Read on for the reality check.

I know, it’s been a while, and maybe you thought I found my happily-ever-after with the Lisbon Lovah. Nope. But I have been wrapped up in launching Not Just a Trick Play—because who needs real-life romance when you can write about a football player who’s equal parts trouble and temptation?

Back in NYC

I get back to NYC riding high on confidence, radiating all the happy-happy joy-joy energy you’d expect from someone fresh off a Lisbon fling. What do they say? The higher the peak, the harder the crash? Well, we’ll get to that.

Tweaking My Profile

Like the seasoned Bumble expert I now fancy myself, I turn off Travel Mode and tweak my filters. Lisbon Lovah was eight years younger than me—acceptable for a foreign fling, but not a sustainable model. I tighten my age range—ten years up and down, though I only plan to date within five. The outer bands are strictly for science: one end to preview potential newcomers to my dating bracket, and the other to monitor the rate of decay of the current contenders.

I bulk up my profile. Occupation? Author. Interests? Theater. Travel. NYC. No kids. No desire for kids. I drink. I don’t smoke. I’m “active” (I think this refers to my fitness level, not my vivid imagination).

Now it’s time to see what the algorithm serves up.

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The Swipe Begins

The first batch of profiles rolls in, and they are… uninspiring.

I know, I know—there’s more to dating than physical compatibility. But come on, I’m allowed to be shallow.

As I swipe, I begin noticing patterns.

Let’s start with the shirtless photos. In theory, I appreciate the preview of the goods, but any intrigue is immediately canceled out by the setting. Why are so many of these taken in public bathrooms? With visible urinals? Ick.

Then we’ve got the shirtless AND headless photos. Subtle. Really subtle.

And, of course, the fish photos. They’re not a deal breaker, but still… why?

The fancy cars make me pause. Are these pictures for real? Or rented props for a day of flexing? And the private planes—are they trying to say, “I’m a billionaire,” or just “I snuck on to the runway of this municipal airstrip for a selfie?”

Also, why does everyone seem to love hiking so much?

There are some good-looking options, sure—but so many profiles lack any actual information. Are these catfishers? Lazy people? Bots? They’re pretty, so I swipe right on a few. I figure I can always weed them out later.

Then we’ve got the bruhs:

• Tech Bruh: Leaning against a Tesla I’m not convinced he owns (see fancy cars), captioned, “Disruptor.” Left.

• Finance Bruh: “Work hard, play harder.” Bottle service in three out of five pics. Left.

• Real Estate Bruh: NYC Skyline in every single photo. Okay, fine. Swipe right.

• Consultant Bruh: Wharton, Harvard, Yale, [insert your preferred Ivy here]. Tons of travel photos. At least we’ll have something to talk about—if he’s ever actually in town.

Then there are the musicians, artists, and actors. Their natural habitats appear to be Astoria or Bushwick. My inner practical side chimes in: Do you really want to end up supporting someone who makes less than your Starbucks habit? Harsh? Yes. But also valid.

It’s not all bad, though. Some profiles catch my eye:

• Lawyer Guy: Clever bio, great smile, and—thank the lord—no shirtless selfies. Swipe right.

• Graphic Designer: Cool glasses, cute dog in the second pic, bio says, “Fluent in sarcasm and bad puns.” Swipe right.

• Architect: Broody in a non-threatening way, bio says, “Building dreams one blueprint at a time.” Corny, sure, but I’m a sucker for an aspirational tagline. Right again.

Ready, Set, Match!

Matches start popping up, and those little circles of validation? Not bad for the ego. Now it’s up to me to take the first step.

I lead with my signature “Hi.” Evidently, I save all the suave opening lines for my characters. Besides, I’d much rather let the guys take the conversational wheel. Come on, gentlemen— woo me!

Most are meh. A few go straight for the shoulders photo:

“Hi sexy.”

“Yum. I want to lick you.”

“Love that pic—more?”

Turns out, Bumble’s default setting pushes my most popular photo to the top. No surprise, mine is the sultry skin shot. I change it to a more respectable one of me on the steps of the Met.

After exchanging the basics (job, hobbies, are-you-a-weirdo questions). Then, crucially, there is the location. New York is tiny, but every neighborhood has its own personality and most of us like to at least keep things to our side of the island. East, West, Uptown, Downtown.

