Noah rolls his eyes. “Talk to me.” He turns his attention back to me, “How bad was it?”
“Terrible.” I groan, “I’m pretty sure he climbed out the bathroom window. Am I really that awful to be around?”
His gray eyes soften, and he turns to me, resting his elbow on the bar. “You’re not awful to be around, Sid. I love being around you.”
“You’re obligated to say that. That’s your duty as my best friend.”
“I don’t have to say anything,” he laughs, dimples sinking into his cheeks, “That guy was just a moron.”
“I just want to find love, Noah.” I sigh, “Is that too much to ask for?”
“You’re not going to settle,” he says sternly, running his fingers through his almost black hair to push it back, but that one strand that constantly falls over his brow doesn’t stay put. “You deserve more than that.”
I nod, but maybe Idoneed to settle. Lower my expectations so I don’t keep being disappointed. They can’t all be like Noah, can they? Kind and smart, and funny. I won’t lie and say I don’t compare all my dates to my best friend, but how can I not? Noah is the perfect guy for me. He cares about me, knows what I like and don’t like, he makes me laugh, and he loves me.
We have never been anything more than friends, and sure, I’ve imagined us as a couple. We fit together and have done since high school, but we’re only destined to be friends. I have high standards and I always thought that was okay, but maybe they are justtoohigh. Maybe that has been my problem all along. So what if he’s not six foot three with dark hair and stormy eyes?
I’m thirty-five; I’ve never had a relationship that’s lasted over three months, which isnotwhat I had planned for myself. I had a whole scrapbook, an actual roadmap for my future, and where I wanted to be at this age. I wanted marriage and children.
God, I want kids.
And while thirty-five is not old by any means, timeisrunning out for me. I want babies. I have always dreamed of being a mother, and I truly believe I’d be good at it. I have spent countless nights dreaming of Saturday mornings cooking breakfast as a family, evenings spent reading fairy tales, and day trips filled with laughter. Of course, I know having children isn’t all puppies and rainbows all the time, but I think that also has its charm. I don’t want a neat, tidy life; I want the chaos and mess.
A heavy sigh parts my lips, and I down half my beer. Scotty, being the absolute gem he is, slides a pizza onto the bar in front of us, one half pepperoni, the other a chicken supreme that we never have to order becausethe man just knows us. I’ve already eaten tonight, but I need the comfort only pizza will bring; I can regret my decisions in the morning. It’s Friday after all, and I don’t have to open up shop until noon. That gives me time to sleep in and wallow in my self-pity.
Noah grabs a slice from his pepperoni side, his stormy eyes on mine, “I knew I didn’t like the guy.” He grumbles and takes a bite.
“You didn’t even meet him.” I roll my eyes.
“Didn’t need to.” He says past a mouthful of food, “He signed off every single message with his initials.”
He did do that. On every single text message, even if we were in a whole back-and-forth conversation. He signed off each one with the letters of his name.
“It’s weird, Sid,” he rolls his eyes.
“I just want to meet someone, Noah.” I pull my own slice of pizza from the plate. “I’m getting older and I haven’t accomplished half the things I want to.”
“You ever thought about not living life by a to-do list?” He quirks one dark brow, “You know? Live a little.”
“But what about my scrapbook?” I blink at him. Despite not ticking off any of my goals, well, except one, I couldn’t even imagine not at least trying to follow the plan.
He picks up a napkin and wipes his mouth. “Sidney, you made that back in senior year.”
“So?” My shoulders droop, “Is it so bad I want to have control over my life? I’ve ticked one goal off with my shop, why can’t I have the others?”
“It’s not bad to want control,” he tosses his head from side to side, contemplating his next words. “Just a tad unreasonable.”
A laugh bursts out of me, “That’s my middle name.”
“No, your middle name is Summer,” he deadpans.
He’s right. I know he’s right, just like he always is, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. I just feel like there’s something wrong with me at this point. Am I just unlovable?
Chapter Two
Rolling over in bed, I reach out and slap my hand against my alarm clock, silencing the screech assaulting my eardrums. Sunlight streams in through a crack in my curtains, burning my eyes, and my mouth is drier than the damn desert. I drank way too much last night, and I can still taste it coating my tongue.
One shitty beer has me feeling like crap, but several? I’m about ready to call the health and safety board on Scotty. I’d never do that to him, of course, but right now I’m considering it.
