Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89820 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 449(@200wpm)___ 359(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
The response card is tucked underneath the invite because I was foolishly waiting in case I happened to find a plus-one. But who am I kidding? I’ve had one boyfriend my entire life, who took my virginity at prom and never spoke to me again. After that, I decided focusing on things I could control, things that could move me forward in life and not hold me back, was the way to go.
I yank it down and fill it out. Ms. Tenley Bayliss. No guest. Chicken Bruschetta.
For a second, I fantasize about declining, but I can’t do that to Bevin. We might have drifted apart, or at least, I drifted, ignoring all her girls’-night-out invitations in favor of legal briefings and cold Thai food consumed right from the carton, but I can’t miss the most important day of Bevin’s life.
She deserves all the happiness in the world.
And I deserve… well, all this.
I open the fridge and find nothing but a bottle of mustard and a half empty quart of expired milk. Grabbing the milk anyway, praying it’s not too sour, I pour myself a bowl of Cheerios from my equally empty pantry and prepare to inhale them. When I take the cap off the milk though, the stench hits like a bomb. My eyes water as I inspect the curdling mass.
Dumping the jug in the sink, I trek to the couch and collapse on it, eating handfuls of dry, cereal. Predictably, it’s stale. I haven’t had a proper meal at home in a month. When I’m not swerving through Starbucks drive-thrus or entertaining clients at swanky Portland restaurants like Fore Street and Periwinkle, I’ve been known to make a meal or two. But those nights have been few and far between as I work towards this promotion.
I grab my phone and scroll through it, lazily thinking about what I’ll wear to Bev’s wedding. I’m not sure I even have anything other than dull gray and charcoal suits. I can’t even remember the last time I went shopping. And my schedule from now until May is packed. I don’t have time.
As my mind wanders, I entertain myself with a scenario where I meet some handsome stranger at Bevin’s wedding.
Another delusion.
If I show up in one of my no-nonsense, buttoned-up business suits, I’ll bleed into the background. And it’s probably too much to think there’ll even be single guys there. Everyone my age is attached. I’ve gone to five weddings this year alone. It won’t be long before people start spawning too, and then I’ll have to attend more baby showers than I can shake a stick at.
I grit my teeth at the thought of what my friends will say when I show up solo to Bevin’s wedding: There’s Tenley. Alone again. Married to her work. Poor girl.
Poor girl…
Those words have haunted me since childhood, though not for the same reasons.
Maybe I’m not poor, money-wise, now, but I am lacking in other ways.
The thing about finding your special someone though, is that it’s not something you can work towards like good grades or a college degree.
It just has to… happen.
I’ve never been good at leaving things to chance, though.
In the final hours of my evening, I scroll through social media, soaking in my friends’ first-year anniversaries, growing families, and whirlwind trips to the Maldives. And then there’s me, number one, with a bullet to make partner at Foster and Foster before I’m thirty.
None of them can say that.
But they can say so much more.
The thought alone stirs something in me, but before I have a chance to explore what exactly that is, I decide I’ve done enough scrolling for the day.
As I’m about to close out though, my finger accidentally hits a button for an ad, and the next thing I know, an app called Blind Love appears on my phone screen.
Another dating app—just what the world needs.
Before clicking away, I stare at the photograph of an adoring couple on a turquoise beach. The man is giving the woman a piggyback ride in the warm sun, and they’re both laughing like they’re on happy pills.
Even if they are, jealousy spikes in me.
I read the goofy headline: DIVE INTO THE DATING POOL! THE WATER’S FINE!
I cringe, though that doesn’t stop me from reading the smaller caption below. Since you can only share photographs and personal information after 90 days of chatting, you’ll make real emotional connections with other singles like you.
It’s a good idea in theory, but knowing my luck, I’ll probably wind up making a 'real emotional connection’ with a serial killer.
Still, what if he’s a serial killer with a heart of gold?
Chuckling to myself, I download the app and set up my profile because I have absolutely nothing to lose (but my dignity) and chatting for someone anonymously for ninety days sounds a lot better than suffering through some awkward swipe date.