Most conversations don’t go anywhere. Because my profile says “open to adventure,” everyone assumes that I’m into sexy adventures. Sigh. Men, so predictable. And the few chats that do make it past small talk? They fail at the “You’re a Romance author? Shall we do some IRL research?” phase. Bah.

I get a number of date requests (another ego boost), but there’s no one I’m truly into, because I’m a picky, picky person. Still, I figure it’s time to put myself out there. Who knows? Maybe the reality will surprise me. Perhaps I need to kiss a few frogs to find out if a prince is hiding under all that…frogginess. Or maybe I’ll just be kissing frogs to confirm they are, in fact, still frogs.

The Dates

Even if my heart’s not in it, my trusty “Fly Me to the Moon” bag of hope is always along for the dates. In addition to the essentials: condoms, sex wipes, mini perfume bottle, I’ve added disposable panties—let’s get real, who doesn’t fantasize about their underwear being ripped off via teeth? Dreams and practicality, all in one pouch.

The Sparkless Genius
He invites me to his neighborhood bar. The conversation is fine—he’s really smart—but there’s no spark. The next day, he messages asking me out again. Trying to be polite, I tell him I had fun but didn’t feel a romantic connection. I add that I’d be happy to hang out as friends, thinking I’m being kind.

His response? “Not down.”

Then he blocks me.

Classy.

The Tongue Guy
He suggests a walk. How charming. How wholesome. How completely misleading.

Because before I can even say “Hi,” he lunges. No handshake. No “Nice to meet you.” Just… tongue. Coming at me like a heat-seeking missile, locked onto my face with terrifying precision. I Matrix-dodge as if my survival depends on it, then pivot on my heel and abandon the scenic stroll for the nearest dive bar. Screw fresh air. I need disinfectant in liquid form.

Lime wedge. Straight tequila. Silent prayer. Throat, torched. Soul, scarred.

The Upstairs Strategist
He picks a noisy, overcrowded sports bar for our date—a place so loud I can barely hear myself. When I suggest we go somewhere quieter, he invites me to his place—which just happens to be right upstairs. Transparent. I can appreciate the hustle, but I counter with a wine bar down the street.

That’s when he suddenly becomes “really tired” and calls it a night.

Verdict? Points for trying, but next time, maybe just lead with, “Netflix and chill?”

Now what?

The high of Portugal is fading fast, replaced with the stark reality of dating in New York.

Why can’t any of these matches be like the ones who text/meet in Tapping the Billionaire? Or Let’s Get Textual? Or, my fave, The Friend Zone?

Was my Lisbon Lovah beginner’s luck? Or is this what dating in New York is really like? Or maybe I was just less picky with the international match because I knew it would only be a short encounter?

But do I stop swiping? No. But with each left swipe, the chipped Essie Eternal Optimist polish on my thumbnail catches the light, mocking my efforts. Optimism, like my manicure, started this adventure strong. Now? Both are looking a little worse for wear.

Next time on Flings & Other Things: D says less thinking, more ho-ing. I might actually listen. Stay tuned. 🔥

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Read on to see where my international swiping takes me.

My flight is delayed, but it’s fine. The conference doesn’t start until noon the next day, so I decamp to the lounge and start swiping through the Portuguese profiles. Time flies, because let me tell you—these men are stunning.

And it’s not just the locals. Lisbon seems to be awash in European gorgeousness. Italians and Spanish men with their sun-kissed skin and devilish smiles. Parisians and Londoners, effortlessly polished in tailored jackets and shiny cuff links. And then there are the Nordic guys—tall, brooding, and straight out of a Viking fantasy novel. Pillage away, gentlemen.

And the backdrops in these photos? They’re not just flattering—they’re aspirational. We’re talking vineyards! Cobblestone streets! Swanky rooftop clubs! These guys don’t just know their angles—they own them.

A few matches roll in, which is impressive given the time difference. There’s a 37-year-old architect (refined, probably reads Proust). A 46-year-old wine sommelier (yes, please—marry me and let’s drink our way through life). A 40-year-old photographer with a smoldering gaze and a scarf situation that doesn’t look like it came off a YouTube tutorial (teach me your ways, scarf man). Even a couple of guys in their 20s, which is great for my ego, but no—this cougar is staying in hibernation. For now.

I savor the tiny circles of faces waiting for me to make the first move, scrolling deeper into their profiles. And then it dawns on me: I’m probably one of dozens of matches these guys have, sandwiched between a neuroscientist who volunteers in her spare time and a yoga instructor who teaches kite surfing in Bali. The stakes suddenly feel absurdly high.

