaning in this sudden twist of fate, even if that includes facing her perfectly coiffed, and perfectly difficult, ex-mother-in-law—and her husband’s best friend, who seems to become a fixture at her side whether she likes it or not.
But soon a shocking secret surfaces, forcing Charlotte to answer questions she never knew to ask and to consider the possibility of forgiveness. And when a chance at new love arises, she’ll have to decide once and for all whether to follow the numbers or trust her heart.
Well, that’s a first.
And I’m not talking about the fact
that I brought a date to a wedding I’m pretty sure didn’t warrant me a
plus-one. I’m talking about grabbing a wedding card that just so happened to
say “Congrats, Mr. & Mr.” on my way to celebrate the nuptials of the most
iconic heterosexual couple since George and Amal. This—and a king-sized KitKat
bar from the checkout lane—is what I get for rushing through the greeting card
aisle in Target while my Uber driver waited in the loading zone with his f
lashers on.
It’s Monica and Danny’s big
day. She’s my coworker, whose gorgeous face is constantly lining the glossy
pages of Luxe LA magazine. Not only because she’s one of the leading
ladies at Forbes’s new favorite company, The Influencer Firm, but
because this socialite-turned-CEO is now married to Daniel Jones—head coach of
the LA Galaxy, Los Angeles’s professional soccer team. If you’re thinking he
must look like a derivative of an American David Beckham, you’re basically there.
Let’s just hope their sense of humor is as good as their looks when they see
the card I accidentally picked out.
Before I place it on the gift
table, I stuff the envelope with a crisp hundred-dollar bill fresh from the
ATM. Side note: I think wedding registries are bullshit. Everybody wants an ice
cream maker until you have one and never use it, which is why I spring for
cold, hard cash instead. I grab a black Sharpie marker from the guest book
table, pop the cap off, and attempt to squeeze in a nondescript s after
the second “Mr.,” hoping my makeshift, hand-drawn serif font letter doesn’t
stick out like a sore thumb. I blow on the fresh ink, then hold the pseudo
Pinterest-fail an arm’s length away. That’ll do, I think to myself.
I lift a glass of red wine from a caterer’s
tray as if we choreographed the move and check the time on my Apple Watch,
which arguably isn’t the most fashionable accessory when dressing for a chic
summer wedding. But aside from the fact that it doesn’t quite match my
strapless pale yellow cocktail dress, it serves a much greater purpose for me.
It keeps my data front and center, right where I want it, not on my phone
buried somewhere deep in my purse. Bonus: the band, smack-dab on the middle of
my wrist, also covers a tattoo I’ve been meaning to have lasered off.
Other than telling me the time, 7:30 p.m., it
also serves up my most recent Tinder notifications. I’ve gotten four new
matches since this morning, which isn’t bad for a) a Saturday, since most
people do their Tindering while zoning out at work or bored in bed at night;
and b) a pushing-thirty New York native whose most recent relationship was the
love-hate one with a stubborn last ten pounds. That’s me, by the way. Charlotte
Rosen.
Though present and accounted for now, the battle of Tide pen vs.
toothpaste stain went on for longer than I intended back at my apartment,
causing me to arrive about half an hour late to the cocktail hour. Which means
I for sure missed Monica and Dan’s ceremony in its entirety. I, of all people,
know that’s rude. I’m someone who is hypersensitive to people’s arrival tendencies
(well, to all measurable tendencies, to be honest; more on that later). But I’m
sort of glad I missed the I Dos, as there is still something about witnessing the
exchange of vows that makes me a little squeamish. I got married five years ago
and, well, I’m not married anymore—let’s put it that way.
The
good news is that with time, I can feel it’s definitely getting easier
to come to things like this. To believe that the couple really will stay
together through it all. To believe that there is such a thing as “the
one”—even if it may actually be “the other” that I’m looking for this next
go-round.
Late as I may be to the wedding party, there
are some perks to my delayed arrival. Namely, the line at the bar has died down
enough for me to trade up this mediocre red wine for a decent gin and tonic.
Another perk? Several fresh platters of bacon-wrapped dates have just descended
like UFOs onto the main floor of the venue, which happens to be a barn from the
1800s. Except this is Los Angeles, and there are no barns from the 1800s. So
instead, every creaky floorboard, every corroded piece of siding, and every
decrepit roof shingle has been sourced from deep in the countryside of
southwest Iowa to create the sense that guests are surrounded by rolling
fields, fragrant orchard blossoms, and fruiting trees. The reality being that
just outside the wooden walls of the coveted, three-year-long-wait-list Oak
Mill Barn stands honking, gridlocked traffic on the 405 and an accompanying
smog alert.
