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coffee (I’d made the mistake of admitting that I spend the majority of my time in a coffee shop without mentioning the crucial detail of owning it), and one guy told me I was “incredibly sexy”—how does one discern that from a snapshot of someone who’s leaning on a countertop?
    I read each prospective profile. Many of them lived in Wilmington or the surrounding towns, although one was as far as Chapel Hill, and I concluded that he either owned a beach house here or a really cool car. Many of them promised to treat me like a queen, were “fed up with game-playing” (I assumed they didn’t mean Scrabble or Guitar Hero ), were loyal, loving fathers and good, God-fearing Christians.
    The key to a successful ad, I decided, was audience awareness and brevity. Unfortunately, many failed. For one thing, too many false assumptions were made—that I had or wanted kids, that I was seeking financial security, or that I’d been dumped or neglected, and that I was not to be trusted. For another thing, some were trying so hard to establish that they were reliable, rich, or sensitive that they seemed to ignore me altogether. And I couldn’t help but reject the profiles with excessive run-ons and fragments, spelling errors, or those typed in all capital letters. What can I say? It was an occupational hazard, even if I was no longer in the occupation. All indicated a lack of attention to detail and proofreading, not to mention poor Internet etiquette. I mean, really, DIDN’T ANYONE TEACH YOU GUYS THAT ALL CAPITAL LETTERS MEANS YOU ARE SHOUTING AT SOMEONE? And besides, why ask out the former-English-teacher-geek-bookworm when you the only book you’ve ever read was the ghostwritten autobiography of Tony Hawk?
    As I read profile after profile, one notion nagged me: these were all personal advertisements . Buy me! An investment of a lifetime! It was catalog shopping, at best. Worst of all, it was so unromantic. But some pushy curiosity kept me reading, clicking, scrolling, and searching, perhaps hoping I’d eventually find a gold nugget in all that sand. Another Shaun, or someone even better.

     
    Minerva, Sister Beulah, Car Talk Kenny, and I huddled around a table cluttered with ceramic mugs, crumpled napkins, and Minerva’s laptop and study notes. So far, they were the only people I had told about joining the site. I hadn’t even told Olivia or Norman.
    As Minerva scrolled through the list of available men, one of us occasionally interrupted in a hushed voice, “Oooo, what about this one?” and Minerva discreetly read the profile out loud. We then discussed and debated.
    Car Talk Kenny winced at one. “He’ll cheat on you first chance he gets.”
    “How do you know that?” Sister Beulah asked.
    “The picture was taken at a bar.”
    “So? How does that lead you to the conclusion that he’ll cheat on her?” said Minerva, while I asked, “How do you know it’s at a bar ?”
    “Look at the lighting,” he said.
    By the second week, I’d still managed to keep the endeavor a secret when one night Lovematch.com alerted my iPhone to a new message. I opened it and my jaw dropped when I saw the photo of Scott, Norman’s best friend. One of the Originals.
Cool profile, Eva! So much for singlehood—you are so busted! Well, how ’bout it? Wanna grab a coffee? Haha.
     
    I stared at my phone, mortified. Was he seriously asking me out? I had a strict rule about not dating any of The Grounds’s customers. Norman, however, exercised no such rule and was always on the lookout for potential dates or, as he dubbed them, “future Mrs. Norman Baileys,” as if he was going to keep backups.
    Later, I scanned Scott’s profile, beginning with the photo. Strange, he resembled the Scott I knew, somewhat: cowlicked, milk chocolate–colored hair with eyes to match; long face; thin, pale lips. Leaning against a railing offset by a red, rocky backdrop. The Grand Canyon, I guessed. Adventurous looking. This Scott, however, looked