Okay, navigating weird monetary things on date one, check.

  We sat, and I opened my mouth to say something, and he dove in, asking me about how I started teaching yoga, about climbing, and my love for fantasy books. All the things I had listed on my profile. When I asked him about his job, he interjected aggressively, saying, “Wait, let me finish asking about yours.”

  Which felt, again, sort of weird. Misogynistic? Maybe I was reading too much into it.

  It was a weird combination of me trying to get words into his questions and him bulldozing my answers and then talking about himself. It was like mansplaining and interrupting but worse? I felt like I was present for the conversation as opposed to actively being involved.

  A fever dream that was my dating reality.

  “Do you want to go for a walk?” he asked randomly.

  Jesus, his energy was limitless, and his conversation was a continual prattle. I realized I had zoned out for the past ten minutes, and he hadn’t even noticed. I didn’t need to actively be engaged on this date, apparently. How could someone be boring and super chatty all at once? That felt like a special type of accomplishment and a weird oxymoron.

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  So, we did, and he continued to fill the silence with his own chatter, and at some point, I had tuned him out. Again. I probably should have been paying better attention to where we were walking, but other people were around. It was daylight, not that that would prevent him from trying to hurt or assault me, but I felt better about it.

  Being a woman is super fun.

  “Want to see my apartment? It’s right up there,” he said, pointing to the building we were in front of.

  Well, shit.

  “Uh . . . sure.”

  Dammit.

  Why did I say that?! I didn’t actually want to go up to his apartment, but here I was, following him up, knowing I had no interest in this. I had decided early on in this date I would not have sex with him, even though, this time, I was actually better prepared.

  After following him through the elevator and the halls of his building, we ended up in his studio apartment.

  “So, this is it! It has such a great view, and . . .”

  He talked as I looked out the window, and it was a nice view of the Missouri River at least, but the apartment was bare. It was like the epitome of that TikTok joke of walking into a man’s apartment with barely any furniture, maybe a mattress, no bed frame, no throw pillows, no curtains, no warmth or comfort of any kind.

  Such a low fucking bar for men.

  I turned away from the window to find him right next to me at eye level. We were basically the same height, with me being a little taller in my heels.

  “You wear contacts, don’t you? There’s no way those green eyes are real,” he said, smiling secretly like he had just found me out.

  He had given me several low-key insulting compliments. Did this thing normally work on women?

  “Uhhh, yeah. I wear contacts to see. These are my real eyes, though.”

  He moved in with his mouth wide open.

  It was the wettest and most awkward make-out session ever.

  At one point, we sat on his bed, and he said, “You’re a great kisser.”

  I had no idea how he would know that, considering I could never find his lips, since his mouth was open ninety-nine percent of the time. He felt up my boobs, and I was just so done in that moment. I stood abruptly.

  “I should go. I have to be up really early tomorrow morning.”

  I looked at his clock in the kitchen, and it was 8:24 p.m. . . . Smooth, Elena.

  He smiled like we shared a secret again, walked me out, and continued to grin like that until we got down to the entrance of his place. I was hoping I could leave without him leaning in for another open-mouth kiss.

  “I can walk to my car from here. It’s just up the street,” I said, wanting this date to be over two hours ago with the weird backhanded compliments, interrupting, and mansplaining.

  “Okay, I’ll text you later to set up another date!” he said, moving in for another kiss.

  Dodging it ever so gracefully, I said goodbye before practically running on the street.

  My phone had the usual texts for updates. Family, Fatima, Cory . . . I shot off texts, saying it was another three out of ten and that there would be no more dates.

  I sat in my car for a while again—seemed to be my thing. Sitting, contemplating life after weird dates in my car, thinking about my choices.

  I think I was plopped there for a solid twenty minutes, listening to my angsty playlist, before I sighed and gave myself a pep talk.

  “Okay! I need a list for my perfect partner. Because writing it down always helps.”

  I needed something—direction—to help me better enforce what I wanted and needed instead of saying yes to random dates because I was fucking lonely and wanted to be validated.

  So, I started a note:

  Dream Partner.

  First things first, no gender preference.

  Attractive.

  Emotionally Intelligent.

  Love language: physical touch.

  High libido.

  What can I say? I wanted someone to match my pace.

  Good communicator.

  Mid-twenties, thirties.

  Feminist.

  Liberal.

  Steady income.

  Open-minded.

  Extroverted.

  Wants marriage or long-term commitment of sorts.

  No kids and doesn’t want kids.

  Nice smile.

  Active in some capacity.

  Good diverse support system.

  Spiritual.

  Not a ton of drugs. Like, healthy boundaries with alcohol and drugs and, like, some damn good boundaries.

  Believes in mental health.

  Loyal and reliable.

  Knows who they are and can back it up with actions.

  Okay. That was a good start.

  I mean, I had other things that would be nice to have, like climbing, video games, Marvel, et cetera. But those weren’t deal breakers. They would be fun things to have in common to explore together. But I also wasn’t opposed to discovering new things to do together. After all, I wanted to be an individual with my own things outside of a relationship and have things we shared.

