And then they’ll vote on which obituary will get posted on theirMission: Outlive Our Ex-Boyfriendsgroup blog.
That’s what’s supposed to happen.
What actually happens is that I turn around and discover that someone is sitting in my seat at the table with my friends.
Not only have they been interrupted in their timed five minutes to write the best obituary for Drugstore Steve that they can possibly write, but they’ve been interrupted by someone who’s at least half a foot taller than me, at least eighty pounds heavier, who possibly can’t put his arms all the way down to his sides because he’s overdone the weight lifting and has oversized biceps and triceps, who has messy dark brown hair, and who, I suspect, is still sporting a mustache that could be a stunt double for Stuart Little.
Worse, though?
As if thiscanget worse?
Worse is that Sheila’s face is telegraphingI have seen a cute dog and I want to pet it soooooo badly.
He brought his dog.
And as I approach the table, I realize he not only brought the dog, but he’scarrying it in a baby sling.
A pink baby sling.
And Evelyn—cynical, thrice-divorced but man-loving Evelyn—appears to be struggling hard to resist the allure of big man with tiny dog in a sling too.
Only Odette is still straight-faced.
Probably because I sometimes tell clients personal stories when I’m coaching them if they’re veering down theyou can’t possibly understand how hard it is to start over in my circumstancespath. And Odette has a memory and attention to detail and a way of putting puzzle pieces together that would’ve been useful to the CIA if she hadn’t loved teaching so much.
I wonder if she’s pieced together that my issue with Fletcher Huxley is more than just his mustache.
“Goldie, look at this,” Sheila gushes as I reach the table. “This man who tried to suffocate you while he was unconscious at the blood drive came by to apologize tousfor worrying us over you.”
Fletcher looks up at me, all sincere-faced choir boyI am here doing good deeds, and smiles sheepishly.
Fletcher Huxley.
Former rugby god of England. Jaw chiseled by an Italian sculptor. Hooded green eyes straight out of a Brontë novel. A thick neck that’s the envy of social media gym rat influencers everywhere. The pornstache. And the ego that would put the entire Copper Valley Thrusters championship-winning hockey teamandthe Copper Valley Fireballs championship-winning baseball team, combined, to shame.
And he’s smilingsheepishly.
“Goldie,” he says with a nod while he scratches his dog’s head. “Always nice to see you.”
Sheila squeals like he’s asked me to marry him and I’ve fallen all over him sobbing in joy.
Ew.
“I’d say the same, but I can’t see you past the pornstache,” Ireply, matching his sheepish smile with an overdonehaha, I’m so funnysmile.
Like I’m joking.
But I’m not.
I got over rugby players the day my brother became one, and I’ve never once regretted that life choice. Not to lump them all together, but in this case, yes, I’m lumping them all together.
“Goldie,” Sheila hisses.
Evelyn makes a strangled noise.
Odette hums softly, which you only notice if you know Odette well enough to listen for it. It’s herplease pass the popcornhum.
Fletcher unfolds his body from my seat with the grace of a cat stretching after an afternoon nap in the sun. “Don’t need to interrupt you ladies any longer,” he says. “Noticed you were here on my way past and didn’t want to miss the opportunity to apologize for scaring you all the other day. You ever want tickets to a match, I’ll hook you up.”
