Excerpt from The Impossible Us by Sarah Lotz, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

She's here! Wish me luck.

 

From: NB26@zone.com  

To: Bee1984@gmail.com  

Subject: What the HELL is wrong with you?  

Ok Bee. And thank you. You pulled me out of a dark place today. You really did.

BEE

It's astounding how many red flags there were, right from the start. Strangers on a Train was just the first of many. Would things have been different if we'd been less complacent and picked up on them? Maybe. Maybe that would simply have fast-tracked us into the craziness to come. Maybe one of us would have assumed the other was delusional and walked away. Then there's this: I still don't know what made me check that old Gmail account that day. I hadn't used it for weeks. And who answers random e-mails from strangers? (Idiots, that's who.)

N.B. was the one who got back in touch first, but I was the one who instigated the next step, nudging us from being little more than strangers swapping silly banter into something deeper. It wasn't intentional. At that stage, I wasn't daydreaming about moving to Leeds, reading the Sunday papers in bed, and going for long walks on the moors (or wherever people walk in Leeds). But right from the start, there was no doubt that N.B. and I had a good thing going: an instant ease between us, a lack of judgment that was both fun and freeing, and an unspoken pact to avoid thorny topics or anything too personal--no relationship or sex stuff.  

Which I suppose makes it ironic that the seeds of the next step were planted while I was on a date with another virtual stranger. I did a fair bit of that back then, rarely going any further than a one-night hookup. My best mate, Leila, said I was addicted to the roulette wheel of the dating app, the thrill of discovering if it would land on Oh Hell No, Maybe, or Shag. "Classic commitment-phobic behavior," she'd say whenever she found out that I'd swiped right again. "Using mindless sex with strangers to fill a hole." (Leila never missed an opportunity for a double entendre. She was also right.)  

The date ("Matt 36") had suggested we meet in one of those new hedge-funded bistros in White City, a choice of venue that should have set alarm bells ringing the second the text came through. Faux animal heads on the walls, vintage oils customized with spray paint, leather-clad booths designed with Instagram rather than comfort in mind, and staff dripping with ironic tattoos and smugness. We hadn't texted much beforehand-I'd been swamped with work, he said he hated online correspondence--so apart from the fact that he had crap taste in restaurants, I knew little about him. His profile pics had all the hallmarks of being professionally shot, and his three-line bio was as noncommittal as they get: Strong. Silent. Secure in myself. Not that I was anyone to judge. My profile--Funked up. Have soul. Bring snacks.--was both shite and trite, and I only used it because it made Leila crack up.  

I'd arrived early, hair still damp from the shower, and picked out a booth that gave me a clear view of the entrance. Despite the nervousness I always felt whenever I dipped a toe in Tinder's fetid waters, I was in an upbeat mood that evening. I'd delivered Ms. Peach's dress the day before (yes, in peach, and yes, asymmetrical, a nightmare to seam), and she'd shared pics of her wearing it on a girls' night out (#transformation). She looked happy-triumphant, almost. For her the dress was a symbol that she'd left behind a marriage that had run its course, and it made all the hoops I'd jumped through worth it (and yes, I did feel guilty for whingeing about her). I considered forwarding the link to N.B., but as she'd name-checked me, it would be the work of seconds for him to find out exactly who I was, and I was reluctant to mess with our Strangers on the Internet shtick.  

Excerpted from The Impossible Us by Sarah Lotz. Copyright © 2022 by Sarah Lotz. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.