“Are you?” she asks, releasing the glass.
My other hand curls around the wine in a defensive hold. It’s wine from her fiancé Jamie’s vineyard. It’s delicious, but each sip is a reminder: it’s no longer Nikki and Sybil, two single besties ready to take on the world. It’s Sybil andJamie. I’m the third wheel now. A dull ache starts at the base of my rib cage, but I ignore it and take a long pull from the wine, feeling my lip gloss stick to the rim of the glass.
My mother has always had strict rules for drinking—for me, at least. My younger brother, Cooper, could do no wrong. They’d thought it wasfunnywhen they realized he’d been topping off mydad’s Wild Turkey with iced tea. And my older siblings—twins—were a law unto themselves. Now they’re both established adults with their own families, but I think my parents were just happy that Linney and Pete made it to adulthood with four limbs apiece. But the rules were always set for me: never more than two drinks, only clear liquors, and only ever allow one lipstick print along the rim of your wine glass.
Mom was also the one who taught me how to walk smoothly in high heels, even when you had blisters. How to apply mascara from the back seat of a moving car. How to smile just right, tongue pressed to your front teeth, eyes soft. Everything I needed to win over pageant judges with a picture of perfection—no matter what was happening below the surface. I both loved and hated it. But right now, I’m grateful for the training.
When I put the wine glass down, my smile is back in place.
I rest my hand on her arm. “I’m fine, Sybs.” I press as much truth as I can into the words. “I mean, yeah, tonight sucked, but you came and rescued me. The next date will be better.”
But I’ve either lost my touch, or Sybil can see through the facade. She clocks me with an unconvinced look.
“Fine.” I sigh. “I just don’t get what I’m doing wrong. I mean, I’m picky! I only go out with guys if they seem like they might actually have potential. I literally follow our damn list to a T. But they never turn out as good as they looked on paper.”
Sybil quirks her head. “You mean that list we made after Aaron? The ‘Reasons to Get Back Out There’ list?”
“Exactly!”
It was the result of a wine night much like this one, except Emma and Willow were here too. Willow wanted to call the list “Reasons to Get Laid,” and Emma preferred “Reasons to Risk Your HeartAgain”—but the idea was the same. I was so heartbroken and embarrassed after Aaron, I couldn’t imagine what could possibly compel me to enter the dating pool again, so Sybil insisted I make a list of all the qualities a guy would need to lure me back to the market. The crème de la crème of wish lists. A series of attributes so compelling as to make the guy worth shaving my legs for.
The list started off seriously enough: He’d need to have a good job (“six figures,” Emma scrawled in the margins). He’d need to be tall (I’m 5’9”). He’d need to be ready for a serious commitment—I wanted to be married within three years; kids within five. He’d need to share my faith. (“Good Jesus-lovin’ boy,” Sybil added). After a few glasses of wine, items like: “understands how to wear jeans” and “successful like Christian Grey but without the sex closet” were added.
“Sounds like maybe it’s time to throw out the list, Nik.”
I laugh. “I definitely threw it out already—after you knocked over that second bottle of pinot and used it as a napkin.”
Sybil shakes her head. “Metaphorically, babe. You can’t checklist your way into a love that won’t let you down.”
I twist the wine stem between my fingers, considering. Idolove a good checklist.
“The list was fun and all,” Sybil continues. “But look at that guy tonight—Tony? Tyler?”
“Taylor.”
“Right. I’m sure Taylor ticks all the boxes: ambitious, tall, handsome, good shoes, probably wants two point five kids and a golden retriever…”
“So?” I say, feeling a little defensive. “What’s wrong with that? I want those things too.”
“I know you do, Niks,” Sybil says. “And I’m sure you’d love thatpoint five of a child with all your heart. But you can’t boil a relationship down into a list of reasons why youshouldfit with someone. You just have to put yourself out there and find someone you click with—even if they’re a sweet, skinny-jeans-wearing medium king who wants ten kids.”
“Ten!?” I say, practically spitting out some of my wine.
“You know what I mean.” She puts her glass on the coffee table and turns to fully face me on the couch. I realize that the Sybil before me is different than the one I met freshman year of college. There’s wisdom there, the kind that comes with making mistakes and growing from them. She’s changed, but I’ve just been stuck. Stalled like the traffic on the 101.
“Ugh. You’re totally right. I know you’re right.”
“Ah, that feels really good to hear. I’m almost never the right one in a conversation!” she says. “Cheers tothat!”
I smirk and toast her glass with mine.
Then Sybil leans back, her posture relaxing into something more familiar. “Go on, go home and ‘reorient’ yourself. Hang in the hammock, sleep till noon, jump in the lake—actually, better yet, push Cooper in the lake.” I laugh. Sybil’s an only child but has adopted Coop as her honorary little brother. “Do whatever you need to. Take your time. Come back to LA refreshed,” she says.
“I will,” I tell her, praying that it’s true. “I promise.” I take another sip of my wine, careful to leave only one lipstick print.
3
ISPEND ALL DAYWednesday packing and arrange for the movers to come early Thursday morning, so my bed is the last thing to go into storage. I’m in the air, heading east, by lunchtime.