According to the rules of engagement, I’m supposed to message first to weed out the creeps. Fine. But when it comes time to type out my open line, my mind is a vacuous void. I try to think of something scintillating, witty, or at least mildly intriguing. Instead, I land on… “Hi.”

Brilliant. A literary masterpiece. Hemingway would weep.

I send a few of these groundbreaking “Hi” messages and just as I start to overthink whether to add an exclamation point, D finally responds. Thanks, D. Great timing.

After the obligatory “How dare he!” reactions to my news about X, he takes a look at my brand-new dating profile.

D: You need a photo that shows some skin. Everyone shows skin.

Huh. Unfortunately (or maybe fortunately), I don’t have a whole album of dicpics like some people. I review my phone again for skin. Tasteful skin. I settle for a beach shot from a couple of years ago. You can’t see much, but can tell I’m in a bathing suit. No double chin. And my collarbones are on full display. I’ve been told I have nice collarbones.

Then it’s boarding time. I travel economy, because sadly, the requisite billionaire boyfriend has yet to materialize. But do I suffer? Nope, because, as usual, I’m prepared. My seat mates look on in incredulous amusement as I construct my in-flight fortress: travel pillows, blanket, inflatable footrest, and my trusty phone tether (because yes, I once lost a phone mid-flight and I’m not risking another Bermuda Triangle moment.)

Because I’m a germaphobe, the hoodie goes up—my hair’s not touching the nasty airplane headrest. Finally, I stick in ear plugs, slip on travel socks paired with hotel slippers, and finish the ensemble with a padded eye mask that I leave perched on my forehead while I pop an Ambien. (No, I can’t provide a link to that.)

I buckle myself in, making sure the seatbelt is fastened over my blanket so no one disturbs me. Beauty sleep is of utmost importance.

Airplane mode on. If the broadcast system decides to glitch, I’m not going down before my new dating life gets off the ground. I grab my Kindle, navigate to my travel collection (Puck Me Secretly, The Stopover, and my ultimate favorite, Managed), and read until I doze off.

The next morning, touchdown. My phone buzzes back to life, and naturally Bumble is my first stop. A tiny red dot over the chat icon indicates messages await. Honestly, I’m not sure what to expect. Flattery? Banter? Genitalia? Turns out, it’s a mixed bag.

There’s the mundane:

• “Hi.”
  Groundbreaking stuff. I could cry from the excitement.

• "Hey."
  Ah, the slightly more casual cousin of 'Hi.'

• "How are you?"
  I guess boring begets boring?

The creepy:

• "Hi. Do you live alone?"
  And now we’ve entered the Dateline portion of this exchange…

• “Hi hottie, I’m just playing with my 11 incher.”
  11 inches? Ha. Just an inch short of a ruler. Unmatch.

• What your kink?
  Grammar. Use it correctly, and we’ll talk.

The forward (but less creepy):

• "Hi! So what’s a stunning woman like you doing on this app?"
  Not 100% sure, honestly. But tell me more about this ‘stunning’ business.

• "Hello, beautiful. I’ve been waiting for your message."
  Calm down, Fabio.

• Hi. If I told you I’m already planning our second date, would that be too forward?
  Well, aren’t you ambitious? Let’s focus on surviving the first one.

Interspersed are a few responses in Portuguese. After a quick detour through Google Translate, it’s just more of the same:

• “Olá. Como vai você?” (Translation: “Hi, how are you?”)

• “Você quer tomar um café?” (Translation: “Do you want to grab coffee?”)

• “Você é linda.” (Translation: “You are beautiful.”)

At this point, I’m ping-ponging between Bumble and Google Translate as if I’ve signed up for Dating Beyond Borders. Who has the time for this? I don’t Duolingo. I don’t even separate my laundry. Let’s just agree I’m charming in English and leave it at that.

These messages are starting to feel like I’m sampling a buffet of banality with the occasional side of bizarre. Is this dating? Is this my life now?

Still, I persist. Swipe, type, repeat. If nothing else, this is excellent research material.

I respond to a few innocuous messages, and these conversations bounce back and forth throughout the day. As the hours pass, I start eliminating candidates—red flags? Gone. Weird vibes? Bye. General inconvenience? Pass. Emojis, punctuation choices, and overuse of "haha" are all under the microscope. Dating, it seems, is a lot like editing.

