Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Wendell Dupree, you are without a doubt the biggest fucking idiot to ever grace the surface of this planet. You’re fretting about getting a text from the man of your dreams, but then you switch off your phone and forget to fucking switch it on again! Just how thick can one person be? What a masterclass in stupidity. Well done, me.

My hands are suddenly shaking, and my phone slides out of my hands, skids across my bedsheet, and I watch in horror as it goes over the edge and hits the floor with a loud thunk. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant. I dive after it, completely expecting it to be broken in a million pieces, but out of sheer dumb luck, there’s not a scratch on it.

I press the on button, still hanging over the side of my bed, and impatiently wait for it to power up. It takes forever, brand logos flashing across the screen in unnecessary slow motion, the screen goes dark again and I panic for a moment that it’s broken after all, but then my home screen appears and I can enter the PIN number. I manage to get it wrong twice, absolutely fan-fucking-tastic, and force myself to calm the fuck down and get it right before I’m permanently locked out of my own phone. It works, and my wallpaper finally pops up. It’s a selfie of my little princess and my sister.

App icons load one by one. I swear my phone is mocking me and is deliberately being slow tonight. The notifications show up. Spam, spam, breaking news, spam, an e-mail from Christine Claire, another breaking news, an e-mail from Dr Bhansali’s office, spam, a text! But it’s from Josie wishing me luck. It’s actually just a series of emojis: praying hands, fingers crossed, a shamrock and the flexed biceps. She changed the skin tone of the last one to medium-dark, and that stupidly reminds me of Rashid. Whose biceps I haven’t seen unclad yet, but I just imagine it to be gorgeous and perfect like the rest of the man.

Well, dumbass, if you keep acting like the certified biggest moron of the year, you’ll never find out for sure. Chances are pretty slim to non-existent even if you do get your shit together, which at this point seems pretty unlikely.

There’s nothing after Josie’s text.

My phone goes dark again.

Well, of course. Remember the phone number conundrum. You fucking idiot extraordinaire.

I let myself fall back on my bed, close my eyes, with more colourful curses on my lips. My phone is still in my hand, resting on my stomach. It vibrates. Twice. The slight tremor runs all the way down to my spine.

Expecting more spam and ignoring the glimmer of hope that ignites in my gut, I pick it up and unlock it with my thumb. Two notifications. Two texts. Unknown number. Starting with +44. I’ve never seen one like that. Then it hits me. I have. Handwritten. On an expensive-looking business card.

I shoot up in a sitting position, barely avoiding sending my phone flying again, only this time with a lot more force and probably ending up against the wall and most definitely in a thousand pieces. My finger hammers on the screen to get the app to open and show me the texts properly. My phone finally shows some mercy and obediently opens the app.

The texts are short. The latest one says, “Btw, happy birthday, Wendell,” followed by the party popper emoji. The glimmer of hope in my gut grows into a bright little flame. I scroll up to read the first text, and it says, “Sat, 5pm, beignets @ Rosalie’s? RC,” and the flame erupts into a wildfire.

I sink back on my pillows with the happiest, goofiest big smile on my face that you can imagine (if you’re imagining it now, imagine it bigger… bigger… even bigger… a bit more… actually a lot more… now you’re getting there). He texted me. As he said he would. I can’t believe it and keep checking my phone to make sure the messages are still there.

Of course, he’s still trying to recruit me as a spy. Of course, this is not a date; it’s a business meeting. Of course, I should freak out that he knows my number when I didn’t give it to him. Of course, I should freak out that he knows it was my birthday. Yesterday. Holy shit, when did he text me?

I check my phone again to see the time stamp. Just before midnight last night. I look at the current time. It’s already past 1 am. Fuck! I let him wait for more than 24 hours! Playing hard to get. Which I’m not! It occurs to me I should probably reply. Make sure “Sat 5 pm” is still okay. Fuck! What day is it? Another frantic glance reassures me that it is in fact Saturday already but only just past midnight. Still 16 hours to go until our date – meeting! It’s a meeting!

I should really reply; hopefully he’ll see it in the morning and we can still meet. I start typing a lengthy apology, then decide I should probably save his phone number first. I opt for the adult version and simply put his first and last name as contact info and resist the urge to add < 3 or “Mystery Man”, although the latter makes him sound like a superhero, and I imagine him in a tight Lycra superhero costume complete with a cape and a bold M emblazoned on his chest. I giggle at the mental image and go back to the thread.

Now that Rashid is in my contacts, the app shows me his profile picture. It was taken somewhere outdoors. The landscape is a rugged beauty, with white chalk cliffs rising sharply from the sea and forming a natural arc in the distance. Below, the white foam of the waves contrasts against the dark flow of the current. The ridge is covered with brown heather and vibrant yellow gorse. Rashid is sitting on the ground in jeans, a hoodie and hiking boots, hugging his knees and smiling at the camera.

He looks so relaxed and happy; I can’t stop staring at his face. This is the first time I see him smile. I’ve pictured it in my head, but nothing has prepared me for this warm and kind smile. I try to zoom in, but the picture only gets blurry. I still think I can detect a hint of sadness in his eyes, somehow shy and closeted, like there’s a hidden secret that he doesn’t share with anyone, not even in this intimate moment.

