I don’t feel like a woman.
I feel like the kid picked last for gym class.
Except instead of dodgeball, it’s now the world of love, romance, and pleasure that I’m missing out on. And unlike gym class, there are no rules in place to ensure I’ll get my time on the court. I could spend the rest of my life on the sidelines, watching the people I love couple up and build lives that have less and less space in them for me.
It won’t be personal or cruel.
They won’t mean to leave me behind, it’s just what happens when some people move forward, and another remains stuck.
Soon, I’ll be like Peter Pan, alone in Neverland after the lost boys and Wendy have grown-up and flown away. Except I won’t even have Captain Hook to fight with or mermaid friends to distract me from my abandonment.
I will just be…alone.
“But you like being alone,” I mutter aloud. It’s the truth, but for some reason the words sound like a lie and my next swig of beer tastes sour on my tongue.
I’m about to ditch the beer and grab another macaron—surely, I can digest one more cookie without going into sugar shock—when I catch sight of a party crasher circling the edge of the dance floor.
I instantly know that the dude is here without an invite because—
None of my friends or my friends’ friends dress like motorcycle club thugs. We’re good gamer boys and girls—or good at pretending we’ve never snuck weed gummies into the dorm sophomore year in advance of a binge-watch of theBill & Ted’s Excellent Adventurefranchise—and collectively, we’re about as intimidating as a burrow full of baby bunnies. Even Caroline, my basketball-playing roomie from freshman year, is a gentle giant. When she’s not dominating the court, she enjoys knitting, decoupage, gardening podcasts, and speaking softly in an inside voice, even when picnicking in Central Park. Which can make understanding her difficult at times, but that’s what “leaning in” is for, right?
As he prowls the perimeter of the party, Mr. Stranger in Leather is slowly but surely shifting the vibe from easy-breezy nerd fest to midnight at the watering hole on the savanna. My Vintage Video Game Club girls have stopped dancing to watch him with the wide, half-terrified, half-intrigued eyes of eager prey and Cam and my other guy friends are clenching their jaws in his direction, silently warning him that they won’t allow any women to be gobbled up in one sexy bite on their watch.
If I’d ever been in this man’s presence before, I would remember it. He’s not only massive—easily a foot taller than my five foot two—he’s also offensively gorgeous. I amseriouslyandearnestlyoffended by his deliciously square jaw, bulging biceps, and that rakish swoop of hair that somehow manages to look styled and effortless at the same time. And I won’t even get started on his eyes, those devilishly clever, dark brown eyes that sparkle so bright they flash in the near darkness.
Those eyes…
I’m startled out of my list-making by a sharp tug at the back of my memory bank. A beat later, a face fills my mental screen. The face is younger and softer than Mr. Leather’s, with an innocent grin and slightly crooked teeth, but the eyes and sexy stubble are the same.
Exactly the same.
“Holy fuck,” I gasp, the beer falling from my hand tothunkagainst the Astroturf beside my lounge chair. I’m dimly aware of the sound of liquid glugging out onto the fake grass and my obligation to fetch paper towels to clean up the mess, but I’m primarily focused on the pulse hammering in my ears.
Iknowthis man.
I not only know this man; I know why he’s here.
At my twenty-fourth birthday party.
Searching the crowd for the girl he made a sex promise to seven long years ago.
My computer-nerd bestie from high school is all grown-up and apparently ready to make good on our pact from summer camp. The one where we said if we were still virgins by the time we turned twenty-four, we’d hook up again and take care of our pesky V-Cards once and for all.
Which means this tall, buff, gorgeous, slightly dangerous-looking man is here to ravage my sugar-filled, mostly sedentary, never-met-a-gym-class-I-couldn’t-find-a-reason-to-skip bod. The bod I didn’t even bother properly shaving before wiggling into my party dress tonight because why bother hacking away at the forest on my legs when I’m wearing knee socks with my high-tops, and no one ever sees me naked but me?
And when’s the last time I stopped to take a look in the full-length mirror while changing into my pajamas?
Maybe seven months ago? Eight?
All I know is that the last time I looked, my skin was sallow from lack of sunlight, my itty-bitty boobs looked droopier than usual, and I had dark circles under my eyes and week-old glitter in my hair. The glitter was partly Evie’s fault for getting artistic in my general direction and partly my fault for forgetting to shower for several days while in the midst of yet another work crisis, but the rest of it was all me.
All gross, crusty, self-neglecting me…
Watching Sam pause by the refreshment table, leaning down to murmur something in Caroline’s ear—he’s so bleeping tall he makes Caroline look like she plays basketball for leprechauns—I instantly know I can’t do this.
I can’t sit here, waiting for Sam to find me and realize that I haven’t grown-up or glowed up the way he has. I’ve already quit my job and my dream of becoming the greatest game designer Brain Chill has ever employed. The last thing I need right now is to watch my former best friend’s eyes go dull and sad with disappointment when he realizes he’s promised to put his penis in a full-blown goblin.
I have to bail. Now. Before the window of escape slams shut.