began eating our way through two bags of chocolate chips before starting down the long, dark road of failed relationship storytelling.
“Wait a minute, I’ve got it,” Luanne declares as she rises unsteadily to her feet, chocolate chips scattering across the floor. “I’ve got two words for you: Norman Sherman.”
I burst into a fit of giggles. Norman Sherman was Luanne’s old supervisor at the Take N’ Tumble Laundromat. He was skinny as a rail except for a protruding beer belly, had a super-mullet haircut and, despite being the manager of a Laundromat, had pit stains the size of pie plates under each arm.
“What does it say about me that my best date in eight months has been with a man who wore a navy blue Member’s Only jacket to his own mother’s funeral?” Luanne asks, popping more chocolate chips into her mouth. She paces the room, obviously doing some serious self-analysis under the influence of the tea-vodka. “I mean, Sherman Norman—”
“Norman Sherman,” I interrupt.
“Right, Sherman Norman, who smelled like beef jerky and only owned Tesla CDs, wasn’t even my worst failed relationship.” Luanne holds up her hand, preparing to count, finger by finger. “There’s been Bobby Jack who dumped me for his second cousin; Casey Runsinger who robbed me after I bailed him out of jail, twice; and Jason Mercer who turned out to be a drag queen named Jacqueline Midnight, and that was just this year!” Luanne stands stock-still in front of me, three fingers raised on her right hand and an expression of horrified disbelief etched onto her face.
I stretch out on the floor in front of her, cradling my booze-addled head with clasped hands, and close my eyes. “Listen, Lu. Just because we’ve made some bad decisions doesn’t mean there’s anything wrong with us.”
“I think you’re just trying to avoid the truth here,” Luanne says, crashing down to the floor and stretching out beside me. “Both of us must have some kind of sick desire to be treated like dirt. You’re always falling for the high-brow cheaters, and I’m always gunnin’ for the low-brow skeevers. If there was only one dirt-bag left in all of Texas, one of us would fall in love with him. It’s our gift.”
I know Luanne’s right. I know I have a ‘type.’ I fall for men who’re sexy, charming and a little bit dangerous, a little bit unpredictable. It’s the thrill junkie in me. Tim may’ve been in finance, but he had a dark side, and it’s what drew me to him. I guess there’s something to be said about girls wanting to be with men who remind them of their fathers. In my case, that’s definitely true. My father, Glen, is an ex stunt man. He met Mama when he wound up in the hospital with a dislocated shoulder. She was his nurse and claims to this day that he gave himself a concussion and broke two of his own fingers just to have an excuse to go back and see her. In the end it was he that left her broken.
I hear Luanne gently snoring beside me. I know I should wake her but I’m not sure I’m capable of raising my arms anymore. I roll onto my back and stare at a watermark on the ceiling. Why is finding someone so hard? Am I just destined to wind up alone in a house full of porcelain dolls and cat skeletons? No, that’s not the ending I want for my story. I want love. I want a husband and children. But mostly, I want to never hear those damn bells ever again.
From this moment on, I resolve to make better choices. I’m going to find a nice, boring guy who’s into organic produce and riding tandem bicycles. No more bad boys, no more swagger. I’ve been approaching this love thing all wrong. Love isn’t going to strike me like lightning or come wheeling through the ER doors. I’m going to choose it. I’m going to be ready for it. I do so solemnly swear.
Chapter 2
My head hurts. Am I blind? Why can’t I open my eyes? Maybe I’m dead. Maybe I died of a broken heart last night. It would serve Tim right if I were dead. I could start haunting him. I could…wait, why does it smell like fried-rice in the afterlife? I crack open an eye to confirm that I am not dead but am sprawled across Luanne’s floor, grossly hung over.