As I continue to wait for my impromptu
wedding date, Chad, to come back from the bathroom, I robotically swipe left on
the first three guys who pop up on Bumble, another dating app I’m on, then
finally decide to message a guy who looks like a bright-eyed Jason Bateman (you
know, pre-Ozark) and is a stockbroker, according to his profile. We end
up matching and he asks me for drinks. I vaguely accept. Welcome to dating in
LA.
I’ve conducted some research that has shown
that after the age of thirty, it becomes exponentially harder to find your future
husband. What number constitutes exponentially? I’m not sure yet, but
I’m working on narrowing in on that because generalities don’t really cut it
for me. Thinking through things logically like this centers me, calms me, and
resets me—no matter what life throws my way. All that’s to say, I’m officially
in my last good year of dating (and my last year of not having to include a
night serum in my skin care regimen), and I’m determined not to wind up with my
dog, my roommate, and a few low-maintenance houseplants as my sole life
partners.
“Sorry that took so long,” says
Chad, returning from the men’s room twenty minutes after leaving. “Did you know
the bathroom at this place is an actual outhouse? Thank god it was leg day at
the gym—I had to squat over the pot. My quads are burning nice now.”
Confession. I didn’t just bring a date to the
wedding, I brought a blind date.
No worries, though. Monica knows how serious
I am about the path to Mr. Right and supports the fact that I go on my fair
share of dates to get me there quicker. Plus, he isn’t a total stranger; she
knows him—or, she met him, rather. He attended her work event last week
at the LA County Museum of Art and is supposedly this cute, single real estate
something or other. Of course he tried to hit on her and, unlike most beautiful
people in Los Angeles, Monica actually copped to being in a committed
relationship with Danny. (Who doesn’t like to brag they’re marrying Mr. Galaxy
himself?) So she did the next best thing and gave him her single coworker’s
Instagram handle and told him to slide into my DMs. It’s a bold move on her part,
but I appreciate her quick thinking and commitment to my cause, Operation:
Reclassify My Marital Status.
Since Chad first messaged me a
week ago, I’ve done my homework on him. And I’m not talking about just your
basic cyber stalking. I’m talking about procuring and sifting through real,
bona fide data. It’s essentially a version of what I’m paid to do for a
living—track down all the “influencers,” people with a lot of fans and
followers on the internet, and match them to events we plan for our clients so
they can post on social media and boost our clients’ profiles.
Some may think my side-project
software, the one that computes how much of a match I am
with someone, is a bit…much, but I don’t see it that way at all. I’m on
the hunt for a man who is a true match for me—one who won’t just up and leave
in the blink of an eye. I left things up to fate once and look how that turned
out. I’ll be damned if I do it that way again.
While I studied up on Chad, I conducted a hefty “image search,”
yielding about a hundred photos of him that have been uploaded across a variety
of social platforms over the years. In real life, I’m pleased to say he checks
out. Chad is over six feet tall, tanned, and toned, with coiffed Zac Efron hair
that’s on the verge of being described as “a bit extra.” From the shoulders
up, he’s an emoji. A walking, talking emoji. But as I step back and admire him
in his expertly tailored suit, he looks like a contestant on The Bachelor.
In retrospect, Chad is just the right amount of good-looking to complement my
physical appearance, which can be described as a made-for-TV version of an
otherwise good-looking actress.
“Something to drink, sir?” one
of the caterers asks Chad.
“Yes.
A spicy margarita. Unless… Wait. Do you make the margarita mix yourselves? Or
is it, like, that sugary store-bought crap?”
Eek. I had forgotten my discovery
that Chad is a bit of a…wellness guru. I guess so is everyone in LA, but I
can’t help but be taken aback when I hear that there are people who actually
care about the scientific makeup of margarita mix.
“Fuck it. Too many calories either way,” Chad announces before
giving the waitress a chance to answer his question. “I’ll just take a
whiskey.”
“Splash of Coke?”
“God, no. So many empty calories.”
With his drink order in, Chad rolls his neck around and pops
bones I never knew existed. Then, one by one, the joints in his fingers. The
sound makes me a bit queasy but I’m trying to focus on the positive, like his
beautiful hazel eyes and the fact that cherry tomatoes and mini mozzarella
balls with an injection of balsamic vinegar are the latest and greatest munchie
to hit the floor.
Chad turns to me with a smile, his palm connecting with the
small of my back. “Should we find our seats? What table are we at?”
Good question, I think to myself. I’m at table six. Chad
is…on a fold-up chair we will have to ask a caterer to squeeze between me and
Monica’s great-aunt Sally? I kind of forgot to mention to him that I didn’t
really get an official okay to bring him tonight.
“Table six,” I say pleasantly
with a smile.
“Six is my lucky number. Well,
that, and nine, if you know what I mean,” Chad says with a wink
accompanied by an actual thumbs-up.
