Sunday night had been a blur, both because I felt a bit giddy over having my own profile on Project Narcissus—I had my own username and everything!—and because talking with Cassandra was too much fun. I had read somewhere, in my academic research (the sort of academic research one did in personal experience's stead), that when guys talked to girls on apps like Eros, it was the girls who had the pick of the bunch, while someone was lucky if they got even a like on their profile. But fortune's favor had smiled on me and the tables had been turned, and after Cassandra there was a long line of interested responses. Despite my luxury of choice, I couldn't do what Valdez always did and juggle multiple suitors at once: I'd be cheating on them.
And so it was just Cassandra, and after a bout of flurried conversation we agreed to a casual lunch the following day. I turned off the string quartet Project Narcissus was serenading me with and went to bed, dreamy and hopeful.
The next morning I took a shower, with conditioner this time—I had no idea what it did but it seemed like the sort of thing Macho Chris would do, combed my hair, applied a dainty dollop of gel that felt like way too much, and checked my profile again for a reference of what I was supposed to look like. This was the guy she'd agreed to meet, and just like Gatsby, to this conception I would be faithful to the very end.
As I was about to leave for lunch, Valdez returned from class. He whistled and patted me on the back.
"You look even better than the photos. Here, unbutton just the top of your polo shirt—there you go. Fake it till you make it."
"This is nothing," I lied, having never been on a date in college. The misadventures of high school sophomore year were never to be spoken of again. This was a new me. I was ready.
I spied Cassandra lingering outside the dining hall entrance and called out her name. She turned to me and grinned, brushing her jade-green shirt clean one last time for good measure.
"I didn't think you'd show up!" she exclaimed, reaching in for a handshake. Her hands were soft and felt like a warm hug—did she use lotion?
"Was I late? I'm so sorry," I started explaining, but she cut me off:
"No, because you're clearly out of my league. You cooked for frickin' Gordon Ramsay! You rode a tiger! I said my perfect morning was 'reading a cozy book in a cozy nook.' Come on, let's go in—I'm starving."
Truth be told, I didn't know too much about Cassandra—certainly less than she knew about me. It's not that I didn't care or anything last night, but I felt like the conversation was carried just by talking about me to where she didn't need to tell me much about herself. Sometimes conversations are like that.
We grabbed our food, Cassandra going for a kale salad, and I copied her. I wouldn't say I hated vegetables, but I certainly wasn't quite a vegetable aficionado: the slice of tomato in my usual burger didn't count. She smiled, and I smiled too; I could have admired her all day: her slight dimples, or how her cheeks puffed up like a cute little chipmunk when she took too big a bite, but she broke the silence at last:
"You have to tell me more about yourself. Tell me a story. Anything," she said, and I forced down my bite of kale with a swig of water.
"So let's start with the tiger. This was a trip to Malaysia, and this tiger, the biggest you'd ever seen, comes up to me. I expected it to roar, or charge, or something, but it stares me down. I see my life flash before my eyes, but I decided if I'm to face death I'll face it head on. I walk up to the tiger—it doesn't flinch—and I pat it on the head. It starts purring, and I think the next logical thing to do is mount it. So I mount the tiger, and we ride, my parents following warily behind. And it took me to this spot, you see," I said pointing to myself in the picture again, "and after the photo he took me back down and we parted ways. That's the story. It's what happened."
Cassandra looked shocked again, like this wasn't an ordinary occurrence, and her smile beamed again. "I'm—no—this is amazing. What did it feel like to ride a tiger? How did it compare to, like, a horse?"
"Oh, it's nothing like a horse. I'd know, obviously. It was kind of like if you turned the emotion of ferocity into an object. Very smooth ride."
"And so this isn't the tiger you killed for the loincloth?" Cassandra asked. Wait, did I say that?
"Uh, different tiger. That was self-defense. So anyway, I feel like I've been hogging the conversation. What's your life story?" I didn't think I had the creative juices in me for a tiger-hunting story, though when I got back to my dorm Project Narcissus could write one for me.
"You wouldn't want to hear it, I'm too boring. I'm amazed you even responded to me. But," Cassandra said, drawing out that syllable like she was searching for what followed, "I'm kind of a nerd. I remember you said you're an English major—I'm dual-majoring in political science and Asian studies—so I hope you won't find it a turn-off when I say I really love Jane Austen and Oscar Wilde. The laughs and the feels, ya know."
"You'll never know—the very essence of romance is uncertainty," I said with a smirk. This was more of my comfort zone. As long as we kept the conversation there. Then I'd be telling the truth.
"Such a tease. OK, who's your favorite author then?"
"That's a toughie... Goethe."
"Edgy!" she exclaimed, bursting out into giggles again. "Fits a tough guy like you. I'm so glad that you're, like, down-to-earth. All the other guys I've met like you are so fake, big puffy shells on the outside but hollow on the inside. On one hand you have a Maserati, but at the same time you're just a guy that I can have a meal with. I'm surprised you didn't offer to take me for a ride. That probably works on every girl—it would have worked on me."
"I wish I could, but the car's in the shop," I explained, using one of the excuses I had saved. She nodded understandingly.
"I see. Repairs on that car must be expensive."
"They are. Let me get some more food."
"I will too," she said, and she tagged along behind me. The mac and cheese called to me, but I went for the seared chicken breast, even though the texture was a bit like Aunt Sandy's carrot cake. A few roasted beets on the side, the sweetest vegetable I could find, on the side and I had a complete second portion. We returned to our seats, and Cassandra looked at my relatively colorless plate with a slight twinge.
"The chicken here is so bland. It's like eating cardboard," she declared. "Gordon Ramsay would be disappointed."
"I know, right. It's tasteless."
"I'm surprised you didn't go for some sriracha."