By 6pm, I’ve whittled my list down to three potential dates. I finally make plans to meet M, a Spanish hottie. The deciding factor? His choice of bar: just a few blocks from my hotel. And a must-visit according to a few in-the-know sites, backed up with over a thousand five star google reviews.

M’s charming, well-traveled, and even spent a few months in NYC before settling in Lisbon—a built in conversation starter. And his pics are cute, head tilted just so, perfect smile, Just the right amount of stubble. Tall. Young. But still within the range of acceptability. I swear.

And now, preparation. My hair’s still in tip-top shape thanks to C’s sorcery and frizz-fighting serum. (Don’t judge me for not washing it after the flight, those blowouts don’t come cheap. Plus, I highly doubt I’ll find a stylist who’ll hype up my dating profile while perfecting my color.)

My shower is a multi-step ordeal.Round one consists of the hotel-provided soap for shaving gymnastics. Years of laser, and the hair persists. I contort myself into Cirque du Soleil-worthy poses to get everything, towel off, and then grab my trusty hand mirror for some precision work—only to have its tiny light die mid-check. What is it with me and all my low-life appliances?

Round two: back under the water to rinse off any strays, this time with my own soap—and I finish by practically dunking myself in a vat of matching body moisturizer.

Underwear: Black, seamless, and nice enough. No panty lines, no nonsense. I’ve never understood book heroines swanning around in lace and thongs. First of all, lines. Second, butt floss. No thank you. My Calvins are sexy enough for me, so anyone else will have to deal. Besides, packing for this trip was about priorities (ahem, protection), and new lingerie didn’t make the cut.

Outfit: Cute jeans, cute top, no heels. Makeup: I don’t cake it on—if the night goes my way, M will be getting close. Real close. And I crease. I check my handiwork again. Pores. Ugh. The bane of my existence.

Finishing touches: Deodorant. Perfume (safely in a travel atomizer). Normally, I stick to a light spritz on my wrists. It’s pricey, and I don’t want to stain my clothes or break out, and who really sprays behind their ears? Well, apparently tonight, I do. Wrists, ears, and—yes—between the boobs. This is how far I’ve fallen.

I stick a condom into my wallet, add another and some sex wipes and some extra spritzy stuff into a little black satin pouch I got at some wedding that aptly proclaims “Fly me to the moon.” My bag of wishful thinking.

Lastly, I need to make sure M’s not a serial killer. I send screenshots of his profile to D, and turn on location sharing (though I really don’t know how much good this will do since he is an ocean away). Then I grab one of my Apple Airtags out of my suitcase and toss in my purse. And then I get another out of my wheelie bag and stick that into my shoe–this is so not comfortable, but what’s a little stabbing pain in the name of peace of mind? If M does kill me, I just hope he’ll make it quick and painless.

I scan my room one last time. It’s in decent shape, thanks for the miracle that is hotel housekeeping.

When I get to the bar, M is waiting outside. Our eyes lock, and… wow. He’s good-looking. Like, really good-looking. Just like his photos. (Because let’s be honest, only in books do guys show up looking better than their pictures.) I hold my breath, bracing for that moment where he looks like he might have been catfished.

But no. He smiles, and oh my god, it’s giddying. It feels like my libido, which has been in sleep mode for years, just screeched back into action.

He leans in and kisses both my cheeks in that very European way. And it’s game on.

We get chatting. The conversation is lovely—made even lovelier by the three whiskey-based cocktails that I order. I wish I remembered what they were called, but I guess it’s a sign of how good they were that I can’t. I like booze, and a little social lubricant never hurt anyone.

Maybe that’s why, halfway through some discussion, I do something bold. Terrifyingly bold. “Do you want to come back to my hotel?” The words leave my mouth, and suddenly, breathing becomes optional. Is this what bravery feels like? Or stupidity? How do people do this? In my books, I end chapters with a cliffhanging “Come with me,” (usually in the MMC’s POV), and then we cut to the next scene where she is half undressed.

This? This is real life. There’s no fast-forward button. No perfectly placed fade-to-black. We have to navigate the whole awkward lead-up. Wonder of all wonders, he says yes, and doesn’t make it seem leery.

I blurt out, “I haven’t done this in a while.” Translation: never. Does that make me sound like a mess? A bad lay? What if he backs out now? Why didn’t I wait until we finished our drinks to say something? But he’s unfazed. Nice about it, even.

