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Chapter Two
Andy McCoy, that’s his name. Captain Andy McCoy if you don’t mind, a senior airline pilot with Delta, as it happens. Later on that night I fall into a troubled, broken sleep and at one point even have a nightmare that I’m a passenger on a flight he’s piloting that’s just about to crash. And of course, the last thing I hear is Andy’s panicky voice – that gorgeous, deep, resonant voice that I’ve come to know so well over the past few weeks – coming over the aircraft tannoy saying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to attempt an emergency landing; please assume crash positions. Oh and if you’re the praying type, then right about now would sure be a heck of a good time to start.’
I wake just after 5 a.m. with a sharp jolt, then realize it was only an anxiety dream and that I’m actually safely tucked up in bed with the electric blanket turned up full. But after the usual thirty-second time lag before my conscious mind kicks into gear, reality sets in. And as regards last night in Fade Street Social, yup, that particular nightmare was fairly real alright.
Shock and crushing disappointment kept me numb for most of last night, but in the cold light of day the God-awful, humiliating reality slowly starts to set in.
Then the one thought there’s just no running away from, no matter how hard I try. I thought this could actually go somewhere. I thought this one had legs. I really, genuinely felt that for once I might just be able to have the first happy Christmas I’ve had since – well, since. Clearly not to be, though, and the disappointment is crushing.
Groggily coming to, I’m suddenly aware that my head is pounding. So stumbling like an aul one on a Zimmer frame, I kick the duvet off and am just making for the bathroom when suddenly something lying innocently on my bedside table catches my eye.
My phone. I flung it there before I collapsed into bed last night; just switched it off and tossed it aside, figuring that if Andy thought all it would take was one of his late-night phone calls to set things to rights between us, then he could go and take a running jump with himself. But now I pick it up, twiddle around with it for a bit and am just about to shove it into a drawer and ignore it completely when a sharp curiosity gets the better of me.
So I switch the phone back on.
Dear Jesus, seven missed calls. Every single one of them from him.
This better be good, this better be good, this better be good, I think, frantically clicking on voicemail.
‘Received at one-oh-three a.m.… ’ says that annoying automated woman’s voice in a dull monotone.
‘Holly? Holly, are you there? It’s me, it’s Andy. I gotta explain what just happened. Don’t get a fright, but we just had a mid-air …’
I swear, just the very sound of his voice instantly raises my pulse rate. But the message is abruptly cut short just as I’m thinking a mid-air? A mid-air what exactly? But nothing more. So I stab impatiently at the phone’s voicemail button again.
‘Received at one-oh-four a.m.,’ drones the same automation’s voice down the phone again.
‘Holly,’ he goes on, sounding tensed and panicked now. ‘I hope you can hear me? I’m calling you from Newfoundland … I’m right here at St John’s Airport; don’t worry though, I’m OK and everything is absolutely fine … we just touched down here after an emergency landing …’
An emergency landing?
Shit! His phone cuts out again, so fingers trembling, I click straight onto the next voicemail.
‘Received at one-oh-five a.m.… ’ says the automatic voice and I find myself snarling, ‘oh will you shut up!’ back down the phone at her.
‘… Holly, are you even getting these messages? Look, I know it’s past one in the morning your time, but I had to get in touch as soon as we touched down to explain what happened. Because I can’t begin to apologize for leaving you high and dry like that. That’s just not who I am. I hope you know only something like a real, genuine emergency would keep me from being there to meet you last night …’
Bloody machine cuts him off again. So walloping sweaty fingers off the keys, I hit on the next voice message, hissing aloud, ‘What emergency? What the feck happened?’
‘Holly, me again,’ he says, over a whole load of background noise. Sirens? Ambulances?
‘I sure can’t begin to apologize for not getting to meet you tonight,’ he says, raising his voice to be heard over all the background fracas. ‘But here’s the thing. We were just about two hours out of Atlanta when we had a mid-air incident with a passenger who …’
Bloody well cut off again. A passenger who what? Caused a fight? An air-rage incident because they were pissed out of their head on duty-free? What?
I’m just about to turn on the telly, in case the story’s made it onto Sky News or BBC 24, but next thing there’s a ping down my phone and I realize there’s an email that’s been waiting for me all this time. And sure enough, it’s him again.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Holly. It’s me. I’ve been calling and calling you, but your phone just keeps clicking straight onto voicemail.