"Great idea!" I said with a toothy smile. I hated spicy food. I paused for a moment, hoping Cassandra would tell me I didn't actually have to, but of course she wouldn't. Macho Chris wouldn't flinch.
I returned with a bottle and tried my hardest to leave a thin line on the chicken—despite my best efforts, it came out in a thick smear, and I felt my nose preemptively water. I cut off a piece and took a bite. Not bad, actually.
"So as you were saying, you like British literature; what else do you do for fun?" I asked. I silently recanted my previous statement: each bite felt like I was scraping the inside of my mouth with a razor. Death by a thousand cuts was the worst way to die.
"You're really going to think I'm a huge dork for this, but I like crochet, board games, listening to music, Netflix, I don't know... I feel like if I keep talking you're going to fall asleep at the table." There was no danger of that while the chicken was laying siege to my mouth. "Are you OK? Your face is turning a bit red."
"Must be the lighting. And no, go on, I could listen all day," I said, and she smiled again, her dimples showing once more.
"I like rollercoasters. That's the best I can do. Oh, we should go sometime. Five Peaks, you and me, Wednesday afternoon? You have to go during the week or the lines are much too long—though I can't imagine it's as fun as riding a tiger."
I laughed, trying my hardest to suppress my lingering discomfort at the sriracha and the fact that rollercoasters terrified me almost as much as horses did. But how could I say no to that face, that marvelous face staring me right in the eyes? Macho Chris, who was rapidly becoming my idol, would say yes.
"Let's do it. Oh, also, I should get your Instagram. Chatting on Eros feels too fake."
"I get what you mean," Cassandra said sagely. "I don't have an Instagram though. I try to stay off social media. And yeah you're probably like 'but this girl's on a dating app,' but that's not the same thing. The goal of dating apps is to portray yourself authentically, 'to thine own self be true' as you'd say, but Instagram's all about vanity. It's disgusting—no offense."
"None taken," I chuckled. "How about your number then?"
"You're bold—I like it. Cassandra Peterson, let me type the rest in," she said, grabbing my phone. "You finished eating?"
"I could go for dessert. Let me get a glass of milk," I said, "and a slice of that devil's food cake," disguising that my mouth was still ablaze and if I didn't have something soothing soon I was going to start crying.
"You eat dessert? You're so muscular—that felt like body-shaming, I'm sorry. But I assumed anyone who looks like you, who does the things you do, would be a health nut," Cassandra laughed, and I laughed too. Both because it was instinct and because I was a twig: it was only in my photos I looked like, well, the tiger-taming sort who could rock loincloths. I looked at my plate and some part of me knew it was the healthy thing to do to put it back.
"What's life without a bit of temptation?" I quipped, and we finished our desserts and left the dining hall. It was a bright, clear day—such a day wasn't meant to be spent indoors, but I had too much I wanted to do in my dorm. We lingered outside for a moment, and I searched for an ending line. She spoke first again:
"How should we get there Wednesday? Perhaps you could drive us..."
"Oh no, the car's still going to be in the shop. But it's just two buses. Very smooth ride. See you Wednesday?" I said. These repairs could continue for a few days—specialty stuff—and then I'd be such a generous guy I'd loan the car to my buddy who wanted to take it on a trip across the country, and perhaps by then she'd stop asking about my car I didn't actually own.
"See you Wednesday," she said, hugging me before walking away. She almost looked like she was skipping: I watched her round a corner and disappear, probably also heading back to her dorm. That was a good lunch, I thought to myself. I'd do that again someday.
"And it's all thanks to you," I said to my phone, where I'd pulled up Project Narcissus again. Macho Chris posed on a jet ski in the Channel Islands, flashing the camera a joyful thumbs-up. One more tweak—having it make my lifevest black instead of that garish, vomit-like orange—and it was ready for my Instagram story. I'd never go jet skiing on a Monday. That was a minor quibble, and most importantly, Cassandra wouldn't know anything except what I told her. She never used Instagram. That was enough excitement for one day, so I returned to my dorm, my secret safe and sound.
Valdez was still at his desk, with his thermos. Someone really ought to have a talk with him about his caffeine addiction, I thought to myself, but it wouldn't be me. The empty Red Bull can implied he was at least sober. I tapped him on the shoulder—he turned sharply, looking a bit jittery from the energy drink.
"How did it go? Was she impressed—did she compliment you on the look?"
"The hair? No—I don't even think she noticed. She said I was muscular though. You should take me to the gym sometime. But we mainly talked about books, our hobbies, not too many stories. She's very nice," I explained. "Honest. Authentic."
"Yeah, yeah, yeah. So when's the next date?"
"Wednesday. We're going to Five Peaks."
Valdez shook his head. "You hate rollercoasters though. I tried bringing you last semester and you were petrified."
"Well, she doesn't need to know that. I'm doing it for her," I resolutely declared. And for my better half, I thought to myself.
"Have fun, but not too much," Valdez said with a wink, and he went back to work. I'd been able to finish my homework a lot more quickly thanks to Project Narcissus's abundant nonjudgmental feedback, which left me with more free time than I knew what to do with. There was something empowering about having the world at my fingertips and not knowing what to do with it: I had a date with Cassandra, a killer Eros profile, rapidly-accumulating Instagram followers thanks to my adventurous content, so I guess I didn't need much else. Some more sleep would be nice, one of the few things it couldn't provide. A nap wouldn't hurt.
"Play me a quiet lullaby in the style of Paganini, and wake me up with trumpet fanfare in two hours," I told Project Narcissus—its original work was excellent, but imitation was the sincerest form of flattery—and I put my AirPods in and drifted off to sleep, imagining myself endlessly jetskiing along the Southern California coast, Cassandra at my side.