I shake my head, smiling to myself. Poor kid. I get it. Liking someone from a distance is easy. Actually, stepping toward them? That’s the terrifying part.
Work ran late after the evening rush, rare, but with just me and Ashton, chaos was inevitable.
Now I’m dragging my aching feet through the grocery store, dreaming of collapsing on my couch with a giant bowl of carbs andThe Great British Bake Off. It would be nice to have someone on that couch with me, someone who asks me about my day and wants to end it with ice cream or wine or both, but I’ve concluded that it’s not in the cards for me.
Everyone has a thing, and I think mine might be that I’m just cursed to be single. It’s not that I’m not trying; it just seems the harder I try, the harder it gets, and you can only get your heart broken or traumatized so many times before you feel like hanging up the towel and moving on.
I was totally one hundred percent okay with my bakery being my mistress a month ago—and then he appeared.
Apartment 6B.Nathan Reign, the quiet, sweet, yet awkward, silent man with his gorgeous jawline and intoxicating scent. And bang! I suddenly want to try one more time. It’s like the universe went, “Hey, look, maybe we saved the best for last,” and then it laughed at me and said, “Just kidding!”
I should never have told Ashton about him, but in a moment of weakness, I broke. She’s the kind of person who believes—really believes—that there’s someone out there for everyone. Not in a fairytale way. In a stubborn, almost defiant way. Like the universe owes you at least one person who feels like home.
She made me swear I wouldn’t give up on that idea. On finding the one. And apparently, when I’m tired and caught off guard in elevators, I’m still just hopeful enough to listen.
As I wander the fruit aisle, couples pass me hand in hand, smiling, brushing arms, whispering and wow, using actual words in complete sentences with another human who’s actually interested in what you have to say. It’s like a Christmas miracle, or the first snow of the season.
I sigh and pull out my phone to text Ashton. She’s right. I can’t give up. And who’s to say I can’t find a normal person to have a healthy relationship with?
My last breakup was the cheating husband guy—that one nearly sent me to therapy, so maybe I just casually fish in the very tiny pool that is dating in Seattle.
I startle when my phone buzzes.
Ashton:Okay. Don’t panic. But I did a thing.
I stop in the produce aisle, a bag of apples halfway into my cart.
Me:Definething.
Ashton:I made you a dating profile.
I slowly remove the apples.
Me:You didwhat.
Ashton:Relax. It’s just a profile. You’re not married to it. Yet.
Me:Take it down.
Ashton:Already too late.
Me:Ashton.
Ashton:I even picked your pictures.
My phone buzzes. I look down.
It’s… not great.
It’s the one from two years ago where I’m mid-laugh, hair doing something aggressive, eyes half-closed like I’m being exorcised.
Me:Why do I look like I’m being haunted?
Ashton:You lookfun.
Me:I look unstable.
Ashton:Men love a little mystery.
