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I have enough going on in my life. Between trying to build a successful event-planning business and making sure that my brother and mom are cared for, I don’t have time for the men of my generation.
“Really? We’ve been friends since freshman year of college. I am well versed in Juliet’s quick escape the second the wind changes direction.”
“What does that even mean?” I ask, with a grimace.
It’s less than a question and more of me attempting to convince her that her comment is completely off-base.
“Oliver, your boyfriend from college…”
I shake my head and turn to look to my left out the window over my shoulder. “You always make him out as an example.”
“Juliet… you two were serious. That kid loved you and the second he got into law school two hours down the road, you practically changed your number and ghosted him.”
I turn back to her and roll my eyes. “I didn’t ghost him. We broke up. Long distance never works.”
“He sent you flowers to our dorm room every day for a week begging you to reconsider. He told you he wouldn’t go to law school until after you graduated if you’d agree not to break it off.”
“I wasn’t that into him,” I lie.
“Bullshit. You two already had your first two kids' names picked out. His family adored you and you spent more time with them than with your own. You two were happy.”
“We were still just babies Shawnie.”
“No… you were just scared.”
I hate when she does this.
Her dad’s a shrink so she thinks she is by proxy and tries to psychoanalyze my childhood trauma and make it out to be the reason I do everything.
Though I think she’s just a psycho.
“I’m not talking about this anymore. Oliver and I have nothing to do with my fake relationship with Ryker,” I say, standing up and heading for my kitchen.
Yes, I’m basically running away from this conversation… but that proves nothing.
My kitchen is small and L shaped but clean and updated with white cabinets and white countertops. It’s hard to get an apartment in the city for a decent price but the space was renovated recently and the one-bedroom apartment is plenty of room for me.
Shawnie gets up and follows me.
I head straight for my freezer and open it, pulling out a box of frozen ham, egg and cheese croissant breakfast sandwiches.
“Want one?” I ask, walking over to the microwave.
“Sure, I could eat.”
I pull two out, rip off their plastic containers, and wrap them in paper towels. I set the microwave to a minute and a half and then I pull out a gallon of orange juice.
“The only reason you’re agreeing to this is because it has an expiration date,” she says.
I pull out two glasses above the counter and start pouring juice in each cup for us.
“Shawnie,” I say, turning to her with her glass of OJ and setting it on the countertop overhang where two short bar stools are tucked underneath. “Of course, I only agreed to it because it has an expiration date. We’re strangers.”
She walks over to the small counterbar and pulls out one of the two stools. I turn back to the orange juice and pour us both a glass.
“What if, in two years, things change between you two and he tells you he doesn’t want to divorce at the end of your arrangement?”
I hate what-if questions.
