Welcome to Dark Honey, where we share spicy short stories for adults. Escape inside a world of romance and fantasy while you close your eyes, relax, and listen to the next episode

"Fuck these apps." The words slipped out before I could stop them. Not shouted, not dramatic, just exhausted. My thumb hovered over the glowing delete account button while another Houston thunderstorm tapped softly against my living room windows. Rain had always made my little house feel bigger somehow, cozier, like it was trying to hug me when nobody else would.

I bought this place last year. It was a cute three-bedroom house that I absolutely loved. A tiny backyard where I imagined a golden retriever chasing [00:01:00] toddlers. A porch where I pictured myself drinking coffee beside my husband every Saturday morning while he mowed the lawn.

Instead, it was just me. I was thirty-two years old with one mortgage, one very judgmental spider plant, and approximately one hundred disappointing first dates. I knew the number because my dating coach insisted that I keep a spreadsheet with notes on each one. Last year, I attended nine weddings. Nine. By wedding number seven, I could practically officiate one myself.

Every reception looked the same eventually. The groom crying, the bride glowing in her natural glam makeup. The father-daughter dance to Natalie and Nat King Cole's Unforgettable. My mama squeezing my hand and whispering, "Baby, your time is coming." I wanted to believe her because my parents had been married [00:02:00] twenty-five years, and somehow they still flirted with each other like teenagers.

Daddy still opened Mama's car door. Mama still rubbed his shoulders while he fell asleep watching basketball. They laughed together, prayed together, and still snuck kisses when they didn't think anyone was watching. They chose each other every day, and that was the blueprint, and I was desperate for what they had.

I'd done everything right. Finished school first and built a career for myself. I saved money, bought a house, went to church, called my grandmother every Sunday, had a circle of amazing friends, and went out on weekends to be social. I wasn't looking for a billionaire or NBA star or someone with six-pack abs.

I just wanted a man who wanted me and valued what I did. I wanted family, marriage, and friendship. Apparently, that was [00:03:00] asking for entirely too much. I got sick of being out in the wild all alone, so six months ago, I hired an online dating coach.

Her website was a gallery of happy couples hugging each other and smiling in their coordinated sweaters. She had perfect teeth, perfect lighting. She had perfect teeth, perfect lighting, and perfect confidence. According to her, love was just a numbers game. She gave me an assignment to go on thirty dates in ninety days.

She insisted that I get on her top three recommended dating apps and relax some of my filters. She smiled into the Zoom camera like she'd solved world hunger. "You can't meet your husband sitting on your couch." Maybe. But after a month of putting myself out there, I was beginning to think my husband had died before we'd even met.

Every man came with a surprise [00:04:00] nobody advertised in their profile. "I'm looking for a sugar mama." "I don't really believe in labels." "My ex and I aren't together, we just still live together." "I hate dogs." Who hated dogs? One guy spent forty-five minutes explaining cryptocurrency before asking if he could move in into my guest room because, quote, "Rent is kind of crazy right now."

Another informed me over appetizers that he was emotionally unavailable. One man ordered lobster, forgot his wallet, then asked if I could Cash App him gas money. The apps had become less like dating and more like shopping in the clearance aisle after Black Friday.

Everything was messy, damaged, and not a good fit. I looked at my phone again at the four apps installed on my phone and decided that my future husband with a matching sweater was not [00:05:00] on this damn phone.

Lifelongpartners.com, delete. Eurolove.com, ugh, delete. Love.com, my thumb moved to the delete button. Then, new match available. Of course, the universe had jokes. I rolled my eyes so hard they almost filed for workers' compensation.

But I didn't know if it was the romantic or sadist in me, but I decided to click on the profile. His picture filled the screen. Hmm, not bad. I was looking at chocolate skin, kind eyes, and salt sprinkled lightly through a neatly trimmed beard. Broad shoulders with a relaxed middle inside a navy polo. He wasn't posing next to someone else's Lamborghini, or holding a fish, or posing shirtless in front of a dirty bathroom mirror.

He was just smiling, like somebody had [00:06:00] told him a secret worth keeping. His profile was surprisingly short. Ronnie, thirty-seven, single father, engineer, widower, looking for something real. There were no inspirational quotes, no demands, no list of requirements, no, "If you can't handle me." Just simple. Simple almost scared me more.

I didn't know what to do with it. The dangerous ones usually look normal. I laughed to myself. Watch, he probably collected human teeth or believed birds were government drones. My thumb hovered over the X. Delete the app, Janae. Protect your peace. Go watch Netflix. Eat leftover shrimp fried rice. Then another thought interrupted.

What's one more disappointment? I sighed. Fine. I tapped match and immediately regretted it. [00:07:00] Experience taught me that he was probably one pronouncing the L in salmon away from being added to the absolutely not list. Five seconds later, my phone buzzed. It was Ronnie. I was hoping you'd say yes. Cute. Probably copied and pasted.

I answered anyway. That's exactly what someone with a criminal record would say. Three dots appeared instantly. That's fair. I should have led with, "Hello, I'm not dangerous." Rookie mistake. A smile escaped before permission was granted. I blame fatigue, but responded, jury's still out. What evidence would help my case?

I stared at the message. Normally, this was where things became weird. I was waiting for an overtly sexual comment or him telling me how he preferred his women submissive and in the kitchen. Instead, for an hour, he matched my sarcasm. [00:08:00] When he asked questions, he actually waited for the answers.

Not, what's your favorite color? Not, WYD? Not, send pics. Real questions. What memory made me laugh every time I remembered it? What place still felt like home? What kind of old woman did I hope to become? Nobody had ever asked me that. I answered without realizing how much I was saying. I told him about summers in Michigan with my cousins, learning to ice skate on the small lake next to their house while falling every six feet.

I admitted I secretly wanted a house that always smelled like food, like laughter, like people never had to ask if they were welcome.

He listened, actually listened. Then he shared pieces of himself. I learned that his daughter, Faith, was seven years old and the boss of the house. She loved dinosaurs, and they had a pancakes [00:09:00] and Paw Patrol date every Saturday morning. He mentioned his wife only once. It wasn't a dramatic story, just quiet honesty.

She passed away seven years ago. The heartbreak in his voice appeared like an old memory, But knowing that he had a wife and child had made me hopeful he was the kind of man who could complement my life. I respected that By the third night, we'd graduated to phone calls.

His voice surprised me. Warm. It was deep like the guy in the Allstate commercials, and there was a steadiness that felt comfortable and sure like hot coffee before sunrise. He laughed with his whole chest, the kind of laugh that made you feel invited into it. Then came FaceTime. I almost canceled.

Instead, I spent forty minutes pretending I hadn't spent forty minutes deciding which sweatshirt looked effortlessly cute. Effortlessly cute. [00:10:00] He noticed my bookshelf and asked thoughtful questions about what I was reading. He complimented my kitchen and even noticed the small porcelain rooster collection I had in the corner passed down from my great-grandparents.

Our conversations never felt forced. They were easy, which made me suspicious. Nobody was this normal. Nobody. I was two clicks away from running a background check on him when my phone buzzed and his name popped up on my screen.

"So would you let me take you out?"

I almost said no. Not because I didn't want to, because hope had become one of the scariest feelings I'd experienced of late, but still, I heard myself answer, "Yes."

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