  My last relationship was built on hobbies and interests, not common values, and it didn’t work. Shared morality and baseline beliefs were way more important than the movies and music you listened to.

  So, I went back to Hinge and Bumble and updated some of my settings and my own profile.

  Was there really someone out there who didn’t want children and was a flaming liberal? Because those things seemed to be the catches. I didn’t hate children per se. I just didn’t see them adding to my life. In fact, I saw them as destroying my body and my bank account. It felt that, until that opinion changed, I probably would not be a great parent.

  But it was hard to say no to children outright, though, because everyone was like, “Oh, just you wait! You will want children!”

  Like, why can’t you accept that maybe I won’t? Or if I do, maybe you shouldn’t whip out an “I told you so?” I may change my mind and have careful consideration before bringing another human into this world and signing up for a lifetime responsibility, m’kay? Thanks.

  That felt way more responsible than how other people popped out kids. But nobody asked for my child rant. We were focusing on boundaries and deal breakers here.

  Well, at least I had my list, and maybe I would take a hiatus from the apps. Not a full delete-and-then-redownload vibe, but I might not open them for a few days and see what happens.

  I could date and build my career and live my life all at the same time.

  I was a badass bi bitch.

  And I would not settle for anything less than I deserved.

  CHAPTER Six

  Turns out it was easier than ever to ignore the dating apps over the next few weeks because my life took a hectic turn at work, since everyone seemed to be out on vacation, ill, or have an emergency. I was running around town, subbing anything and everything to help at the studios.

  It was an understood rule that, the more you subbed for others, the more they subbed for you, and I liked having plenty of IOUs in the corners, and these were my people. I wanted to help. Plus, I was a freelancer, so more money for me.

  Objectively speaking, I was having a good week, making money and staying busy, until my phone rang with a number I didn’t recognize. Now, because I’m a millennial, I didn’t pick up. But then I got a voicemail.

  Great.

  “Hey, Elena, this is Planned Parenthood calling to talk about our lab results . . .”

  I nearly dropped the phone because the nurse practitioner said they wouldn’t call unless something was wrong or something had shown up on my tests. My appointment the week previous consisted of me peeing in a cup, a small finger poke, and some vials of blood. Then I was sent on my way. Super easy and efficient. My head spun about how irresponsible I had been with sex and how I should have been more careful.

  But then I told myself that having an STI didn’t mean I was dirty or gross—it just happened. Society wanted me to feel horrible about it, and I did not need to feel bad. But I was freaking out.

  “Shit,” I said behind the desk.

  “What?” Autumn said, looking at me curiously.

  “I need to make a call. You good here?” I said, and she nodded, looking at me funny.

  I ran into the office and called back.

  “Hey, I just got a call about some lab results for Elena Mandling.”

  “Oh, yes! So, your tests came back negative for gonorrhea, syphilis, HIV, and chlamydia.”

  “Great,” I said, barely audible.

  “However, we did find HPV cells present in your urine sample, so we will have you come in for a pap smear to decide if we need to do a biopsy of your cervix.”

  My stomach fell to my ass. What was HPV?

  Why did sex education fail me so epically?!

  “HPV cells? Should I be worried?” I said, trying to calm my racing thoughts.

  “Not necessarily. Let’s go ahead and get your pap smear scheduled and then go from there, okay? No need to worry!” she enthused.

  I wondered idly if she enjoyed ruining people’s day with things like positive test results.

  “It looks like we just had a cancellation today, actually. Can you come in the next thirty minutes?”

  I felt like someone had gut-punched me.

  I wasn’t mentally or emotionally prepared to get a pap, but I didn’t want to wait, so I found myself saying, “Uh . . . yeah, sure. I’ll be right there.”

  “Great! We will see you in just a few.”

  I stared blankly at my phone.

  Okayyyy. What an interesting turn of events to my week. Definitely not my favorite.

  I popped out of the office and looked at the clock. My desk shift was supposed to end in ten minutes, and it would take me ten minutes to get to Planned Parenthood, and my next class was across town later in the evening.

  “You okay?” Autumn said as I sat stiffly next to her.

  “No. I got an STI test done the other day because I am a dumb bitch who doesn’t use protection. I mean, I have an IUD, but, like, I don’t use any barrier methods to prevent anything, and, apparently, I have HPV cells present, and I need to go get a pap done. And they just had a cancellation, like, now. So, I am going there afterwards,” I blurted, my eyes wide.

  “Okay, breathe. HPV doesn’t necessarily have to be a big deal. Like, eighty percent of people who have sex get the human papillomavirus. You got the Gardasil shot when you were younger, right? To prevent cervical cancer?” she said, holding my gaze steady.

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “Okay, so that protects you from most HPV strains that would cause issues. Normally, your body just takes care of it after a year or two. It takes years to progress into cancer, and there’s, like, hundreds of different strains of it. You just have to stay on top of your paps in case they need to go in and remove the cells from your cervix.”