The waitress comes back with
his whiskey neat, and he proposes we clink our glasses in a toast to meeting up
as we make our way to the table. Still not over the lingering effects of his
immature, pervy sixty-nine joke, I reluctantly concede to do the cheers
with the perpetual high-schooler.
“So, what did you think of
Monica’s event?” I say to break the ice as we take our seats at the luckily
empty round table.
“Well,
I don’t really know what she does for a living, but she is fine as hell.
I mean, that’s why I hit on her last week at the LACMA. Sure, I saw the ring
on her finger, but couldn’t resist saying hi to a goddess like her. My god,
that woman is something else.”
I nod in agreement. Partly
because, yes, Monica Hoang needs her own beauty column in Marie Claire,
stat. And partly because I’m too shocked by his crass demeanor to really do or
say anything else. Did I say Chad reminded me of a contestant on The
Bachelor? I think I meant he reminds me of a guy who gets sent home on
night one of The Bachelor.
“She said you’re a real
estate…attorney, was it?” I awkwardly segue. “What’s your favorite
neighborhood in Los Angeles?”
It sounds like I’m interviewing
him for a job, which in a way, I am. But had I known the conversation was going
to be like forcefully wringing out a damp rag, just hoping to squeeze out
something semidecent, I would have never invited him to join me at the wedding.
In fact, I likely wouldn’t have gone through with a date, of any kind, at all.
Conversation skills rank high on my list of preferred qualities in a mate.
Looks like he’s the exception to the rule that attorneys are good linguists,
because my app sure as shit didn’t predict this fail.
So how does my software work, then? Well, it’s all about
compatibility. My algorithm is programmed to know what I like and what I’m
looking for in the long term. So to see if a guy is a match, I comb through his
online profiles, enter the facts I find out about him, and generate a report
that indicates how likely he is to be my future husband or how likely we would
be to get a divorce, for example. One of the most helpful stats is how likely
we are to go on a second date. I’ve determined that anyone scoring above 70
percent means that chances are good we’d go out again. And, well, a second date
is the first step to marriage. You get the point. Anyone below a 70, I ignore
and move on. Chad pulled a 74, which is a solid C if you’re using a high school
grading system. Not stellar, but certainly passable with room for improvement.
As it’s turning out, there’s a lot of room for improvement.
“Huh? I’m not in real estate,” he says with a confused look on
his face.
“Oh, Monica said you were an attorney at Laird & Hutchinson?”
“Well, yes, that’s the name of our firm. The Laird side is real
estate. But they acquired Hutchinson a couple years ago, and that’s the side of
the practice I work on.”
“What kind of law is Hutchinson?”
“We’re the ‘Life’s too short, get a divorce!’ guys. You’ve
probably seen a few of our company’s billboards.”
Chad slides his business card my way, and as soon as I see the
logo, I picture those billboards slathered all over the bus stop benches down
Laurel Canyon Drive and feel physically ill. Not only because he’s in the
business of making divorce seem cheeky, but also because I’m wondering what
other things I might have missed or gotten wrong about Chad.
“Wait. So have you
ever been divorced?” The
question pops off my tongue involuntarily. As soon as the words come out, I
remember he reserves the right to ask me the same question in return and
immediately regret posing it. I’m not ready to explain the demise of my first
marriage.
“Me?
Nah. Never married.”
Luckily, a server reappears to
take our dinner order. But let it be known that if Chad had asked, I would have
explained that I didn’t give up on my life partner because I was frustrated he
failed to load a dishwasher in any sort of methodical way. I didn’t just get
bored and say “screw it,” chalking the whole thing up as just a starter
marriage (google it, this is a thing now). In fact, if anyone abruptly left
anyone, he abandoned me out of nowhere.
“Would you like the chicken and
veggies or the short rib and scalloped potatoes?” the caterer asks me.
“Short rib and potatoes,” I say,
a game-time decision made entirely by my growling stomach.
At that, Chad looks at me like I
rolled into the Vatican wearing a tube top. “You sure about that, Char? There
are so many hidden carbs in potatoes,” he whispers with a hint of disgust.
First off, Char is
reserved for people with a little more tenure in my life, thankyouverymuch.
And secondly—
“Yes, I’m sure. An extra scoop of
potatoes if possible,” I say, loud enough for our waitress, who jots down the
special instruction.
“Chicken for me. Extra veggies,”
my 74 percent match requests.
There it is. His wellness
obsession flaring up again. I’m racking my brain for what to say next to a guy
who screams “dead end” to me.
EMILY BELDEN is a journalist, social media
marketer, and storyteller. She is the author of the novel Hot Mess and
Eightysixed: A Memoir about Unforgettable Men, Mistakes, and Meals. She lives
in Chicago. Visit her website at www.emilybelden.com or follow her on Twitter
and Instagram, @emilybelden.
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