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“I said she was annoying. She’s the most annoying girl I’ve ever known in my life.” But my eyes are glued to her too. I smell burning steak, but I’m unable to look away.

“A girl who looks like that can be as annoying as she wants,” says Rob. “Introduce me.”

“Not a chance. That’s not how I want to spend my afternoon.” More to the point, that’s not how I want Rob to spend his afternoon.

“Fine,” he says. “I’ll introduce myself.”

And with that he walks away, and my stomach drops again. Rob, unlike every other guy I scared off this summer, is not a douchebag. In truth, he’s far better for her than I could ever be. And now he’s got his Harvard MBA and his brand-new job with a salary so high I thought he was joking when he told me.

It feels as if my life is still coming together, as if I have all the time in the world to go after the things I want. But as I watch Rob introduce himself to Erin, it occurs to me for the first time that maybe she’s one of those things. And maybe it’s already too late.

23

Erin

Present

It’s been only four days since my bike ride with Brendan, but it feels as if something has shifted inside me. Like hearing a song from high school and being catapulted back in time, I’m beginning to remember who I once was, the person I left behind in the process of becoming the person Rob wanted me to be. I’m angry at myself for letting that version of me slip away.

Harper is sitting on my desk, eating the cookies I brought in and offering a far-too-detailed description of her date last night with a guy who hadn’t shaved (“He went down on me, and it was like someone was scrubbing my vagina with fucking sandpaper.”) when Brendan texts, asking if I want to bike this weekend. Harper reads over my shoulder as I reply, having no concerns with privacy—her own or anyone else’s.

“Texting the new boyfriend, huh?” she asks with a smirk.

“He is not my boyfriend. As you know.”

“Oops. I meant to say ‘texting the guy who you’ve masturbated to thoughts of for the past month’. Oh, wait, maybe that was just me.”

I bury my face in my hands. “I went to Catholic school, Harper. I’m still not ready for 90 percent of what comes out of your mouth.”

“Speaking of groups of people who need to get laid, you’re still coming out with me Saturday, right?” Harper has somehow scored an invite to a private party for a bunch of the Broncos, which I honestly have no desire to attend.

“I’m not going out with you to get laid.”

“Obviously,” she says, as if offended. “I was referring to myself.”

“Since when do you like football, anyway?”

“I don’t have to like football to enjoy a guy with a perfect ass and a big dick,” she replies.

So it’s going to be that kind of night. At least I know it’ll be a short one.

* * *

On Saturday morning I bike with Brendan again. We stop at a restaurant for brunch on the way back. I’m not sure which of us suggests it, but I know I’m relieved. I’m fine with Brendan in public. It’s in private that my mind starts to go haywire.

“So what’s the plan for tonight?” he asks. “Romantic dinner, just you and Mr. Tibbles?”

“I’m going out, I’ll have you know.”

“Cool,” he says, spearing a home fry off my plate. “I didn’t know the library had extended its hours.”

“To a bar, asshole. A bar with men in it. Football players, to be more precise.”

His cocky smile dims. “What football players?”

“Broncos. It’s some party at a club Harper got us an invite to.”

He looks at me warily. “It’s good that you’re going out but, you know…baby steps.”