CHAPTER 1
VIVIAN
There are few choices in life I regret more than making eye contact with a man holding an oat milk latte.
Unfortunately, that is exactly how I now find myself trapped.
“…and the antifungal cream didn’t even touch it,” he’s saying, gesturing vaguely toward his shoe like we’re in a courtroom and his foot is Exhibit A. “Which, honestly, feels like a metaphor for how I’ve been treated in relationships.”
Of course it does.
I blink at him over the rim of my coffee cup, buying myself three seconds of silence. Three seconds of peace. Three seconds where no one says the wordfungalin a public setting.
Downtown Alexandria moves with the morning around us—car doors slamming, a dog barking somewhere down the block, the low murmur of conversation drifting from other tables. Normal life. Free life. A life I was living approximately twenty-three minutes ago before?—
“Vivian, are you even listening?”
I lower my cup slowly.
This is where the lie happens.
“Totally,” I say, nodding with what I hope reads as empathy and not the existential fatigue of a woman who has just learnedtoo much about someone’s toenail. “That sounds…really frustrating.”
It sounds like something that should have stayed between him and a licensed professional.
Across from me, Brent—Brian? Brett?—leans forward like I’ve just invited him to continue.
Which I absolutely did not do.
“I think it all started with my ex,” he says, settling in. “She never really saw me, you know? Like, truly saw me.”
Oh, I see you. I see you so clearly, I wish I didn’t.
I glance down at my book resting on the table beside my untouched croissant. A safe haven. A better conversation. A man in chapter twelve who, notably, has never once discussed his feet.
This—this right here—is why I don’t date. Or, more accurately, why I don’t dateagainafter the first attempt. Technically, this is not even a date. This is a hostage situation with pastries hosted by a man I had met for coffee—one time and one time only—six months ago.
“I just feel like vulnerability is my strength,” he continues, pressing a hand to his chest. “Like, I lead with it.”
You also lead with fungus, but sure.
I shift in my seat, subtly angling my body toward the edge of the table. It’s a move I’ve perfected over the years—Step One in the Exit Strategy. Create distance. Prepare for lift-off.
The problem is, Brent-Brian-Brett has mistaken my politeness for interest. A fatal error on his part. Truly.
“I mean, not a lot of guys would open up about something like that,” he adds.
Little does he know that there is a reason for that. I offer a tight smile, already calculating my escape routes.
Option one: Fake a phone call.
Option two: Sudden, urgent shop emergency.
Option three: Simply walk into the street and let fate decide. I said what I said.
“Anyway,” he says, leaning in again, lowering his voice like we’re about to discuss state secrets and not dermatology, “have you ever dealt with anything like that?”
I freeze.