I wonder who took this picture. It’s definitely not a selfie. It’s a snapshot; someone surprised him. I imagine someone calling him, while he was staring out to the sea, “Smile, Rashid!” and then took the picture the moment Rashid turned around. He must have liked it; maybe it has a deeper meaning for him, or he wouldn’t use it as his profile picture.

There are two things that become abundantly clear to me. Firstly, this was taken at a very private moment by someone close to Rashid. Maybe a friend or family member. Maybe a lover, husband or wife? This is not a picture you would use for work. This is his private account. His private number. And secondly, that I want to make it my life’s mission to see his smile more often and take away the sadness from his eyes.

But let’s take baby steps. Reply to the message and confirm the date (meeting!). My lengthy apology is just pathetic and well… much too long. I delete it. Then I simply put, “Sorry, busy day. Sat 5 pm still OK?” It takes me longer than it should; my hands are still shaking, but I eventually manage to hit the right keys. I glance over my words again to make sure there are no embarrassing typos or auto-corrects and hit the send button once I’m satisfied. Short, to the point. Well done, me.

It’s late; I should try and get some sleep, and I don’t expect to hear back from Rashid before the morning, so I roll over to put the phone on my nightstand, wishing I could bottle up this warm and fuzzy feeling inside of me and keep it for the rest of the night. Just before the screen goes dark, I suddenly see three little dots appear at the bottom of the app, doing a little happy dance. He’s typing…

It takes forever for his message to show up. The little dots disappear several times, like he stops typing and then continues. Then it’s there.

RC: “Sure, no worries. CU @ Rosalie’s”

Honestly? That’s all? And that took like half an hour to type? Now, come on, Dupree, for once in your life focus on the positive! I chide myself. He replied. Our date is confirmed. And yes, let’s give up the pretence I see it as anything but a date.

I should probably leave it at that. The danger that I’ll mess up again is real and inevitable. Still, a certain recklessness takes over. I reply.

WD: “Still up?”

This time, his answer comes promptly:

RC: “Overseas video call”

I should possibly let him go if he’s in a work meeting online.

WD: “Sorry, didn’t mean to disturb you”

RC: “All done, ended 5 min ago”

Back off now, Dupree, while it’s still going well…

RC: “What’s your excuse?”

Excuse? Oh… for being up late. I peek at the time, and it’s past 2 am now. Only 15 hours to go…

WD: “Had guests”

RC: “Wild b-day party?”

Is he flirting with me? Is this already flirting? This is no longer “Hey, I want you to work for us.” Surely?

WD: “Nah, sorry, no strippers or go-go dancers”

OMG, what have I done? I swear to God, I must have been dropped on my head as a baby. I try to delete the message, but he’s already seen it and is typing. I pull a pillow over my head. I just can’t bear to watch the fallout from my own stupidity.

RC: “Pity. I was hoping you’d help me out with a phone number”

I gasp. The nerve! Flirting with me while hoping I hook him up with a (made-up) stripper! Part of me wonders if he prefers a male or a female stripper. I can’t really tell. Maybe female? But then he wouldn’t be flirting with me. He knows I’m gay. Doesn’t he? And what does it matter if he only wants me to work for them? I groan and bury my face in my pillow. Why is this so hard?

WD: “Sorry, no, can’t do”

RC: “S’ok. As long as I have yours.”

I stare at his last text. WTF? Does he know about my past, and is this what he wants from me? Just sex? While I’m pondering the implications, including the question of if “just sex” would be okay for me, he adds a winking emoji.

RC: “Sorry, that probably came out wrong”

It sounds like he does know about my past. Why else would he apologise so quickly? Sadness washes over me. In my naivety, I was hoping if he didn’t know and I didn’t tell him, there might be a chance.

RC: “Just meant I don’t know that many people in NOLA.”

He’s still apologising. He needn’t. I’m not offended. I was a hustler. Calling me a stripper is nothing. Some of my hopes just got crushed; that’s all. But they were wild and foolish anyway.

WD: “Where did you get mine?”

RC: “It’s in your file”

So there is a file. Which includes my DOB, my sister’s name, my phone number… It’s not too far-fetched to think it also has information about my previous occupation. So, that’s that then.

I curl up on my bed and pull the duvet over me, my phone resting in front of me. It was fun while it lasted, but I just got carried away. If he asks me to have sex with him, I’ll say yes. But I won’t accept money for it. I’ve had enough of that. I’m not a prostitute anymore. I’ll do it out of my own free will and because he’s hot. Just two consenting adults having a bit of fun. I’ll just have to bury my dreams for more. Who’d want someone who’s been used more than a junkie’s last needle anyway? I hug myself and close my stinging eyes.

When I open them again, it’s not quite morning yet. It’s that eerie time of day when the sun hasn’t risen, but the night is already fading. A faint light lingers, promising the day to come. I rub the sleep from my eyes. Bruno lies at the foot of my bed, in a position that simply cannot be comfortable. My phone is still next to me on the mattress, blinking happily.

I sleepily unlock the screen with my thumb. There’s another message from Rashid, sent last night.

RC: “Looking forward to the best beignets in town with you”

I can’t help but smile. It’s actually cute that he thinks he hurt my feelings and is trying to make up for it. I run my hands over my face, trying to wake up fully before I reply.

WD: “Me too”