one
EM
The way Declanlooks at Leamustbe illegal in at least forty-seven states.
I’m wedged into the corner of my dorm room couch with them, watching a rerun of last night’sDancing with the Starswhile trying to pretend I don’t know they’re eye-fucking next to me. But it’s difficult to ignore a mating ritual unfolding two feet away, especially when the air is thick enough with hormones to bottle and sell as a frat party aphrodisiac.
“Score seems a bit high for that rumba,” I say, desperate to break the tension. “His hip action was stiffer than my grandmother.”
Neither of them responds to my small talk. Declan is too busy gazing at Lea like he’s mentally choreographing a very private, very horizontal tango, and Lea is blushing like she’s just been caught doing something indecent. Which, speaking as a not so neutral third party, they basically are.
As another judge gives another inflated score for another mediocre dance, I shove some popcorn into my mouth, crunching aggressively. Twenty minutes ago, this evening hummed with the promise of anexcellentgirls’ night. ThenDeclan texted, and now I’m the third wheel to Pine Barren’s most nauseatingly perfect couple.
“I should probably finish the paper that’s due next week,” I announce to nobody in particular, my leg bouncing a staccato rhythm against the worn coffee table leg.
“Hmm?” Lea finally tears her gaze away from Declan. “But you never start homework before midnight.”
“I’m turning over a new leaf this semester.” I stand up, brushing popcorn crumbs from my lap.
“Sit down, Em,” Lea says, patting the couch. “The celebrity dance-off is next, and you never want to miss that.”
“It’s fine. I have… things.” I wave vaguely toward my bedroom, suddenly glad Lea and I now occupy a dorm suite, complete with our own bedrooms and blessedly separate doors to close.
Declan at least has the decency to look guilty. “We didn’t mean to chase you away.”
“You did so,” I say with an exasperated smile, backing toward my room. “Enjoy your… show… and don’t break anything!”
I close my bedroom door and lean against it, listening to the muffled sounds of the TV and their laughter. Something twists in my chest—not jealousy, exactly, but an ache of recognition. I haven’t dated or kissed anyone since high school, and I’m now in the second semester of freshman year,aftera gap year.
Not exactly the stuff of romance novels.
It’s not just Lea and Declan. It’s Marnie and Trevor (finally!). It’s Ping hooking up. My entire group seems to be paired off, sharing inside jokes and bodily fluids, while I’m playing the ever-faithful third wheel, working and studying around the clock, and binge-watching reality shows so I can text my grandmother about them.
A burst of laughter from the living room filters through the door. Then there’s silence. The sort of silence that stretches taut.A sudden, thick absence of sound that screamsthey’re definitely making outorthey might even be fucking on the couch you sometimes eat dinner on!
My head gives a quick, involuntary jerk, an attempt to banish the thought.
There’s nothing wrong with being single, anyway. Some of history’s greatest minds were single. Marie Curie… wait, no, she was married. Jane Austen! She was single, and she wrote about love all the time without actually experiencing it. Which is kind of sad when you think about it.
I push away my stupid brain’s stupid thoughts and stare at the ceiling filled with my glow-in-the-dark stars. “This is pathetic,” I tell Orion’s Belt. “I’m pathetic.”
For years, I’ve had a perfectly valid reason for avoiding dating: trauma, courtesy of High School Derek, King of the Assholes. But lately, watching Lea and Declan build something real… it’s made me wonder if I’m using that as an excuse to avoid putting myself out there.
I sit up and grab my planner—the one with color-coded tabs for each subject, appointment type, and life category. I flip to the back, to the personal goals section, and stare at what I wrote with genuine enthusiasm on January 1st: “Maybe try dating again?”
But even my New Year’s resolution was noncommittal.
The muffled sound of Declan’s laugh travels through the wall, followed by Lea’s happy squeal. And, finally, something inside me shifts—a tectonic plate of determination finally breaking free from the continental mass of my fear, for better or worse.
I grab my phone, open the dating app I’d downloaded a week ago but never used, and click that damn “Create Profile” button before I can talk myself out of it. Ten minutes later, I’ve uploaded three non-threatening pictures, and written abio that’s equal parts self-deprecating and (hopefully!) vaguely intriguing.
My finger hovers over the “Activate Profile” button. Once I press it, there’s no going back. Well, there is—I could always delete the app—but metaphorically speaking, this is a line in the sand. A declaration that I, Amélie Charlotte Dubois, am ready to rejoin the world of dating.
Derek’s sneering face flashes in my memory.“Frigid bitch, nobody would want to fuck you anyway.”
I hit the button.
The app makes a cheerfulpingsound, and it gives me a welcome little dopamine hit, like I’ve just accomplished something worthy of a great and wonderful celebration. In reality, all I’ve done is throw myself into the digital shark tank of modern dating. But it’s a start.
