Free Dating Without Novocaine by Lisa Cach

mission,” Cassie said.
    â€œFor me it is. Or maybe I should say ‘business.’” I paused and considered. “Or maybe not. That doesn’t sound quite like what I mean.”
    â€œWhatever.”
    â€œAnd there is a certain element of synchronicity to it: remember me talking about going on a nature hike with a guide? Look, I could have my own personal expert on hand!”
    â€œMmm,” she said, not half as convinced as I thought she should be, considering that she was the one who said I should look for coincidences.
    â€œHave you written back to anyone yet?” I asked.
    She took another bite of burrito. “No.”
    â€œCass!” I said, exasperated. “Why not?”
    She shrugged. “None of them felt right.”
    â€œâ€˜Felt right’? It just feels unfamiliar, is all. I thought there were a few who had a lot in common with you.”
    â€œThe energy was wrong.”
    I pursed my lips. I never did well with discussions of ‘energy.’ “Do you mean there was something suspicious about their profiles, or their letters? Or annoying, like those guys who claim to want a smart woman but misspell ‘intelligent’?”
    She shrugged one shoulder. “Maybe. I just don’t feel that I’m going to find the right person on the Internet.”
    â€œAnd you won’t, if you go at it that way.”
    â€œYou never know. Love comes when you’re not looking for it. You have to release your desires before you can achieve them.”
    I frowned at her, then turned back to the monitor. How could you not be looking for love, if you’d put an ad up? And how would you ever get what you wanted, if you gave up striving for it?
    â€œWhere are you going to meet him?” she asked.
    â€œSomeplace public. Maybe the Starbucks at Pioneer Courthouse Square. That should be safe, don’t you think?”
    â€œShould be. Just be careful.”
    â€œI’m not stupid. I won’t get in his car or anything.”
    â€œHannah, doesn’t it seem a little wrong to you that we should even be having a discussion like this?”
    â€œYou mean, assuming that anyone we meet might be a psychopath?” I asked.
    â€œDating shouldn’t be like this.”
    I chewed my bottom lip. My parents had met at a town picnic. How much more quaint could you get? There had been enough mutual acquaintances that theycould each reassure themselves of the other’s reputation. As far as I knew, Mom had never had to worry that Dad might haul her off into the woods, rape her, then leave her murdered body buried under a pile of leaves.
    â€œI know it shouldn’t,” I said. “But what choice do we have?”
    â€œThere’s always choice.”
    â€œYes, well, I’m going to explore all the choices I’ve got. This is only one prong of my multipronged dating attack plan, you know.”
    â€œDo I.” She started heading back to the kitchen. “Let me know where and when you decide to meet him. And leave me his name and number, just in case.”
    â€œYes, Mother,” I said, but was glad she’d asked. It felt a little better to know that someone would be keeping track of how long I was gone and where I was. It might be important when the police tried to track down my killer.
    Cassie was right. There really was something wrong with dating like this.
    Â 
    Four days later I sat on a stool at the counter that lined the plate-glass windows, sipping chai. Starbucks was crowded with noon-time business people and semi-eclectic twenty-somethings. The coffee shop was perched above the northwest corner of Pioneer Courthouse Square, a red brick plaza often called “Portland’s living room.”
    I had my back to the windows, and to the group of street kids who hung out there. White guys with dread-locks, wearing pullovers woven in Third World countries; girls with hair dyed bubblegum blue or ketchupred, with