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But so far, none of the men I’ve dated seem to see that.
Or to value it.
I’m always second best, the girl who’s easy to leave, the woman they date until the one they really want comes along.
Maybe Jesse’s right. Maybe you do need the list. Maybe it’s just the thing to get you out of your rut and on the path to making your dreams come true.
“Or to figuring out what my dreams are,” I murmur.
They’ve been packed away for so long I can barely remember what I put in those boxes. And there are worse ways to spend my vacation than hanging out with a gorgeous man who wants to help me live my biggest, boldest, best life—even if he is a sneaky leaver who’s departing New York in two measly weeks.
And it would be sort of like spending time with Claire again.
It would be bittersweet, but still . . . sweet. And even sweeter to share the experience with someone who misses her as much as I do.
Ducking behind a cereal box display, hiding my pie-covered self from Chad and Bountiful-Boobed Bethany, I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text to Jesse.
Ruby: Okay. Maybe we can do this. We can at least try. On one condition—if I want to stop, we stop. That’s it. No peer pressure. No guilting me into doing things I’m not ready for.
Glancing around the cereal boxes I hit send, fighting the urge to gag when Chad snakes his hand down the back of Bethany’s shorts.
We’re in a place that sells food. This is a no-touching-your-girlfriend’s-bare-butt zone. Or at least, it should be.
Or am I being a prude?
One way to find out.
I’m leaning around the cereal display with my phone, snapping a pic of Chad’s hand so I can ask Gigi if she thinks it’s gross—Gigi has a good gut for how gross is too gross—when my cell rings, sending Chad’s head whipping around for the source of the sound.
I freeze, heart leaping into my throat as I scramble to mute my cell and pretend I wasn’t spying on my ex, but it’s too late.
I’ve been caught.
Caught!
Chad pulls his hand out of Bethany’s shorts and heads my way, a frown tightening his expansive forehead. Ironic, that Chad is the kind of guy who complains about the size of a woman’s boobs while expecting kindness and compassion regarding his receding hairline. And hey, I had zero issues with that whatsoever. But the fact that he feels entitled to some kind of mythical perfection in a girlfriend when he’s no Chris Hemsworth is as irritating as Twitter rants that misuse they’re and their.
And now I’m irritated. About both grammar and exes.
So irritated that when my phone buzzes again, I lift it to my ear and say, “Hello?” taking the call even though Chad is standing right in front of me, clearly intending to say something.
“You look busy. Want to call me back?” a deep voice rumbles in my ear, making my cheeks prickle in the places where he wiped the pie off of them.
Jesse.
Just the sound of his voice makes me bolder.
I lift my chin, staring Chad down as I say, “No, I’m not busy. What can I do for you?”
“Hmmm . . . I don’t know,” he rumbles again, laughter creeping into his voice. “Knee that douchebag in the balls? That could be fun. That’s him, right? Chad the chode?”
“Yes, but I’m not a proponent of violence,” I say, frowning as the meaning of his words penetrates my annoyance fog. “Where are you?”
“By the berries. For some reason, I’m having a craving for strawberry.”
I glance to my left, spying in my peripheral vision a long, lean silhouette with delicious forearms—a silhouette that sends warmth rushing through my chest.
He followed me to try to fix things, and I can’t say I’m surprised. Jesse and I don’t argue often, but when we do—usually about something stupid like whether a gallery is pandering to dumb trends or if it’s okay to feed someone veggie meat without telling them about it first—we don’t let the sun go down on our anger. We both have too much respect for the capriciousness of fate to put off making up for long.
You never know when a chance to apologize might be your last.
I run my hand over my back pocket, the list crinkling beneath my fingers. You never know . . .
You really don’t.
So, why not? Why not jump into this list headfirst?
What’s the worst that could happen? The water is shallower than I expect, I knock my head on the bottom, pass out, and drown, which would be especially horrible seeing as drowning is number one on my list of ways I don’t want to die?
But deep down, I know that’s not going to happen. Jesse wouldn’t let me drown. Or even flounder. I have faith in him. So much faith, I whisper, “I’m thinking number five.”
