The answer for me, unfortunately, was no. Not a single one of my ten dates was someone I could see myself meeting again. One of the guys let me foot the entire bill after I offered to pay my half. Never even took out his card. When I asked if he wanted to split it, he informed me that “funds are tight at the moment.” Another guy asked me if I minded letting him smell the inside of my shoe. Apparently, he had a foot fetish. The other eight were no better, each one displaying some characteristic that was a hard no for me.

So at the end of this particular week, I was more exhausted than usual when I stopped into the grocery store at the corner of my street. Days like this, I wished Cairo stocked alcohol in here, because I was too tired to make a separate stop at a liquor store tonight.

Perusing the aisles, I grabbed a bag of cheese puffs, Devil Dogs, a large bottle of Coke Zero, some Sour Patch Kids, and a frozen pepperoni pizza. It was going to be that kind of night.

When I got to the register, Cairo’s eyes widened at the sight of my junk-food extravaganza.

As he rang up my stuff, he started to smirk like he always did while his mind was cooking up a new joke.

“Whaddya got for me tonight, Cairo?”

He came out with it. “What did the horny pizza say to the pepperoni?”

“What?”

“I like you on top.” He laughed.

“Ah. Nice.” Not sure if it was my mood today, but I found that one more annoying than amusing.

“You staying in tonight?” he asked. “No hot date?”

“I’ve had ten hot dates this week, if you can believe it, except they were more like hot messes. I’ve never been happier to spend a Friday night alone in my life.” I ran my credit card through his machine and smiled. “Have a good weekend, Cairo.”

As I carried my handle-less paper bag out of the grocery store, my text notification chimed. I reached into my purse and took out my phone as a breeze blew my skirt up, nearly exposing me to people passing by.

Devin: You never came back to the office after your assignment today, so I picked up your mail. You got another letter from that little girl, Birdie. I took it home with me if you want me to drop it by.

Shit. Did I want to get into that tonight? I knew it would make me emotional. I was better off just escaping into some Netflix and calling it a night. Yet, even though I knew what was best for me, I typed the opposite.

Sadie: Yeah. That would be great. I bought some junk food if you’re down. Bring a bottle of wine.

Later that evening, Devin and I had finished off the pizza, half of the other snacks, a bottle of wine, and three episodes of Stranger Things before I decided to open the letter.

Dear Santa,

Thank you for sending the braid. I wasn’t expecting to get anything else. I don’t want you to think I told you about wanting a braid on the top of my head so you would send me one. I didn’t even know they made braid headbands! It’s so cool! You can’t even tell it’s not my hair!

The first time I wrote to you, I only wanted to know that you’re real. And you are. That’s why I asked for olives. (But I did want socks for Dad.) The braid made me really happy. My dad saw me wearing it and asked me where it came from. I told him I got it from a friend. It’s not really a lie. He seemed happy he didn’t have to learn how to braid my hair anymore.

I saw Dad talking to a lady the other night. It was weird. I was hungry, so I got out of bed to steal cookies, and he was on the couch, and there was a woman talking to him through the computer. I ran back to my room, because it scared me a little. I don’t know why. He didn’t see me. I know I was supposed to be in bed, but I wanted Oreos. I had them for breakfast instead.

Anyway, I’m not gonna ask you for anything anymore. Not until Christmas.

But I want to know if you can tell me something. Since the North Pole is pretty high up there, can you see heaven from where you are? Can you tell me if my mom is okay? Can she see me? I talk to her all the time, but I don’t know if she can hear me or see me. I asked her to send me a sign, but maybe she can’t do what I asked for. Like, if I ask her to send me a butterfly or a bird, they are everywhere, and how do I really know it’s her? My mom used to ride horses before she got sick. She rode this really pretty girl horse named Windy—because she ran like the wind. She was all black and had long blonde hair on her head and tail. Maybe I could ask her to show me a black horse running like the wind? That would be a way for me to know for sure Mom was okay. Can you see if you can get that message to her?

Thanks again, Santa.

Love you lots!

Birdie

P.S. I didn’t give you my mom’s name! It’s Amanda Maxwell, and she has long brown hair (before she lost it, but she probably has it again), and she smells like the perfume Angel.

The wine I’d consumed wasn’t beginning to help me process this one in the least. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry this time. So I was just—in shock.

Devin noticed the look on my face and said, “What does it say?”

I handed her the letter and let her read it for herself.

She handed it back to me. “What the hell are you supposed to do with this?”

I sighed. “I don’t know.”

“You know, you’ve really gotten yourself into something crazy here, Sadie. It’s cute and all, but maybe you should’ve stopped at the olives, you know? Maybe you write her back and nicely close things off so she doesn’t get hurt?”

“The thing is . . . I don’t write to her. I’ve only sent her things. I don’t know if it’s a good idea to start corresponding back at this point. Honestly, it’s been kind of fun brightening her days. Not sure I would change anything. I wouldn’t have minded sending her more things, either, if it made her happy. But a black horse with long blonde hair running like the wind? I just can’t make that happen.”

As much as I thought I’d meant the words I’d just spoken, the wheels in my head were already turning.

I’d never been what I considered normal. I liked my hot dogs wrapped in white bread with crushed Doritos on top, rather than on a bun with ketchup. When I’m on a date and bored, I plot imaginary escape routes in my head—often envisioning myself hurdling a nearby table or springboarding over a car in the parking lot like an action hero. And don’t even get me started on the insane lies I make up to strangers when I’m on a plane—once when I got bumped to first class, I told a woman I was a duchess of Belgium. But today, today might have taken the cake. At least I was going to have a future article in the bank—Five Ten-Minute Dates.

I’d told each date to meet me at a different location, starting at eleven o’clock.

Sam met me at Prospect Park in Brooklyn first. I’d presold each of them on the concept. We’d meet, set our phone alarms for ten minutes, and say goodbye at the beep. If either of us was interested, we’d wait twenty-four hours and send a text. If the recipient of the text didn’t respond, they weren’t interested. No fuss, no phony excuses . . . clean and simple. The only thing I hadn’t mentioned to my five Sunday dates was the reason I’d picked each place.

Anyway, Sam was cute! The smile on my face as we walked around the park was genuine. Sure, I had an ulterior motive, to write an article and do some Birdie research—two birds, one stone. But finding true love was never out of the realm of possibility. So imagine my disappointment when I started walking with cute Sam and he spit. Spit! Not like Oh my God, a bee flew into my mouth, get this thing out of here. But he hocked a loogie and power shot it onto the ground in front of us.