Lola’s eyes widen. “Withherher?” As if she needs to verify which her.
I nod. “Her name’s Ashton. She’s into yoga and crap at bowling. And she’s an Aries.”
Lola’s hand waves dismissively. “Pfft. Ken’s a Capricorn; they’re doomed to fail.”
“I appreciate the vote of catastrophe.” And continue, “She’s fucking adorable, Lo.”
“Well, you’re fucking gorgeous,” she bats back, like the protective sister she is.
“I’m thirty-four.”
She blinks at me a few times, as if she doesn’t understand why that’s important.
“She’s twenty-one.” I hate the way it sounds coming out of my mouth. And because I already sound like a pathetic shrew, I confess, “I feel old. Fucking old.”
She stands and walks around the island to hug me. “You’re not old. And you were always too good for him.” She squeezes me tight for a long time before she takes a step back, and holding my hands, looks me in the eye. “I think you’re burned out and need to shake things up. Get outside your comfort zone. Leave this house. Try new things. Meet new people.” All things I don’t normally do. “You’re stuck in a rut.”
“Maybe this is my midlife crisis?” It feels like I’m in crisis, midlife or not.
“Goddess, I hope not. That would mean you’re scheduled to check out at sixty-eight.”
She walks to the chalkboard that hangs on the kitchen wall. We used to use it all the time, but the same message has been written on it in Lola’s handwriting for the past year:
“Figure out who you are—then do it on purpose.” –Dolly Parton
Lola erases it without a thought and writes:
Soph’s Fuck-It Tally
(Do all the scary things.)
She turns to me and says, “You know, like a twist on the fuck-it bucket.”
“What the hell is ‘fuck-it bucket’?”
“You no longer give afuck,” she stretches out the last word, “consequences be damned.” When she sees the apprehension on my face, she clarifies, “Like start a photography side hustle. Or look for a new job because the one you have is draining the life force out of you. Your creative side is dying to take the wheel.Let her.”
I roll my eyes. Photography is my hobby, not a marketable commodity. And I can’t leave my job. It pays too well, and we need the money.
“Or have a one-night stand. You’re in your sexual prime, explore it.”
I’ve never been into one-night stands. If I’m being honest, my sex life’s never been very satisfying either, so maybe she’s on to something.
She takes me by the shoulders and shakes gently. “You’ve always been a relationship girly. And with a carbon copy of Ken.”
I do the wobbly nod, shoulder-shrugging thing. ‘Relationship’ feels like a stretch because that implies a level of serious commitment I’ve never achieved. I always go into dating with that intention. But somehow it never transitions from mild attraction to love. I might be broken.
“How’s that working for you?”
I stare at her in silent agreement.
She drops her hands and nods once. “Exactly!You’re young, enjoy being unattached. Live it up. Flirt with strangers who don’t own a pair of pants that require ironing and work in sales or management. Traditional, corporate nine-to-five isn’t sexy. It’s safe. And safe is boring as hell.”
“I like safe.” It’s knee-jerk.
She calls me out immediately, on a disbelieving, devilish chuckle. “Oh, no you fucking don’t. You don’t like safe; you’ve settled for it. Think about the men you’re truly attracted to. Raven from Treachery’s Riot? The guitarist last night? You can’t tell me ‘safe’ is the word that comes to mind when you think of them.”
Safe is the last word. “They’re fantasy. There’s a difference.”