I totally get it if you never want to see or hear from me again after my letting you down so badly last night. But I also hope you know there’s just no way in hell I’d ever do a thing like that without real good cause. And boy, did I have good cause last night.
Trouble started when we were just under two hours out of Atlanta, headed north-east over the Atlantic. Next thing, my senior flight steward came into the cockpit to say a passenger had suddenly been taken ill. Course, I immediately asked if there was a doctor on board and not one, but two, came forward to examine this passenger.
So my co-pilot took over while I discussed what was happening with the medics. Both quickly agreed that the passenger, a middle-aged guy who was travelling alone, had most likely suffered a cardiac arrest and needed to be rushed to hospital ASAP.
Now we got all sorts of procedures in place for when incidents like this happen, so I got on the radio immediately and requested an emergency landing at the nearest international airport. Which given that we were headed east over the Atlantic happened to be right here at St John’s, Newfoundland. Anyway, we touched down within thirty minutes of my putting out the emergency call and they had ambulances already waiting right on the tarmac to rush our patient to hospital just as fast as they could.
It was dramatic; it sure as hell was traumatic and it genuinely killed me not to be able to make our date last night, but I hope this goes some small way towards explaining the downside of a life in the sky.
I’ll try calling you at a more respectable time and if you don’t want to speak with me, then I’ll totally get it.
I’m being rerouted back home now. Like I always say, gotta fly.
Andy.
I go online and do a quick Google of the international news in this morning’s online papers. I scroll down through countless pages and links and, lo and behold, there it is.
Buried up at the top of page seven in the Chronicle; a tiny breaking news feature about a Delta flight that had to be rerouted back to Newfoundland when a passenger unexpectedly took ill. Not only that, but it’s on both the Sky News app and the BBC app too.
Which means he was telling the truth then, the whole truth and nothing but.
So I climb back into bed, mind racing. And deep down, I think, almost a bit relieved. After all, as excuses go, this one’s a doozy.
Not long after, I fall into a fitful, troubled sleep and keep flashing back to when this all first began.
Chapter Three
Exactly three weeks ago.
Welcome to the Two’s Company Dating Website!
Username: lady_reporter
Never easy to describe yourself, but here goes. Tall, slim, blue-eyed brunette. Loves eating out and staying in and mountaineering and skydiving, and I know everyone says they’ve got the best job in the world on these sites, but I really, genuinely think I have.
I’m also a major foodie who adores cooking for friends/ baking/ all of the above. And with apologies in advance if I come over as a boasty boaster, but my friends do reckon my chocolate cherry cupcakes, something of a house speciality round here, are worthy of The Great British Bake Off.
So, anyone out there? Anyone at all?
I posted it out there and, as you do, resolved not to check back in again for at least a good hour or so. But it was a quiet night, with shag all to speak of on telly, so after exactly seventeen minutes I cracked. And there it was, just waiting for me.
8.07 p.m.
*New Message*
Hi, lady_reporter, you have 1 new response!
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Hey there Lady Reporter,
Like your profile. Mountaineering? Skydiving? Wow. And you’re a foodie too? Snap. Message me back soon – if you’re not halfway up Mount Kilimanjaro or about to do a parachute jump at two thousand feet, that is.
Now, as we all know in man-language, ‘message me back soon’ can mean anything from two hours to two weeks. However, all my time served at the online dating coalface had taught me that there’s almost an Alice in Wonderland/upside-down environment at play here, where the dating rules that apply in real life are totally inverted. On sites like this one, the longer you play games and wait to respond to a guy who shows initial interest, the higher the likelihood he’ll have moved onto someone else by then.
So I struck while the iron was hot.
Username: lady_reporter
Lovely to hear from you, but may I point out that’s only one personal fact about you whereas I told you loads.
Come on, fair is fair!
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Hi again, and please excuse me, I’m kinda new to this whole online dating thing. OK, so a few more nuggets about me.
Fact two is that I’m loving the fact that you’re tall. I’m on the six foot side myself as it happens, and way back in my college dating days, I inevitably found myself going for ladies who I at least could share eye contact with.
