Freshman year of college, I was best friends with a guy named Ian Nolan. He had a dimpled smile, a dorm room with a microwave, and a beloved brother with Down Syndrome.
Watching Ian with Shane, seeing how much they cared for each other—that’s what sparked my passion for working with adults who rock that extra chromosome.
“I should message Ian.”
The ladies stop talking and stare at me in puzzlement.
“Who’s Ian?” Cassie asks.
“A guy I knew in college,” I explain, a little surprised to realize I’ve never mentioned him. Then again, Ian and I sorta lost touch after he dropped out at the end of our sophomore year. “His birthday is two days before mine, so we message each other every year around this time.”
Cassie tilts her head to one side and considers me over the rim of her champagne flute. “How come we’ve never met him?”
“He’s on the opposite side of the country,” I reply, trying to remember the last time I saw him. Ten years ago, maybe? “He lives in New York now. One of those friendships that sort of drifted apart, but we still do the obligatory happy birthday thing every year.”
“Hmm.” The sisters look thoughtful, and I suspect they have matchmaking on their minds. Two are engaged and one happily married, so I shouldn’t be surprised they’re plotting to get me on the wedding train with them.
“It’s not like that at all,” I insist, wanting to nip this in the bud. “Total platonic friendship. I always had a boyfriend in college, and he had this girl he was dating long distance. We were just best buds.”
Cassie grabs a piece of prosciutto off the plate and folds it onto a cracker. “But is he cute?”
I shrug and do my best impression of a woman who has never done a lustful double-take over Facebook photos showing a shirtless Ian charging through the finish line at a triathlon. A girl can admire an old friend’s physique, right?
“Sure, I guess.” I pop another olive in my mouth. “If you’re into gobs of muscles and that whole Prince Harry complexion.”
Which I am not. The men I date tend to be built more like swimmers or distance runners, lean and ropey. I’ve always preferred dark-haired guys over gingers or blonds, and I like brown eyes. I have a definite type, and Ian Nolan isn’t it.
And you’re still single, my subconscious reminds me.
I take another swig of champagne and tell my subconscious to shut the eff up.
“He was a great pal in college, but not really the type I go for,” I tell them. “He was the guy who got to mop me up after the boyfriends dumped me. A total sweetheart, but not someone I was ever interested in.”
“Why?” The earnestness in Junie’s expression has me asking myself that same question.
“Well, I guess—I don’t know. I just didn’t see him that way?” That sounds lame. I can tell from the matching dubious expressions that my friends think so, too.
I chew another olive and try again.
“We did make a pact, though.” God, I’d totally forgotten this. I refill my champagne glass, pretty sure I’ll need reinforcements for this confession. “We were eating Top Ramen in his dorm room one night. He had this huge brown beanbag chair we used to call the space turd, and we were sitting in it together sharing a Pabst Blue Ribbon.”
“Naked PBR night?” Cassie asks hopefully.
“Not naked,” I say. “I told you, it wasn’t that kind of friendship.”
“Unfortunate,” she says around a mouthful of cracker. “Keep going.”
I settle back on the sofa, burrowing into my new yellow scarf and the memories of that long-ago night. “We were hanging out, drinking beer, just bullshitting about dating and life goals and all the heavy stuff you talk about when you’re nineteen years old and three beers into a six-pack.”
Cassie laughs. “Oh, to be young again.”
I lift my champagne glass and take a sip, part of me expecting the warm, bitter tang of cheap beer. “Anyway, we made this vow,” I continue. “We said if we were both still single at thirty, we’d marry each other.”
The sisters titter with excitement. “And?” Cassie refills her champagne, then moves on to the other empty glasses around the table. “What’s his status?”
“I have no idea.” Liar. “He probably has a girlfriend or something.” Possibly true. I’ve seen a parade of them pass through my Facebook feed over the years, including one who looked like Blake Lively’s hotter doppelganger.
“You should message him,” Cassie says.
