Chapter 4

ENDS THAT DON'T MEET

4

Why? Who sets their alarm on a Sunday morning? I swear I didn't.

I roll on the bed and register that it's not an alarm that woke me, but my phone ringing, an unknown number on the screen.

"Hello?"

"Leigh, hi," a woman's voice says on the other side. "Did I wake you?" She sounds unimpressed, as if—I check the time—nine-thirty on a Sunday morning was a totally inappropriate hour to still be sleeping.

"No, I'm awake. Who is this?"

"Oh, it's Maggie?"

"Maggie?" I lower the phone to stare again at the unknown number. "Did you change your number?"

"Yeah, a month ago. I was doing a purge of the unwanted people in my life and kept only the contacts of the people I cared about. I gave the others a clean break. Haven't I texted you the change?"

"No."

"Really? Then it's clearly been too long since we hung out."

Maggie was my dorm roommate at Notre Dame. Now, she's a realtor who still lives in South Bend and a "coupled wise human." Since I moved to Illinois, we've kept in touch, done the occasional girl trip when she was still single, but we don't have the talk-every-day kind of relationship we used to. It's morphed into more of a text-every-other-month deal.

"You're right, life's gotten hectic," I say, noting how I wasn't on top of her list of people to notify about the new phone number.

"You should come up one weekend, for old times' sake. Hang out with the gang. Watch a football game."

"I'd love to." I fidget with a loose thread on the comforter. "But you know finding a place for a game weekend is impossible."

"Nonsense, you can always stay with us. We have a spare bedroom."

Hearing people my age casually toss into a conversation that they have spare bedrooms when I can barely afford to rent a tiny studio apartment makes me feel like I've failed at adulting. If I had to witness first-hand the put-together life Maggie leads, I'd probably lose faith that going to grad school was a sound career choice. Plus, playing third wheel for an entire weekend is my idea of a nightmare. "Oh, wow, thanks. I'll think about it. See how crazy my schedule gets and if I can get away for a weekend."

"And if you have a boyfriend, you can bring him, too."

Real subtle, Maggie.

"No, still single," I trill.

"How hasn't anyone grabbed you up yet?" She regales me with a classic coupled human nugget. "We need to find you a partner! Corey has a lot of single friends who would just be perfect for you."

And there goes another evergreen. Everybody always knows the perfect friend, relative, or friend of a friend who'd be right for me. Except, they never are.

"Actually, I already have a date this week," I reassure her. The notion that "I'm putting myself out there" always seems to comfort "coupled wise humans." And it's not even a lie this time. I have the double date from hell planned with Ivy, her boyfriend, and his brother. Or I will have soon once I tell Ivy my non-existent date of last night didn't deliver The One. "So, what's up with you?"

A long, anticipatory sigh.

Please don't say you're getting married. Please don't say you're getting married.

"I'm engaged," Maggie chirps. "Corey proposed last night."

"That's amazing." I force the happiness into my voice.

I'm not a horrible person, and while I think that, yeah, misery loves company, I don't actually wish any of my friends to be miserable.

But weddings? Those are hard.

I drag a hand over my face. Next, she's going to ask me to be a bridesmaid. For which I will have to spend money I don't have on a pricey bridesmaid dress I won't choose and that I will only be able to wear once. Then there'll be the wedding gift. Bridal shower gift. And bachelorette party getaway. I can't afford any of these things. As a TA, I have a salary, but with rent—Evanston, regardless of being a suburb, is crazy expensive—food, and other necessities, I'm barely scraping by.

A wedding could mean financial ruin for me or a forced diet of instant ramen and white rice. Maybe I should accept I must go back to having a roommate. With Ivy gone, I switched our twin beds for a queen one. I thought I could afford to stay here alone. But my financial plans didn't include random celebrations of love.

Maggie is still being quiet on the line. I probably haven't supplied the necessary level of ecstasy in my felicitations. She must expect more from me, I oblige. "Oh, wow! Congrats! I'm so happy for you." I force a smile, then realize she can't see me and go back to pouting.

"Thanks! I can't wait to start planning. You'll be a bridesmaid, of course? I already have a Pinterest board full of wedding ideas."

I'm screwed.

"Of course, I'd be honored."

