1
“I’m so tired it’s not even fucking funny.”
Adam breezes over to me and flings himself against the wall next to the bar, his voice flat with thatI’m so over this shittone.
It’s a tone I know all too well.
It’s two o’clock on a Monday afternoon and I’ve had a total of one and a half bar guests. The first left me a breath mint as a tip and the second just asked for a water and directions to the bathroom. It hasn’t been a total waste of an afternoon, though. In the five hours I’ve been here, I’ve had so little to do that I downloaded a new book on my phone and am already halfway through it.
The story isn’t unlike the others I’ve devoured lately. Shameless romantasy—usually involving an obscenely beautiful male, a badass heroine who makes you feel pathetic in comparison, and a battle against evil forces that inevitably results in the main characters saving the world and banging angstily in a run-down inn.
You know, all your favorite tropes.
I toss Adam a polite smile and laugh, grasping at straws for a response. I won’t stoop so low as to mention the weather.∗
Connecting with others has never been second nature to me. I’m sure people think I’m strange—the girl always more interested in reading than social interaction. It’s not that I’m anti-social. I actually don’tmindconversing with people—making small talk, the whole nine yards.
I just prefer imaginary worlds to the one I’m living in.
I’m still relatively new to town, and I’m not drowning in friends. Far from it. I had a few growing up, but there was only ever one person besides my dad that I could trust and truly rely on.
Annie.
We met in college, and it felt like we had known each other in another lifetime. She was infectious and passionate. Alive. But then a few years after we graduated, she disappeared. The last time we spoke, she sent me a text saying she was staying in Germany with her hot Belgian fiancé and that she’d be in touch.
That was years ago. I eventually stopped trying.
I come to work and see the servers off in the corner, giggling loudly over inside jokes. I see them flirt with our managers—both parties seeming equally chummy and at ease with one another. That kind of camaraderie can only come from openness and trust and self-assurance—none of which I’d particularly pride myself on these days.
Propping my chin on my hand, I swipe my finger across my phone’s screen, eager to get to the next chapter of my book.
Maybe it’s because my love life is so devoid of…well,existencethat living vicariously through these characters is all I can do to remain hopeful in the face of constant disappointment.
I’ve done my time on the failed relationship circuit. Being a lifelong hopeless romantic has only skewed my idea of whatlove looks like into something idealistic and unobtainable. There was the bar manager when I was nineteen. The lawyer when I was twenty-one. The pilot at twenty-three. And a handful of unmentionables in between.
And then there was Jack.
I didn’t just think I loved him. IknewI did. Because when it ended, I fled the state. I would have made a fool of myself for that man.
And I couldn’t do it.
I don’t think I ever stopped loving him. Not really. It’s been two years and even after all this time, the thought of kissing someone else makes my stomach churn.
And I know I shouldn’t be looking for fulfillment in the form of a man and that I have to love myself first and foremost and wait for when I least expect it. Basically, I need to live my life like it’s a fucking Pinterest board of inspirational quotes. But let’s face it, happy people who have traveled and lived and found their soulmates aren’t chanting “live, laugh, love” over and over to themselves and crying into their dinner.
I want someone to love. I want tobeloved.
There was a time after my dad died when I was afraid of what that meant. But my loneliness has since curbed that fear. I was so close to having everything I ever wanted. If I hadn’t been so stubborn and scared, I could have actually been happy.
But I was an idiot and let it all slip away.
I just want a good story to tell in the end. I want to get to the last chapter of my book so that I can have that “aha” moment. The moment when it all clicks into place. When I realize what I, as the narrator, have been too blind to see from the first page. Maybe I realize that what I wanted was always right in front of me. Maybe I find that place where I truly belong. Maybe I fall in love with the mailman or the guy who comes to fix my apartment appliances when they break.
I don’t fucking know.
So here I am. New home. New job. New job that Ihate, but new job all the same.
When I left New York two years ago, I slowly made my way down to Florida, stopping in sleepy towns and staying a few months at a time as my savings dwindled. I couldn’t bring myself to care. Aboutanything.
