“I don’t care whether you do or you don’t.”
“I’m just not into the girly, fluffy bridal thing, and Naomi and Sloane took the day off to drive down here and watch me parade around like Bridal Barbie.”
Sloane. My heartbeat picked up.
Despite my best efforts, my brain cataloged each and every time the woman’s name came up in conversation.
Sloane would be in my city.
“Bring them by the office,” I said.
Lina looked as if she thought I’d lost my mind. “Why?”
“They’re your friends. I’m sure they’d like to see where you officially work as of two minutes ago.”
She narrowed her eyes and brought a manicured finger to her jaw. “Hmm. It’s almost like you want me to bring Sloane into your inner sanctum.”
“You’re annoying me. Go home before I fire you.”
“Be nicer to her,” she ordered.
“Or else what?”
“Or else I’ll make your work life as miserable as possible while still doing my job. And I’m really, really good at miserable.”
Emry: Is the pair of symphony tickets you had delivered to my house your way of asking me out on a date?
Me: Take them across the street. Knock on the door. And ASK. HER. OUT. But change your shirt first. You’re going for “dateable man,” not “cuddly grandfather.”
Emry: There’s nothing wrong with cuddly.
8
Wedding Dress Hives
Sloane
F
or the first time since my dad passed away, I was up, showered, dressed, and ready to go earlier than necessary. It was day one of my official comeback. Mom was right. I couldn’t wallow forever. I wasn’t good at it anyway. So today, I’d slap on some lipstick and a smile and go wedding dress shopping. Tomorrow, I’d officially go back to work.
I carted my breakfast dishes from the nook to the sink and grimaced when I found it already piled high with dirty plates and bowls. An oppressive weighted blanket of doom settled over my shoulders.
Energy was a precious commodity, and I’d already used all mine up putting my hair in a ponytail.
I had thirty minutes before I had to leave. I could do the dishes, but did I really have the mental energy for strategic dishwasher loading? I peeked inside and groaned. It was already full, and judging from the smell, the dishes on the racks were not clean.
Muttering to myself, I opened the cabinet under the sink and found the bottle of detergent. It was empty.
Irritated, I hurled it into the sink. The ensuing rattle and crash of dishes collapsing on themselves had the cat galloping into the room like an investigative pony.
“You know, you could help out around the house. Earn your keep,” I told her.
Meow Meow sneezed disdainfully and waddled past me.
I looked at the fork and knife clock on the wall next to the portrait of a fruit bowl.
If I left now, I could stop at one of those hip DC coffee shops where power-suited coffee aficionados began their day and treat myself to an expensive, unnecessary high-calorie drink.
Or I could cross something simple off my to-do list.
I blew out a breath, ruffling the hair that framed my face. There was one thing I could tackle now that would save me considerable trouble: My dating app profile. If I filled it out now, I wouldn’t have to lie when Lina and Naomi asked me about it.
I left the chaos of the kitchen behind me and drifted into the mulberry-wallpapered dining room with its heavy antique furniture. There, I flopped down in the velvet wingback chair between the built-in china cabinet that housed more liquor than china and the stained glass window.
Meow Meow launched herself onto the table, draping her considerable girth over the runner.
There was already a sizable ring of cat hair visible on the russet table silk. The dull morning sunlight cast a judgmental spotlight on the dusty table surface. I blew out a breath. Lethargic moping hadn’t done me or my house any favors.
“I put mascara and cute clothes on this morning. It’s a start. Tonight, I’ll dust and vacuum,” I said conversationally to the cat as I opened the app Stef had forced me to download. “Ugh. It’s called Singlez with a z.”
The pictures of “sexy singlez near me” had me perking up.
“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. Maybe I’ll match with my perfect future husband right away, and then I can get laid and snap out of this funk.” Good sex, whether from a relationship or a flirtation turned hookup, had always been a nice reset for me. Like a spa day, only with more coed nudity.
Meow Meow didn’t seem impressed. She continued to lavish her front paws with her pink tongue.
I turned my attention back to the screen. Username.
I probably didn’t have to get too creative here. After all, I had a one hundred percent success rate when it came to walking into a bar on the prowl. It wasn’t going to be that hard to find someone suitable on an app designed to match people up.
I glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. Books. Booze. Dust. Cat.
My thumbs flew over the keys.
“Look at that,” I said. “Four-EyedCatLibrarian isn’t taken.”
Meow Meow shot me a disgruntled look, then yawned, baring her teeth.
Likes? That was easy. “Bad tempered cats, books, and comfy pants,” I muttered as I typed.
Looking for? The standard options weren’t very specific. There was a lot of mileage between companionship and marriage. I decided to go with “other” and typed in my best approximation.
“Okay. Now all we need are a couple of pictures, and we’re good to go.”
I scrolled through my camera roll and selected a handful of cute selfies.
“Boom! Done,” I announced, dropping my phone in my lap like it was a microphone.
It had only taken me four minutes, and now I wouldn’t have to lie to my friends. I was starting to impress myself with this comeback.
I glanced around the room for another easy task to cross off and remembered that I’d promised Mom I would gather up any of Dad’s old files. Since I was seeing Lina today, I could give them to her instead of paying a personal visit to Suited Satan.
I marched out of the dining room, looped through the living room—man, I really needed to dust—and entered the study. The cabinet behind the desk held a collection of old ballpoint pens, broken pencils, change, and rubber bands.
In the second drawer of the desk, behind a stack of legal pads, I found Dad’s candy stash. Pronounced prediabetic a few years before his first cancer diagnosis, he’d taken it upon himself to ration his candy to one piece per day.
I pocketed a mini Kit Kat that was definitely too old to eat and moved on to the bottom drawer.
It was a deep pullout with tabbed hanging folders. Most of them were empty, though their labels remained. Property Taxes. Gift Ideas. Fantasy Football. Kids Drawings. Recipes.
I paged through them, smiling at the ripped-out catalog pages filed under gift ideas and the stack of crayon drawings he’d collected over the years of being a father, an uncle, a grandfather, and a neighborhood favorite.
Toward the back of the drawer were a few fat files. These I liberated and piled on top of the desk as the cat pranced into the room. She jumped onto the desk and placed her front paws on the stack of folders.