The squeal of joy on the other side almost perforates my eardrum. "Amazing. I'm going to add you to the bridesmaids' chat group. Right away."

Would I be considered evil if I muted the group?

"Can't wait."

"Listen, I gotta go now. So many other phone calls to make. But I'll be in touch soon with all the deets."

"Yay." I don't think she picks up on my being ironic.

"Talk later, bye."

I toss the phone on the bed, bring a pillow over my face, and scream.

Besides being a hurdle financially, weddings are also emotionally draining. I will have to sit—no, not even that, I'll be standing right next to the altar the entire time—watching two people promise eternal love to each other while I can't even get a guy to commit to a fourth date. I'll dream, I'll hope, I'll cry. My feet will hurt.

Hope is the worst. Whenever I attend a wedding, I always tell myself I'll finally turn into a bridesmaid-and-best-man trope. But the best men are never handsome strangers, and even when they are, they're already taken.

If I'm lucky, someone else in the wedding party will be single and not completely obnoxious. So that I won't be the seventh or ninth wheel at the table. But with my unfortunate track record, Maggie won't even have a wedding party table, and I'll end up at the singles one, sitting with guests all under the age of fourteen.

I hate my life.

My phone pings from its position at the foot of the bed where I tossed it.

I almost dread looking at who it is.

I roll the pillow over my face underneath me and reach for the phone. It's Ivy.

From Ivy

Hey, hon, how was your date last night?

Made up.

To Ivy

Nothing special

From Ivy

So, no second dates in sight?

Am I being paranoid, or does she sound almost optimistic?

To Ivy

No, no second dates

From Ivy

Don't hate me if I say I'm happy because you have to meet George's brother. He will be truly perfect for you. Can I set us up for a double date on Friday night? Dinner?

Ah, the dreaded double date. Right. I'm already at rock bottom, so it's not like I have any further to fall. I might at least get a free dinner out of it.

To Ivy

Sure. Let me know the time and place

From Ivy

Fantastic, you're going to love Oliver

I'm 99 per cent sure that I won't, but I send her a thumbs-up emoji all the same.

After a quick breakfast, I take out my laptop and make an estimate of how much Maggie's wedding is going to set me back. I open a file on what the last wedding I went to cost me and use the old data to jot estimations for the dress, gifts, accommodation, and travel expenses—assuming the wedding will be in South Bend and not somewhere extravagant.

The grand total is over a thousand dollars. And if I have to adjust for inflation, it's twelve hundred bucks I don't have.

I scan the list of items again and remove a hundred bucks of bridesmaid dress accessories. I'll wear old shoes and refuse to add any sparkle. But even like this, I'm going to have to pinch every penny from now on. Maybe I'll keep the heating off all winter. It's not like it gets that cold around here in December, right? Lake Michigan doesn't completely freeze over. There's always a blotch of unfrozen water in the middle somewhere. And no heating is better than taking on another student loan.

I should've gone to grad school in Texas, where it's always warm.

With a small crack in my heart, I cancel my Netflix subscription. With an even bigger fracture, I also cancel my e-book subscription. From now on, I'll borrow e-books from the library only. That should save me about twenty bucks a month, which means that in a year, I'll be able to afford the trip and overnight stay in South Bend, and a smaller bridal shower gift. To pay for the rest of the wedding expenses, I'll have to get creative.

Re-sell some old clothes online? Or maybe take a bunch of stuff to the consignment store down the block? Online, I might have more reach, but shipping costs are going to cut heavily into any profit I can scrape by, so maybe the consignment store is better.

That's how I spend the rest of my Sunday, leafing through my possessions to decide what has re-selling potential. By mid-afternoon, I drag two sacks of clothes to the secondhand store alongside a small cabinet I no longer use. It takes me three trips to bring all the stuff over, and by the time I've priced everything together with the cashier, I'm beat.

Back at my apartment, I pack a small overnight bag for my short trip home tomorrow and cook some white rice—I can't go cheaper than that. After dinner, I enjoy a few hours of streaming TV before my subscription expires before tucking in for the night.

I curl under the covers in fetal position, hugging my mysterious book to my chest, and close my eyes.

When I open them again, I'm back in Lakeville Hills right where I left off last time. With Killian St. Clair knocking on my pickup window, gray eyes twinkling with mischief.