I had goals when I moved out to the West Coast—the handsome hubby, the dog, the kids, the beautiful home.
“I have the house and the dog,” I remind myself firmly. “And actually, I have a partial man. Probably the best kind. He doesn’t actually live with me, but he leaves me stuff and cleans my bathroom.” I turn onto my street.
“Anyway, I like living alone. After sharing a bedroom with a sister my entire life, this is luxury. We’re going to have a cozy rainy evening.”
I’m looking forward to whatever my stalker has left in my fridge. I’m pretty sure he also filled up the gas tank in my car at some point in the night.
Carolina calls as I’m pulling into my driveway.
“It’s just embarrassing, is all,” I tell Carolina as I half carry Fidget into the house, who doesnotlike it when her paws touch wet grass, concrete, or leaves. “I’m a businesswoman. I should have known a guy wearing a Patek Philippe watch and hanging around a café carefully branded to appeal to women was up to no good. I’m losing my touch.”
I take a deep breath. Nothing better than a freshly cleaned house. There’s even a single rose in a vase.
“Nooo! You were meant to be a baker!” I can hear her chewing a pastry.
“I should have been researching the shit out of him. Instead, I reverted to old me, just pining for a chance to seehim. All while he was plotting my downfall.” I hang my coat up in the coat closet.
Wow, did he reorganize?
“You said yourself this was more of a marketing location anyway, right?” Carolina swallows. “I bet you could get a new lease deal tomorrow.”
“Yeah, obviously I can go get another deal.”
Fidget follows me into the kitchen.
“Fuck him. He’s intimidated by a successful woman.”
“Damn right he is,” I holler as I open the fridge. Yum, food.
“But…” A paper bag rustles. “You should still fuck him.”
“Nooo…”
“It’s not cheating on your stalker.”
“That’s not—” I sputter.
“You can’t be in love with a guy who breaks into your house.” I can hear my friend raise an eyebrow.
“Sneaks,” I interject. “He is sneaking in. And you know me—I’m decentering men.”
“You can’t decenter men. You never date,” Carolina argues. “Men have never been central to anything you’ve ever done.”
“Exactly. I’m not the falling-in-love type of woman.”
“Not even with Mr. You’ve Got Mail?”
“That was a terrible movie, and Fitz is way hotter than Tom Hanks ever was or will be.”
Carolina hums.
“And,” I rail as I stomp up the stairs, “Fitz is a douche bro. He does sports.”
“I, too, read his impressive Wikipedia page.”
“He owns sports teams. Multiple. And he played football in college. You know how I feel about athletes.”
“Yeah, all that hard muscle and sinew,” my friend purrs. “You can get off humping that weird bulging muscle in their lower thigh.”