And another bit of personal info? Gotta say, I find this whole online dating thing pretty tough to get a handle on. Guess I’m old-fashioned, but if you ask me, personal contact trumps online messaging any day.
So what do you think, Lady Reporter?
Personal contact? I thought, re-reading it. Was this guy really hinting that we swap phone numbers at this early stage? Wow, unheard of! I decided to play it cautious though and left a dignified pause, the exact length of the first half of an episode of Modern Family, before replying.
Username: lady_reporter
Sorry, but this is just a quick message, as I can’t really chat right now. Long story, but I’m at a critical stage with my pear and almond tart. Thing is, baking is almost like a fundamental switch-off mechanism for me. In fact I don’t sleep right without knowing my chocolate biscuit cake is in the fridge and setting right.
Anyway, we’ve swapped a few basic facts, which I reckon now means we get to ask each other slightly more personal questions.
1. So whereabouts are you based exactly?
2. And you never mentioned if you’re married/separated/divorced? Not to be overly nosey or anything, but I’m a great believer that directness – and of course total honesty online – really is the best way.
Pinger on the oven’s calling me, gotta dash.
Bye for now,
Lady_reporter.
Right. If nothing else, that was bound to fish him out, I reckoned. If this guy was married – and you’d be astonished how many of them there are out there openly masquerading as single – chances are he just wouldn’t respond and would skulk quietly off to go and hassle someone else. After all, you’ve got to protect yourself on these sites. Can’t be too careful, etc.
I finished watching Modern Family and was just about to go over to Netflix when curiosity got the better of me. And whaddya know, to my astonishment, he’d already replied.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Excuse my lousy manners, Ma’am.
OK, here goes. First up, I’m originally from Charleston, South Carolina, but right now I’m based here in Atlanta, Georgia, for work. You ever been to the Southern states? Best and most beautiful part of the US by a mile. And, just so you know, ladies like yourself who are into home-cooking are generally held to be a deeply treasured species down here.
Second thing is that I’ve actually been married before. Amy and I had a wonderful, joyous ten years together, and I cherish that time as just about the happiest in my whole life. We got a son who lives here with me and his grandma, and that little kid is the light of my life. Name of Logan. He’s six years old, cute as a button and smart as a whip. Yelling at me right now for spending too much time on my computer when he wants me to play Minecraft on his Xbox with him, so I guess that’s my cue to say over and out.
For now, at least.
You want to exchange photos and emails? Or maybe even real names? Seems kinda funny to keep referring to you as ‘Lady Reporter’.
Message me back real soon. Xxx
Photos and emails? Already? I blinked a bit in disbelief, on account of how normally it can take days or even longer to get to this stage online. OK, so this was clearly a ‘jump in two feet first’ kind of guy. So this time I left it a good hour before messaging him back, thinking safety first. Because you just never know online, do you?
Username: lady_reporter
Me again.
So … you’re divorced? Separated? With shared custody of Logan?
With apologies if I come across as being a bit nosey. It’s just you really can’t be too careful these days, can you?
PS And just so you know, the entire screen of my iPad is now covered in flour, baking soda and apricot jam. And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.
PPS Logan sounds so adorable.
I hit the send key and waited. Six minutes this time, that’s exactly how long it took for him to get back to me.
A Very Good Sign.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Please excuse me. Guess being single for so long kind of makes me forget my manners. Fact is, I’m a widower. My beautiful wife Amy passed away when Logan was just eighteen months old. Most painful thing of all is that even though I try my best to keep her memory alive for him, truth is he barely remembers her. But right now, he keeps on badgering me for a new Mom and ‘younger brothers and sisters, that he can boss around’.
Gotta tell you, the whole dating landscape has changed a lot since before I got married. This is my very first foray into the whole online dating thing so please bear with me if I come on a bit too strong. Just not used to the whole scene, that’s all. Be patient with me, Lady Reporter.
By the way, you still haven’t told me what you do for a living? You said you love your job, but you never told me what exactly that is? Though I’m guessing the clue is probably in your username.
