Fake Forever

Chapter 1

Jada

​“Shut up. Just shut up.”

“You comp​​lete me.”

“You had me at hello.” 

I sniff as I grab another tissue. I’ve seen Jerry Maguire for like a dozen times, but it still gives me THE feeling. And that song...

I’m a self-confessed hopeless romantic and I’m proud of it, though I must admit, I get teased a lot. I love the idea of love. If I’m not watching romance films, I’m reading self-help books that will increase my chances of finding my prince charming.     

I’ve dated a lot of men online, but that’s the issue: it’s online. I’ve never experienced physical stuff that couples normally do: kissing, hugging, even holding hands. My experience of a relationship is best depicted in emojis and GIFs.

Call me old fashioned, but I’m saving myself for the one. You know, as Jerry Maguire puts it, the one that would complete me... 

I’ve gone out on a few getting-to-know-each-other dates, but most of them won’t make it to the intimate level. Either it ends on the fifth date, or earlier.

I have a theory about it, though: when men find out that they can’t get me to sleep with them, there’ll be no second date. But, in fairness, some of them will try. Hence, the fifth date.

I don’t sleep on the third date. Apparently, it’s a thing that I’ve found out after a couple of failed attempts to find a mate. I know some people who do, which I find weird. Do men really expect women to sleep with them on the third date, or vice versa?  

I think that’s a ridiculous concept. I mean, sex shouldn’t be a deciding factor whether you want to pursue the relationship or not. I’ve never had a sexual encounter, and my knowledge of it is limited to my friends’ and colleagues’ stories.

Living in a big city is also a factor of finding a prospective boyfriend. New York is like a haven of successful men and women. Thus, the competition on finding an eligible partner is one for every ten, where one is the target and ten is the women or men competing. 

It’s so hard to find a decent, emotionally available, ready-to-commit bachelor in New York. Everyone’s into the no strings attached thing like it’s the norm.

Well, yeah, maybe. But not me.  

I’m only twenty-nine, and I’m already thinking of settling down. I know this is the best time to explore and experience, but I want someone to make memories with. I want someone to share my happiness and sadness, successes and failures with.

My best friends say that I have ridiculous standards, but in my defense, I just don’t want to settle for anything less.  

I turn off the TV and get up, taking the tissue box. My eyes are heavy. It’s time to go to bed.

As I lie in bed, I ponder if someone is really meant for me, because some people, by choice or not, grow old alone. I want someone to grow old with.

I check my phone. I have a few Tinder notifications.  

I furrow my brows as I go through the feed. 

“Why is Tinder suggesting men that barely meet the qualifications I’ve noted? Is there a glitch or something?” I say as I swipe four profiles left. “They’re supposed to find me a match that meets the list. It’s going to be Aaron Coutard all over again.”

Two years ago, I dated a man named Aaron Coutard. We had very few things in common: he likes sports, I don’t. He isn’t into clubbing, I am, though not much.

He was a software engineer and was working in a really big company, so I thought he was a catch despite our differences. I very much liked talking to him, especially when he explained all the science stuff I’d seen on Matrix trilogy. He was a geek, and I liked him for it.

We were about to meet until he cancelled because something came up. We rescheduled. Then again, something would always come up. I figured then that maybe he wasn’t ready yet to take our relationship into a personal level, or maybe he’s also scared, or maybe he’s actually seeing another woman.

After a month of rescheduling and cancelling, I decided to end things with him. I felt that he really wanted it, but wouldn’t initiate it—he was too nice to do it: breaking a girl’s heart. Whatever his reasons were, perhaps it was for the best that I was never made aware of them.

That’s also another thing I like about online dating: breaking up isn’t nasty, or as nasty as actually doing it, and moving on is easy. It all boils down to the level of intimacy: little to none.

I mean, sure, you exchange sweet nothings, see and talk to each other through other means, but that’s about it. 

Tinder is fun. But subscribing for quite some time can make one grow weary of having to swipe right and left, especially when it’s mostly left. I want to get to know my future partner personally, not through his profile from some dating site.

An email pops into my screen. It’s Marshall Simmons. I haven’t heard from him since we, well, broke up.   

We’ve been together for like six to eight months. You can barely call it a relationship, I know.

We’ve met via Tinder and have broken up via Skype. Our relationship was kind of toxic because we served as each other’s confidants. I listened to his problems and rants, and vice versa. Until it was all about him and his ego, at least during the later months. Our breakup was mutual, though I initiated it. He wished me well, and I did the same.

I click on his email, and oh boy, what have I found: a wedding invitation. In the latter part of the mail, an RSVP link can be found. It’s emphasized that I should confirm my attendance, and plus one, should there be any, in seven days.  

I know I’ve wished Marshall well, but I don’t expect him to actually invite me on his wedding. What should I do? Perhaps he has misunderstood my well wishes as some sort of promise to attend his wedding should he get married?

Is this his way of bragging to me that he has found someone to listen to his egoistic rants forever?  That’s mean. We’ve parted on good terms. Or so I thought.

In a minute, my mind has woven unwarranted suspicions, and my pride isn’t having any of it. I’ll attend his wedding, with a date no less.

I click yes...plus one.