Page 12 of Unforgettable

Opening my eyes, the memory of the two women at Starbucks talking about The Perfect Gentleman pops into my head.

Maybe if I pay for a date, the guy will be forced to give the attention I crave.

Playing with the idea for a moment, a plan starts to form.

I’ll hire a drop-dead handsome man to be my date for the party. Besides getting some attention, it will also show everyone I’m not hung up on them. I have a life, and I’m happy.

I lift my chin as the idea of hiring a date settles in my broken heart.

Leaving the sandwich untouched on the desk, I get to work on the statue, my mind buzzing with thoughts of hiring someone from The Perfect Gentleman.

The moment I get home, I head straight for the living room. As I sit down on the couch, I drop my handbag next to me and pick up my laptop from where it’s lying on the coffee table.

With resolution flowing through my veins, I open the laptop and turn it on. The instant it connects to the WIFI, I open the web browser page and Google The Perfect Gentleman.

The site loads onto the screen, and I stare at the black and gold design of the page.

Am I really going to do this?

Pressure builds in my chest, forcing me to my feet. I walk to the kitchen and prepare a cup of green tea, hoping it will settle my nerves.

With the beverage in hand, I walk back to the couch and sit down again. I stare at the screen as I take a few sips before placing the cup on the coffee table.

I go to the menu and snoop around for a couple of minutes. Everything looks professional. There are different packages to choose from, and it looks like you can practically build the perfect date.

Curious, I enter the application page and start to sift through all the options.

Height. Hair color. Eye color. Body built. Education. Specialties.

Oooh. I can get a chef with a six-pack to cook for me.

Remembering the man I saw in Starbucks, I select all the options matching the mysterious Jensen Ackles lookalike.

The next page asks for my personal information, and the pressure in my chest returns, along with a nervous buzzing in my stomach.

Darting to my feet, I head to the kitchen again. I decide to fix myself something to eat, seeing as I haven’t eaten all day.

I pull a chicken breast and brocolli from the fridge, and while I grill the meat, I keep glancing a the laptop.

Maybe I should go to dinner with the man before I take him to the birthday party. Kind of like an interview.

That way, I’ll be more comfortable with him.

I set the grilled chicken aside and turn off the stove.

Walking back to the living room, I take a seat again and start to fill out my personal information.

There’s a comment section asking for specifics about the date. It requests honesty so the company can assign the perfect man.

Ugh. Am I really going to spill my guts to some escort service?

Feeling apprehensive, I type;

I need a date for a birthday party. I feel like I’m forgettable to my friends. I want to leave a lasting impression on them.

Honestly, I want to show off that I don’t need them, even if it’s not the truth. Please don’t judge me. I know it’s stupid, but I just want to make a statement that I have a life, too.

Forgetting that I’m filling out an application, I start to vent as if I’m writing in a diary.

I’m already regretting this, but for once, I want to make them see me. I want them to think, ‘Oh shit, we didn’t know she was dating a drop-dead gorgeous man. When did I last contact her? We should do lunch.’

Then I can ignore them the way they’ve ignored me.

I know it’s petty. Again, don’t judge me.

I just want to be seen. I just want to feel special.

Just once.

Letting out a deep breath, I stare at the screen again, the arrow hovering over the submit button.

Yeah, there’s no way I’m submitting that. It was cathartic to type, though.

I reach for the mouse to move the arrow to the X at the top right-hand corner of the page but accidentally click on the submit button.

“Shit!”

The words ‘Your application has been submitted for review. We will be in touch within twenty-four hours,’ appear in the middle of the screen.

“NoNoNoNoNo!!!”

I slap my hand over my mouth, my eyes wide with shock. “Shit.” I shake my head before I start to look for a way to cancel the application.

The verification has been sent to my email, and there’s no way to cancel it.