Good Lord, are men really this moronic? No one wants to see your genitals. No one. Well, maybe someone. But not me.
I can’t keep this up. I hit the settings icon on the dating app and tap the red letters that read BLOCK. Sorry, Connor. It was fun while you were pretending not to be a typical man-pig. You had to go and ruin it with your dick pic and nineties bed sheets. The only good thing about that picture was the dog, and I feel bad he or she even had to witness it being taken.
I toss my phone next to me on the couch and it bounces on the cushion then falls to the floor. Not caring enough to pick it up, I grab the bottle of wine I opened earlier—when I needed a little liquid courage—and pour more into my glass.
I don’t know how I got to this point. I tuck my legs under me on the couch and take a sip, trying to rack my brain for a logical reason as to why my life has gone so astray that I’m sitting alone on a Friday night, scrolling through a dating app.
After my breakup with River, I used my pain as motivation to launch my writing career. I can still remember the feeling that soared through my entire body when I landed a literary agent. If I allow myself to think about it enough, even now, my heart picks up pace in my chest. It’s like I’m taken right back to when I received the acceptance email for Blurred Lines, the title of the manuscript that changed my entire life.
It paid for my dad’s treatment, despite my parents having enough money. I just wanted them to save theirs in case things got really tight. After my book shot straight to the top of every major bestselling chart, everything changed for me. If River and I couldn’t be together in real life, at least we could end up together in my fictional pages.
It’s hard to believe I’ve published three novels. It’s even weirder to me when I tell people I’m working on my fourth and that I’ve been able to make a full-time career out of being a writer. I really did it. It’s one of my favorite accomplishments to date, just a smidge under being an ambassador for The Leading Way of Chicago—an organization that Dillon belongs to downtown.
The director had asked me to be an ambassador for their program, to go out into our community and help educate families of children with autism, and also their teachers and peers. At first, I felt extremely underqualified. After all, I hadn’t gone to school for anything of the sort. But the director said there was no one better to educate than those who live it. So, Dillon and I both have given various talks on living with autism and what that means not only for him, but for our family and his future, as well.
Writing, though—even still—makes me think of River. I wrote daily after he left. Every single feeling I didn’t want to feel was written down in my journal, tucked neatly away in my nightstand, out of my mind and into a leather-bound book. I wrote them and tried to put them out of my memory. My heart physically ached until the harshness of his hurtful words had dissipated.
“You show up here like some crazy person trying to get me to throw away my dreams for you? A girl I’ve known for half a year?”
I might never forget the words. They still tug on my heartstrings a little, but the five years separating me from that memory has helped with the healing of him calling me crazy.
Writing about him was easier than talking to him, at that point. I didn’t want to hear about his new incredible life without me. Maybe that was selfish of me, but I think I’ve grown at least some since then.
I pull myself from my thoughts and pick my phone up from the floor. I don’t have enough wine in my modest apartment in Chicago to keep reminiscing on my youth.
If someone had asked me if I ever thought I’d be here, I’d tell them no fucking way in hell. I wouldn’t be on a dating app, because I wouldn’t be single.
Less than a month ago, I was engaged to Brady Turner—the sexy-as-hell CEO of a startup turned multimillion-dollar business that had been featured in Forbes Magazine. Turns out, Brady Turner was also a lying, cheating son of a bitch.
And before that, there was only River Jacobs.
Track Sixteen: I Heard it Through the Grapevine
by Marvin Gaye
AVA
After being introduced by friends, Brady and I just clicked. He was easy to get along with, easy on the eyes, and easy to love. I had a feeling when he flew us out to California for our anniversary that he might propose, and I was right.
I sit on the couch and close my eyes, remembering the pivotal moment like it was yesterday.
Brady gets down on one knee inside the beautiful Napa winery and says the words I’ve been waiting to hear since I fell in love with him—back when I was living in my tiny apartment, still ruminating over my past.
He looks up at me with his beautiful, perfect smile, his dark brown eyes meeting mine. “I’m in love with you, Ava. You’ve given me the best three years of my life and now, I can’t picture spending it with anyone else. You’re beautiful, patient, and kind. You’re the most loving and selfless woman I’ve ever known. For all these reasons, plus a million more, I’d like nothing more than to spend forever with you. Will you marry me, Ava?”
I pull him up to me and press my wine-stained lips to his. When we finally break apart, he slips a gorgeous princess-cut diamond ring onto my finger and I gasp at the sight of it.
With absolute certainty I say, “Yes!”
His arms wrap around me and he pulls me tightly to his chest as thunder rolls outside the winery. Raindrops fall hard against the floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the vineyards. Our servers pull out their phones and start snapping pictures of us. The smell of red wine and oak fills the air as Brady tangles his fingers in my hair, pulling me in for another kiss.
I am drunk on the most expensive Cabernet in California, and it pairs perfectly with his love. For the first time in a long time, everything feels right.
I shake my head at what should be a fond memory, but not long after our Napa trip, I was drinking the same Cabernet when I found out he’d been fucking another woman behind my back.
Finding out about Brady’s infidelity was shocking, to say the least. And so, at only twenty-two years old, I was sent spinning into an early quarter-life crisis.
After River, I wasn’t sure I’d ever fall in love again, let alone get engaged or married. For the better part of an entire year, I longed for him. Hell, I ached for him, for his touch, for his late-night talks. River nearly killed any hope I ever had in men, the letdown so substantial it eliminated my desire for any sort of happy ending—with anyone.
But Brady changed all of that. At least for a little while.
After our newfound engagement, my stomach was in knots as I drove to my parents’ house the next morning. Brady and I touched back down at home in Chicago after our trip, going our separate ways when work called, as it often did.
I still remember walking into my family’s home, with a huge smile on my face. I still remember how I felt, before my elation was destroyed by a blindsiding affair.
I glance down at my new, shiny diamond ring. It feels like it weighs a hundred pounds on my finger—in a good way, a way I can get used to. I see my brother first, his tall and lanky figure, with a Chicago Cubs shirt on that’s too big for him paired with basketball shorts. His blond hair, a stark contrast from my own, glistens in the sun rays peeking through the window. The house smells like acrylic paint, mixed with the scent of freshly-baked chocolate chip cookies floating through the air.