When the time comes, he pays the bill—despite my offer to split it. (Don’t worry, there’s a whole protocol for paying on dates saga coming in future episodes.)

We leave the bar and head back to my hotel. We don’t hold hands. Not that I expected to. Because that would be weird. Holy shit, am I really doing this? It kinda feels like I’m outside of myself watching two people get ready to do the SEX.

We walk into the lobby and the attendant nods at me. He doesn’t say anything to the guy. I keep feeling like he’s judging me. Then I remind myself that he probably sees this stuff all the time and can’t care, but I’m still glad that the elevator comes quickly.

Then we’re in my room. The bathroom light’s the only illumination, just as I planned. Anything more would only highlight the flaws that many years of marriage allowed me to ignore. The air is faintly scented with my Caudalie Beauty Elixir Mist, generously spritzed on the pillows beforeI left. Strategic ambiance? Check. Execution? Uh…Pending.

Because then… I just stand there. What now? Should I say something? Make a move? My brain is cycling through every romantic scene I’ve ever written, and all I can think is: Why am I not better at this?

Luckily, M doesn’t wait for me to figure it out. He steps closer and—praise be—takes the lead.

He kisses me, and not the "meh, this is fine" kind of kiss. No, this is full-on movie magic: hands cupping my face, pulling me in, and suddenly, I’m not worried about what to do anymore. He’s got this. Oh, he’s definitely got this.

Afterwards, he asks to use my bathroom, and leaves. No lingering, no weirdness. I revel in the lack of drama, the sheer efficiency of it all. I get back into bed and lie there, still in shock.

Oh. My. God. That. Was. AMAZING! Like, all-caps, bold, italicized, exclamation-pointed AMAZING. All the type treatments I’d never use in my books, but for this? Absolutely warranted. YES to all the embellishments. It was everything I could’ve wanted and more. Did I already say Oh my god? Well, I’m saying it again.

I bask there with the stupidest smile on my face, and all I can think?

#Winning.

Next time on Flings & Other Things: Back in NYC, I’m swiping with Lisbon-fueled optimism.

Spoiler Alert: it doesn’t last.

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X disappears with a cheerful wave, leaving me to confront the wreckage: Oyster shells. A giant check. My life.

Shock, more shock, and the oh-so-fun, “Am I a loser?” loop on repeat in my head as I trudge to the next stop of the afternoon—the salon. Bit by bit, a shaky plan brews in the chaos. Big picture: Win. The short-term specifics? Find a date. Have sex. The logistics? Still working on that.

I text D—my gay best friend, my oracle of all things sex. (Cliché? Absolutely. Accurate? No question about it.) While he lives his best life, I’ve been relying on his uncensored stories, my trusty vibrating companion. (⚠️ Seriously, don’t click the link in public ⚠️), and a diet of spicy novels. (My steamiest go-tos: If You Hate Me, Alpha: Taken, King of Corium.)

No response. Doesn’t he understand this is an emergency?

Gah. I guess I’m on my own for now.

I spot the local CVS and dash inside. My default reaction to stress is retail therapy. And yes, the irony that I’m basically living the stereotypes I write about isn’t lost on me, but here we are.

I grab a box of condoms. The biggest size. I’m not settling for less, and I’m out the door. No time to second guess myself, my roots are showing and need tending.

When I arrive at the salon, my usual stylist, C—a musician who dabbles in hair and makeup in his “spare” time—waves me over, telling me to hang out until he’s finished with his current client.

As I wait, I go back to the plan: The most obvious way to get a guy fast is via dating apps. There’s no other viable alternative. I can’t just snap my fingers and conjure up a date out of thin air. And while I’m wary, the idea is growing on me. Dating apps are efficient; everyone’s got a clear motivation: people looking for people. Sure, I’ve heard tons of horror stories, backed up by that Netflix gem, The Tinder Swindler, but I’m going for it. Forewarned is forearmed, right?

And it does sound like I need to arm myself. Will Mission: Manhunt require the stealth of a dagger? The flair of a crossbow? Or does it call for the brute force of a battering ram? (I have no clue where one even buys a battering ram, but it feels like I should find out.) The bigger question: Which app to pick?

I mentally review my options:

Hinge: Relationship-y. Hmmm. This one concerns me, though it seems to be the app of choice for friends looking for love. Am I ready for that? Maybe If it happens by accident, but a serious relationship right now? I’d be unhinged.