OK. So it was at this point I started to sit up and really pay attention. He was a widower, which proved he wasn’t commitment-phobic or afraid of marriage, plus he had a kid, which clearly said ‘family man’. Exactly the type statistically proven that goes on to remarry and live happily ever after. We once did a story on it at the radio station where I work and now I was thinking … could it be possible? On a lonely, ordinary, nothing-special Friday night, had I accidentally stumbled on the holy grail of online dating?
This time, I was back to him after just half an hour spent watching House of Cards.
Username: lady_reporter
Oops! Sorry, serves me right for emailing and getting distracted by my salted caramel sauce at the same time.
To answer your question, I’m an investigative journalist on a current affairs show here in Dublin. It’s a very full schedule and it’s demanding, but even on the bad days, when it’s 5 a.m. and I’m shivering in sub-zero temperatures outside Mountjoy Prison, covering some convicted drug baron’s release, I still wouldn’t swap it for anything.
Got to dash, need my two hands to use the Magimix.
I winced a bit at the sheer barefacedness of the lie, because basically all the above is just a teeny bit of an exaggeration. An investigative reporter on a current affairs show? I only bleeding wish. In actual fact I’m a lowly researcher and while my dream is one day to work on TV news, the sad reality is that the only gig I can get these days is on an afternoon phone-in show; one of those caller-dependent programmes where listeners ring in to give out about their social welfare being cut or else the price of the bin charges. And my job is to trawl through the papers and the Internet in the hope that some good, juicy, contentious news item will jump out at me, which our presenter then invites callers to ring in on and pitch their two cents’ worth about.
But then I glanced back at my last post and thought shag it anyway. Besides, it wasn’t an out and out porker, just a tweaking and a slight embellishment of the truth, that was all. Huge difference. And everyone cheats the small stuff a wee bit online, don’t they? It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if a guy says he’s ‘chubby’, it means ‘morbidly obese’. Similarly, ‘fond of fun times’ means ‘swinger.’ Oh, and ‘enjoys a few drinks’ means ‘would gladly suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’.
Online it’s acceptable, I told myself. Everyone does it, and the way I look on it, this is just how you level out the playing field. And I’m sure this guy is no different. So maybe he’s a little older than I’m assuming, or maybe he’s not six feet tall, like he claims. But when it comes down to it, these are all relatively minor concerns, aren’t they?
Yet again, he was back to me almost instantly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Wow. Sure didn’t realize I was messaging a bona fide celebrity! What a fascinating job; sure as hell is more interesting than mine, I can tell you.
PS I’m guessing you got a real pretty first name.
And I’d sure love to know what it is.
Username: lady_reporter
Holly. It’s Holly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
A real pleasure to meet you, Holly from Ireland, even if it is only virtually. I’m Andy McCoy, at your service.
Really gotta go; Logan’s throwing a football into my face right now. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I’m a commercial pilot for the good people over at Delta Airlines. I fly the transatlantic route mostly and travel over and back to Ireland regularly. Shannon mostly, but Dublin too. Friendliest people in the world, and boy, are the girls pretty.
Over and out, Ma’am, for the moment at least.
At your service,
(Captain) Andy McCoy.
Chapter Four
‘Holly Johnson! You are one barefaced liar and you should be utterly ashamed of yourself!’
I was sitting at our tiny kitchen table for this earbashing from my flatmate Joy. It was not long after I first ‘met’ Andy online, and I was topping up our glasses with a bottle of Pinot Grigio that I’d bought us as a Friday night treat to have along with a bowl of pasta. And frankly I was starting to regret that I’d ever bothered confiding in Joy, who was sitting right opposite me, eyebrows knitted down crossly.
‘But doesn’t he sound just so lovely? Captain Andy McCoy,’ I distinctly remember trying to convince her. ‘And get of load of the profile picture he sent me … look! He’s got eyes exactly like Matthew McConaughey.’
‘You told him you could bake! Out and out pork pies, Holly. You even had the cheek to embellish it, by blathering on about getting flour and apricot jam all over your iPad, for feck’s sake.’
‘I know, but …’
‘… Listen to this for a big load of my arse! “Baking is my fundamental switch-off mechanism.” When we both know the only “baking” you did last night was to shove your lean cuisine dinner for one into the microwave.’