  “Why did I not know that cervical cancer was caused by an STI?” I said, feeling like I needed to write to my local state representative about how poorly my sex education classes failed me.

  Even my mom, who had taught me about how sex and my body worked, never mentioned HPV.

  “Because our society sucks about talking about STIs,” Autumn said in a no-duh kind of way.

  “Okay, so, do I disclose this to my partners?”

  “I mean, there isn’t an FDA-approved test for men, which is shitty. They can go around spreading it, but they don’t get tested for HPV, so it becomes a woman’s problem, and a lot of people don’t get tested for it because it doesn’t turn into anything until years down the road, so I don’t really know. Ask the doctor. I think it can turn into certain cancers for men, but it’s not as pervasive, I don’t think. It’s also spread through skin-to-skin contact not necessarily body fluids, so barrier methods won’t be one hundred percent effective.”

  “Thank you for being my sex expert,” I said, smiling weakly and being eternally grateful for a sexually literate friend.

  “E, really it’s going to be fine. I can practically smell the smoke coming out of your ears from the wheels turning so hard in your head. Breathe and leave. I got this covered. Go get your cervix poked at!” She shot me a lopsided grin.

  “Okay,” I said, laughing weakly.

  That sounded fucking terrible, but I would do it, anyway.

  After grabbing my shit, I headed out the door, trying not to have a panic attack or be mad at anyone I had slept with in the past couple of months. I mean, there was Zhara, a guy named Kody, and some other rando who was fuzzy in my head.

  Ugh. I hadn’t used barrier methods with any of them, and I was disappointed in myself. How naive and stupid of me.

  Pulling up to the clinic, I sighed. At least there weren’t any protests that day. There were plenty of times I had driven past and seen them, but, thankfully, the universe was looking out for me, and the times I had been there, they weren’t there.

  “Here we go,” I whispered as I pushed through the doors.

  I didn’t have to wait longer than five minutes before I was escorted back and told to put my flimsy open-back gown on and the weird piece of glorified paper towel across my lap.

  I sat for maybe another five minutes before a knock came to the door.

  “Come in,” I called, and the doctor entered.

  She seemed young. Maybe, like, early thirties, small and petite, with clear glasses and tanned skin. Her dirty-blonde hair was pulled back in a low ponytail, and she smiled warmly.

  “Hi, Elena, I’m Dr. Malorie Lowe. I understand we are doing a pap smear today to see what’s going on with the HPV cells present in your last STI urine sample.”

  Her words were so airy and factual it almost eased my anxiety.

  Almost.

  “Yes, honestly, I am freaking out and feel so dumb that this happened,” I said, twisting my fingers in my hands.

  “You are not dumb at all. Things like this happen. They are fairly common and always treatable. You don’t need to feel bad at all. Basically, with HPV cells, we want to see how abnormal they are. If they come back abnormal from our pap, we will do a biopsy, where I will take just a little sample of your cervix and see what level of abnormality it is.”

  I swallowed, trying to digest the information she was throwing at me.

  “If it’s low level, we will just have you come back for your normal pap in the next year. If it’s two or higher, we will have you come back in six months or go in and remove the cells. It takes years for HPV to develop into cervical cancer, which is why we do paps every year to keep an eye on it,” she said warmly and calmly, as if we were discussing the weather.

  “Does the biopsy hurt?”

  “No more than an IUD insertion. You might be slightly crampy and bleed lightly for a day or two, but we won’t necessarily do a biopsy until we get this sample back. You are doing the right thing by being here and being proactive.”

  I smiled back weakly, remembering the terrible pain of the IUD and being grateful that at least it wouldn’t be worse than that.

  “Is there anything else you have questions about or want to discuss before we get started?”

  “How do I talk about this with a partner?” I said, chewing on my lip and rustling around in my glorified paper napkin barely covering my vagina.

  “Great question! HPV can be prevented by using barrier methods, but they aren’t one hundred percent effective. If your partner is educated, they would know that this is fairly common in about eighty percent of people who are actively having sex, and your body usually takes care of it in about a year or two. I can give you some resources before you leave, if that would be helpful? You can be a safe and responsible sex partner by disclosing the information. But before any of that, let’s see if the cells are truly abnormal and look to see if it’s worth investigating further, okay?”

  I nodded again as she calmly walked through all the regular pap things. Here comes my touch, speculum is going in, swab is going in—and done.

  Not the most comfortable but not painful exactly. At least it was over. Ugh. Top of my to-do list was to be a more responsible sexual partner.

  “We should have results in just a few days to determine if we are going to do a biopsy or not. Let me know if you have any questions, and I’ll get you some more information.”

  “Thank you. You were really helpful.”

  I meant it. Not all doctors were helpful or kind.

  “Of course, if you have anything else on your mind, feel free to call, okay?”

  And Dr. Lowe was gone.

  Okay, I was an adult. This was fine.