Tinder: Efficient, yes. But the black and red color scheme is… intense. I may need to work myself up to it.

Bumble: Sunny. Insects. Horizontal stripes. All things that don’t usually appeal. But the concept of me messaging first? At least I can pretend I’m in control. As long as I’m not actually bumbling my way through it and can channel my inner Blair Waldorf to claim my Queen Bee status in the dating world, I think I’ll be able to handle it.

*Dramatic push the download button moment.*

By the time Bumble’s on my device, C’s ready for me.

“So,” he says, running his fingers through the abomination attached to my skull. “How are we feeling today?”

“Well,” I start, desperate to unload, since D is still MIA. “I’m… dating.”

Low whistle. “Nice. We’ll make you look amazing. Using the apps? Which one?”

“Bumble,” I say confidently, as if I haven’t only just downloaded it. Yep, I’m a Bumble pro now. Totally.

“Let me see your profile.”

“It’s a work in progress.” I’m a work in progress—under construction, but solid potential.

“Oooh, a refresh profile? I love a good glow up opp!”

Okay, yes. Glow me up. All the way up. Glow me until I’m shining like the bat signal in the sky.

As he gets to work on my hair, I start scrolling through my phone for photos, trying to find something that doesn’t scream DMV. I sort through the most recent ones. And the ones from right before that. And the ones from before that. I pick a few possibilities and flash one at C. “Does this look like me?”

“Yes.”

“Like, present-day me?”

“Yes.”

“But my hair’s darker.”

“You could have lightened it.”

“I have fewer wrinkles.”

“Botox is your friend.”

We go through this cycle a few more times. Either I really do look fabulous, or he’s lying—after all, the man works for tips, so it’s not as if he’s going to tell me otherwise. (Plus, let’s not forget my current man-doubting state of mind.)

This back-and-forth continues until C’s had enough. He takes my phone and squints at it. Then turns and holds it up to the three other people at the salon. “Does this look like her?”

Now, we New Yorkers pride ourselves on our ‘don’t bother me’ attitude. But hint at wanting an opinion—even unintentionally—and you’ve got an instant focus group.

A blonde with foil wraps looks up from her Kindle. ‘Yep, that’s her.’

The other hairdresser, sweeping up clippings, glances up at the photo, then meets my eyes in the mirror. “Absolutely.” (But he also partakes of the wine I drop off during the holidays.)

An older woman who’s practically a fixture in the salon takes a little longer. “I agree.”

Unanimous yeses. Okay. That’s something.

C continues, “She’s making a dating profile. How old does she look here?”

Tin-foil lady goes, “Thirty-five!”

I think I love her. The others throw out similarly flattering numbers, and I decide maybe today is a good day.

C has now taken full creative control, tapping through my camera roll with the confidence of an art director. “We need variety, honey. Let’s give them the total package: brains, mystery, and a touch of glam.”

In moments, the entire salon is invested in the project—thumbs up, thumbs down, intense discussions on “good angles,” with everyone throwing in their own dating nightmares. When the frenzy ends, I have five photos that are surprisingly… usable.

“See? We’ll have you on a date tonight,” C promises.

Wait, what? Tonight? I wasn’t even planning to actually date yet—this was supposed to be prep work! “I’m on a red-eye to Lisbon tonight.” Time to pump the brakes. “I just wanted to get ahead of the game.”

“Why wait? Go on dates in Lisbon.” He hands my phone back.

Hmmm, should I be Carpe Dieming right now? It’s what my characters would do. “Don’t the guys need to be nearby, within range?”

“Travel mode.”

Travel wha???

C has me dive into Bumble’s settings, and before I know it, I’m knee-deep in credit card details, signing up for a month of premium features.

I’m officially ready. C has banished all traces of silver from my hair, and tamed it into a sleek, layered masterpiece with what must be an enchanted paddle brush, and sealed the deal with a frizz-fighting serum designed for humidity warfare. Bumble is convinced I’m in Lisbon, and at this point, so am I. Let’s do this.

I review my details one last time: name, height, and age (gasp!)

My bio? “Looking for adventure.”

What happens after? Catch the next episode of Flings & Other Things to see how one delayed flight and a bunch of unexpected matches lead to the kind of night that only happens in movies—or Lisbon.

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But before we get started, here’s a Trigger Warning: 

Family members who get this newsletter, unsubscribe now. And that goes for you too, ex-husband. Much as our relationship is amicable, I’d rather you not go any further. These tales might be sweet, but some might get spicy. And there will be shopping lists.