‘Yeah, OK, so you and I may know that, but he doesn’t …’
‘… You never even go near the oven in this kitchen, unless you want to check the time on the clock. And as for that load of horse dung about “my chocolate cherry cupcakes are worthy of The Great British Bake Off”? That sounds like such a cheesy come-on, if I ever heard one! Who do you think you are anyway, Nigella?’
‘… But the thing is, everyone knows it’s been statistically proven that guys are more attracted to women who can bake. I’ve been online dating for a scarily long time now and I know that much at least is true – so why not?’
‘… In fact, just for the laugh, I’d love you to show me where we keep our springform baking tin. And if you can tell me the difference between that and a Kugelhopf tin, then I’ll gladly hand you a tenner right now. Mother of God, you’ve even lied about your height! “Tall and slender?” Holly, you’re five foot three! You think you’re not going to get caught out in that one pretty quick? Suppose you ever meet up with this guy? What are you going to do, sprout an extra nine inches in the meantime?’
Thing was, I’d made the cardinal error of physically showing Joy all the backwards and forwards messaging that went on between myself and Andy McCoy ever since that very first night and now she was reading it off my iPad and guffawing.
‘Oh and so now you’re a skydiver as well?’ she said dryly. ‘You, that has to take a Xanax and knock back a gin and tonic before you’ll even get on a Ryanair flight? And you also go mountaineering? Can this be the same Holly Johnson who gets vertigo even sitting on the top deck of a bus?’
‘And what’s so wrong about coming across as being an active type?’ I asked her in a small voice, flushing to my roots and wishing to God there was some other way to get off this deeply mortifying subject.
‘Nothing wrong with it, if it’s the truth,’ she said crisply, tossing geometrically sharp, jet-black bobbed hair over her shoulder. ‘But let’s face it, your idea of being active is to join a gym, pay a year’s subscription, then drop out after the first month.’
I was silenced here, mainly because this would be a fairly accurate assessment, but Joy still wasn’t done.
‘Come on, love,’ she said, waving her fork around with a lump of penne pasta wobbling dangerously on the edge of it, for added emphasis. ‘You’ve got to wise up a bit. After all, you’re lying through your teeth here so how can you be certain that this Andy guy, whoever he is, isn’t doing exactly the same thing right back at you? And supposing he is? What’s your master plan then?’
‘Excuse me, for a start I’m always super-careful online,’ I told her stoutly, ‘and over time you just learn to develop an instinct for these things. OK, so maybe Andy is tweaking the odd minor detail about himself; so what? Everyone sexes their lives up a bit online, we’re all guilty of it. But it’s the big stuff that counts, and if Andy were lying through his teeth to me on that score, I’d know; I’d just feel it in the pit of my stomach.’
‘Oh you would, would you?’
‘Absolutely,’ I told her firmly. ‘And another thing; can I point out that he’s actually a widower with a little boy? So therefore he’s been married before and isn’t afraid of commitment.’
‘Ha! Don’t make me laugh. There isn’t a man on this planet who isn’t afraid of commitment. And you can take that one to the bank.’
‘He’s a family man and that’s good enough for me,’ I told her, a bit primly. ‘After all, everyone knows that men who’ve committed before are by a mile the most likely to commit again. Plus, may I remind you he’s actually Captain Andy McCoy? Senior airline pilot with Delta, if you don’t mind. Now come on, even you have to admit; the job description alone is a serious turn-on.’
Then I drifted off a bit, just imagining what Andy looked like in that sexy uniform pilots wear, with the cap and the epaulettes and the calm, authoritative voice saying, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.’ And, of course, immediately blurring the image with that famous production still of Leonardo DiCaprio in Catch Me If You Can, all gussied up as a Pan Am pilot.
Thing is, by then things had got pretty intense between Andy and me. There was a genuine connection between us that was actually starting to feel pretty special. And it wasn’t just superficial crap about liking the same movies and TV shows and music; it was so much deeper. It was almost like he and I just seemed to think exactly the same way about things.
Day and night at that stage, he was sending me the most gorgeous, heart-warming messages and what else could I say? Having spent so long on my own, he’d started to win me over scarily fast. This was intoxicating stuff. Addictive. Impossible to let go of.
‘Yeah but just remember, you’ve only got his word for everything he’s telling you,’ Joy cautioned, tearing off a big lump of ciabatta bread and soaking up the dregs of arrabbiata sauce from round the edge of her pasta bowl.
