What I don’t miss is my ex. He definitely cured me of wanting a husband, and even if I would like male company on occasion, I’m quite happy being single for the most part.
Except I will admit watching Olivia fall in love with Carter has, at times, left me with a twinge of jealousy. I don’t begrudge her happiness, quite the opposite in fact. I’m thrilled for her while I envy her.
I’m not sure I’m ready—or if I’ll ever be ready—to open myself up to love again, but what could it hurt to start dating? If I’m not doing it with an end goal in mind other than a night out with an interesting man, I can’t be disappointed, can I?
“Okay. Fine. When I get to the office in the morning, I’ll create a profile and see who pops up.”
“Yes!” The victory dance Olivia does is something I never would have witnessed before Carter came into her life. He’s loosened her up in ways I could never have predicted. It makes me realize how superficial our relationship had been until recently.
Carter pulled back the curtain my best friend hid behind her entire life, one I was unaware existed before she met him. I’m ashamed of being so oblivious. It’s why I’ve made more effort to deepen our friendship, why I’ve opened up to her and our other best friend, Elizabeth, about my failed marriage and my fears that I drove my ex away.
Both of them vehemently rejected that suggestion. Those conversations have helped me see I was not at fault in the demise of my marriage. And watching Carter treat Olivia the way he does has shown me what a real partnership looks like.
What I envy most about their relationship is what Carter has given her that no one else in her life ever has.
Unconditional love.
Sadly, not everyone is as lucky as Olivia. We aren’t all destined to find the kind of love the two of them share.
1
ALEXANDRIA
For the first time since I let my best friend talk me into diving back into dating, I admit defeat.
In the last six months I’m positive I’ve found every damn frog in the dating pool—some slimier than others—and not one of them was a prince in disguise.
Not that I kissed any of them to find out. Or even wanted to.
Months in the dating game have taught me one thing. Dating is a full-body contact sport. One I don’t want to play. Ever again.
The saddest part about the last few months is that I can count on one hand the number of dates I’ve actually enjoyed.
The two times I was stood up. Both turned out great because I had no one to please but myself when choosing what to eat or do after dinner. Surprisingly, going to the movies alone isn’t as depressing as it sounds or I thought it would be. Since then I’ve gone on my own every time a new movie came out I wanted to see and neither of my best friends could join me.
Then there was the one date where I chatted with the woman in the seat next to me—not my date who was busy making eyes at the woman on his other side—about the play we were watchingand the dress I was wearing. My date hadn’t complimented my outfit, but she sure had.
Sliding into the driver’s seat of my car, I close the door and my eyes and lean back against the headrest, wondering how the hell I got here.
Thirty-six.
Single.
Divorced.
Childless.
Ten years ago, I never could have seen this coming.
Never could have predicted where I’d be in my mid-thirties.
A decade ago, I was twenty-five, planning my fairytale wedding to the man of my dreams and looking forward to the life we’d build, the children we’d have.
Except every year there was a reason why we should wait before starting a family.
He wanted to enjoy being justus—husband and wife—for a little longer.
We bought a dream home and needed to get settled.