Now that it’s just us, let me tell you about the ex-husband incident that kicked off this whole enterprise, in case you’re wondering how it all began. 

So, picture this: I met up with my ex-husband one afternoon. Yep, we’re those weird people who grab the occasional drink post-divorce. Our relationship had devolved into a platonic, squabbling siblings dynamic before the paperwork was signed. That picture might be a little ick, but it is what it is. 

Every so often, I can get him to swing by to fix random shit in the apartment we once shared. Sometimes without complaint, sometimes after a measure of guilting. I return the favor whenever possible. Our friends disapprove of this co-dependent vibe, but when things fall apart,  a girl’s got to have an on-call DIYer in place.

This particular episode was time-sensitive since I was hopping across the pond to Lisbon that night, and my apartment was in desperate need of some emergency ex-husband handiwork—a leaky shower head waits for no one.

I throw a hoodie over my Little Miss Bossy T-shirt (because I’m all about staying in character) and pull on my Paige jeans, slap on some tinted sunscreen (X no longer gets a full face of makeup).

To show my gratitude for his diligent screwdriving, I offer to take X to the local seafood place—far fancier than you’d guess for a neighborhood joint, but this is NYC and fancy comes with the territory.

We opt for a spot at the bar, a table would’ve made it look like we were on a date. We were not. This was purely transactional. You Fix. I Feed. (Well, I pick up the tab.)

Since we’ve missed Happy Hour, this thank you comes at the cost of overpriced cocktails and a dozen five-dollar-a-pop oysters

The platter’s barely set down when he kicks off with, “So…”

I reach for one of the high-roller half-shells. X is well known for his slow starts. I’ve lost years of my life waiting with bated breath for big revelations, only to hear equivalents of, “We’re out of toothpaste.” I can’t afford to lose another second. I pop the oyster into my mouth.

“I have a girlfriend.”

Cue choke. Inside. No self-respecting ex-wife would choke for real. Plus, these bougie brine-bombs just slide down one’s throat, choking doesn’t really happen. A bazillion thoughts run through my head.

I didn’t even know he was dating. Or could get a date. What the holy fuck? I flip the empty shell, setting it down, a little crack sounding as it hits the ice. “Oh nice. How long have you two been together?”

“Since August.”

“Two months ago? Nice.”

“Umm, a year and two months ago.”

“Ah.” Not nice. What the ACTUAL holy fuck? That was barely two months after he moved out. I flash back to the last time I found a box of condoms at his place. (No, I wasn’t snooping. I was grabbing myself a phone charger from his bedside. This isn’t a rom-com—this is my life where electronics need juicing.) I remember thinking, Good for him. Not like he’ll ever use them. But apparently… he did. He has. 

“Oh good. Glad you are… settled. I’ve been out there, too. Meeting people, going out…” Lies. so many lies. My bootcuts are practically blazing. No, I wasn’t dating. I figured, all in good time. It would happen when it happens, and all that jazz. I’ve been surviving on a steady diet of book boyfriends: There’s Luke, the sexy OB-GYN from Wrong, Gray the football star from The Friend Zone, and Malcolm, the requisite rich guy from Return Billionaire to Sender. (By the way, all of these are currently on KU—grab a free trial here and thank me later.)

And to complement my fictional boyfriends? My trusty Swedish massager. (Yes, this link will open what you think it will, don’t click at work or around company.)

“How is it?”

“Fun. So fun.” Ugh. How does he always do this? Zen. Zen. Where’s my fucking zen?

“And it’s good?”

“Oh, so good. I mean, our sex life sucked…” Tiny jab. Or maybe not so tiny. But not a lie. Sex with the ex had never been wow. However, since I wasn’t dating, I wasn’t having sex. (Not that one’s required for the other.) We both laugh. If I were writing this for a book, my character would do this “mechanically” or “maniacally” but I spent years in high school drama, so my tinkling laugh comes out perfect. Perfect. Just fucking perfect. 

Let’s be clear. I don’t really care that there’s a girlfriend, but to dare do something like this before me? No way. We had roles. ROLES! I was the brains of this operation, he always followed my lead. Now, all of a sudden, he’s ahead of me? By a fucking year? I glance down at our oysters, those would-be aphrodisiacs that never did anything for us. Unbelievable. Unacceptable. 

And in that moment, I come up with a plan. 

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