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"Well, yeah, because the whole dating thing blows. I was never good at the whole dating thing either. If Hunter hadn't moved next door to me and taken an interest, I would likely still be single and living in the city selling my dirty panties. I had no patience for dating. It is designed to be awkward."
"Add on my social awkwardness and—"
"You're not that awkward, Kate," Fee cut me off. "I mean, really. You're not. I think you think it is worse than it is. And I get that it's your anxiety that does that, but I just figured I would let you know that it's not like you're some freak. You smile and make small talk and you are friendly to people who happen in the door. I get that it might not be easy to you, come natural to you, but you're not a freaky loner who can't string a couple words or sentences together."
"Work is one of my comfort places."
"I bet if we went out for drinks, you would be nice to the server. I bet you could make small talk with her if she started it. I'm not downplaying your anxiety and you know, for lack of a better term, issues. But they are not as obvious as I imagine you worry they are. Just throwing that out there to mull over. But, yeah, you could date. But dating sucks. And, besides, there are better ways."
"Better ways like how?"
"Like stopping being so stubborn, and talking things out with Rush."
"Nothing is going to happen between Rush and me, Fee," I insisted.
"Well, why not?" she asked.
"Because, I don't know, it's just not."
"Give me facts and figures to mull over."
"Fact," I started, taking a deep breath. "He is one of the most attractive guys on the planet. Also fact, I am not one of the most attractive girls."
"Okay, first, we covered this. You're pretty. Secondly, even if you weren't, beauty is subjective. Everyone has a different type. Or they don't care at all about the outside, and they like a good brain or sense of humor. Did you ever notice that the uber-hot Hollywood guys tend to have rather girl-next-door wives? They could have any superficially gorgeous woman in the world but there is something else that they love most about those other women."
"What kind of women have you seen Rush with?" I asked, a part of me needing the confirmation bias, needing to validate my insecurities, no matter how messed up that was.
"Honestly, he hasn't dated-dated much over the years. I mean there was one girl years back. I barely remember her. She was small and with like in-between colored hair. All I can seem to remember about her is that she hated mashed potatoes."
"How can you hate mashed potatoes?"
"I know, right? I think she was a sociopath. Potatoes are practically my love language. But yeah... he has always been kind of casual with women. I mean with his work schedule, it's no wonder. At our work and then helping out with King. No woman wants to be second fiddle to some guy's jobs. And, you know, the whole phone sex thing too. People get jealous. He always said he would hang up his phone when he found someone he was serious about. But yeah. He doesn't really have a type, I guess, because he's never been all that serious about anyone. I see what you're doing, by the way."
"I'm just trying to get you to see that Rush—who can have just about anyone in the world—isn't going to pick me. That's not me being insecure. It's just realistic. What?" I asked when she let out a long-suffering sigh.
"I'm coming over," she declared, and I could already hear her throwing some things together.
"What? Why?"
"Because we are going to have a girls night. And we are going to have a teen movie makeover complete with wardrobe montage. Then you will see how pretty you are. Put coffee on, okay byeeee," she said, hanging up before I could even think to object.
Adrenaline surged through my system as I hopped off my couch, looking down at my oversize, drag gray bathrobe, slipper sock-clad feet, reaching up to feel the messy bun my hair was twisted into.
"Oh, God," I grumbled, rushing across my apartment to throw on something a little more presentable than my sweats and giant sweater.
I ripped my hair out of the bun as I went back to the kitchen, making coffee, wiping down my counter, relocating the massive stack of angsty romances I'd been binge-buying online for the past week or so.
Just as I was setting out the milk in a dainty pink ceramic creamer I'd bought years before but never had a chance to use, there was a slamming sound on my door. Someone kicking.
I opened the door to find Fiona standing there with both arms draped in outfits, bags hanging off her wrists, a giant rolling suitcase at her side.