‘And in the meantime, here’s you sitting in front of a screen, painting a ridiculous fantasy portrait of yourself to a complete and utter stranger, who could have served time in Guantanamo Bay for all you know.’
‘He’s not in Guantanamo Bay …’
‘He could be on death row …’
‘He’s not on death row.’
‘Or he could be a woman. Jesus, he could turn out to be a woman on death row.’
‘He’s a pilot, not a jailbird!’
‘Only according to himself,’ she said just a bit too triumphantly for my liking.
‘Look,’ I tell her placatingly, ‘I’ve met my fair share of idiots online and trust me, by now I’ve learned to filter out all the liars and chancers from the genuine article. Plus the big advantage of online dating is that at least this way I get to meet fellas from the comfort of home, with no make-up on and three-day-old manky hair, if I feel like it. Which you have to admit is a fairly major bonus.’
But then Joy and I had been over this ground many, many times before and she knew exactly where I stood on this particular issue. Problem is, as I’d spelled out to her time and again, work was so all encompassing and time-consuming that at the end of another long day, I was too exhausted, not to mention stony broke, to shoehorn myself into an LBD, lash on the Mac Bronzer and start trawling the town on the lookout for someone available, thinking maybemaybemaybe.
I had the energy for all that in my twenties thanks very much, but I’m at the grand old age of thirty-one now, and whether Joy liked it or not, the fact remains that Internet dating sites are to our generation what a Saturday night dance hall was to our grannies, circa 1960.
‘All I’m saying,’ I said firmly, ‘is that I’ve spent so long on these sites, I could practically teach a course in what to look out for, and equally what to run a mile from.’
‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You absolutely certain about that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘Like you did with that git Steve last summer?’
Shit. I’m temporarily silenced here, and what’s more, Joy knows it. Steve, you see, was a guy I met online who described himself as a ‘special needs teacher, hugely committed to his work’. A major turn-on, I figured, and all was progressing very nicely thanks until he told me he was ‘available to meet weekdays only, between nine and five’.
And the reason? Because of his loyal and long-suffering wife back home who, he explained, he had to get back to, ‘so he could help out with the kids’. I’ll spare you the rest.
Seems Joy’s not done with me though.
‘And let’s not forget that theatre director bloke, what’s-his-face …’
‘Elliot,’ I say crisply, finishing the sentence for her. Quicker by far, I reckon, to let her just get the bloody lecture over and done with.
‘Elliot, that’s the one. Who blatantly told you he was single, whereas—’
I sigh here, knowing right well what’s coming next.
‘—He was simultaneously dating five other women at the same time,’ she says. ‘I distinctly remember you saying he made you feel like …’
‘Like I was almost auditioning for the part of his girlfriend,’ I finish the sentence for her. It’s the sad truth too. In fact, when I finally confronted him, the eejit actually said to me, ‘But you should be flattered! Just think of it like this: I’m looking for a partner, and you’ve made it to the callback stage.’
Sweet suffering Jaysus, I only wish that were an exaggeration. But then that’s the one thing about having had a rough past romance-wise, I figure. It teaches you for the future. And with every mistake, you learn. You may well be humiliated, your heart might have been trampled on, but believe me, you learn.
‘So have you taken absolutely nothing from all this?’ said Joy, interrupting my thoughts.
‘OK, so you’ve made your point,’ I told her hotly, ‘but you’re wasting your time being so cynical right now, because this guy really does sound like the genuine article.’
I couldn’t quite catch her response, as it was mumbled between mouthfuls of ciabatta, but it sounded a lot like, ‘Worse gobshite, you.’
‘And have you forgotten that this “Andy” lives in the States?’ she added, changing tack with her mouth still stuffed. ‘So what are you going to do? Hop on a plane and fly transatlantic every time you’re going out on a date with him? Oh yeah, ’cos I can really see that one working out, alright.’
‘So the fact that we live on different continents is certainly an obstacle, I’ll grant you that much. But then you read his messages; he commutes back and forth to Ireland all the time! Besides, I’ve spent my whole life dating guys who lived within a one hundred mile radius of here and where has it got me? Alone on a Friday night and with no plans for the weekend, that’s where.’
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