Not You It's Me (Boston Love #1) - Julie Johnson Page 0,1

watch my friends, who’d once matched my every tequila-shooter and shimmied until the wee hours by my side, pair off into couples.

And then married pairs.

And then parents.

I can barely keep my plants alive, let alone a tiny human.

By the time I hit twenty-six and realized what was happening, it was too late. I’d already become Single Gemma — the one who throws off the even-numbered dinner party, the one my friends look at as a pet-project rather than a person. They’re well meaning, of course, but I can’t say it’s always appreciated.

First there’s Shelby: “My dentist is single, Gemma! Recently divorced, full head of hair… I really think you two might hit it off! I’ll set something up when I go in for my cleaning tomorrow. He’s stable — you would do so well with a guy like him! And he almost never makes my gums bleed.”

Breathe, Gem. She’s not trying to be patronizing, she’s just trying to help.

Then there’s Chrissy: “Oh, my Cross-Fit trainer is mega-hot — seriously, you should see his abs. I wish Mark still had abs like that, but he keeps talking about gaining ‘daddy-weight’ — like he’s the one who carried the goddamn baby around in his goddamn womb for nine goddamn months. Sorry, what was I saying? Oh, right, Steve. I’ll slip him your number after my next class.”

See, marriage isn’t the Crock-Pot ‘o gold everyone makes it out to be, Gemma. If you were married, you’d probably know what the hell daddy-weight is and be required to accept the fact that your husband let himself go less than a year after the wedding. The world of Budweiser-tumors and marital resentment is not for you.

But, no matter what I tell myself, I can’t shake the feeling that something is simply wrong with me. I’m a twenty-six year old woman living in a modern metropolis and I’ve never been in a serious relationship in my life. There are literally thousands of men at my fingertips with the help of Tinder and OkCupid and CoffeeMeetsBagel and Hinge and a million other online-matching services whose mission statements guarantee they’ll help me find my perfect match.

So… where the hell is he?

And, if date after date after date after date leads to absolutely nothing more than coffee or a one-night stand… if none of the hundreds of men I’ve met since I moved to Boston are right…

It has to be me.

That’s the only logical conclusion.

Which brings us back to Ralph.

With his cheap haircut, pudgy physique, and a wardrobe most sixteen year-old boys would kill for — seeing as it consists almost entirely of Boston sports team logo tees and track pants — Ralph Goldstein isn’t exactly a stunning specimen of man. But he is one crucial thing my friends seem to think outweighs all the questionable fashion choices and lack of sexual magnetism: single.

I met him six months ago, when he moved into the apartment across the hall from mine. He isn’t my type — in fact, I’m not sure he’s anyone’s type — but I felt like I had to at least try this relationship-thing everyone else is always raving about.

So I tried.

I’ve been trying for about four months now.

But no matter what I say, do, or pretend to feel, I just can’t seem to make it work.

In a shocking turn of events, Gemma Summers fails once again to find her true love.

At least at first, I could console myself with the fact that, if not a soulmate, Ralph was a decent enough sexmate. But then, time passed and even that wasn’t enough to keep what minimal heat existed between us burning. Now, it seems like we fight more than we talk, and I can’t really remember why I was so determined to be coupled-up in the first place. Sometimes, I think I was happier as Single Gemma than I’ve ever been as Relationship Gemma, even if it is nice to have someone to go to the movies with and to drag along to the wedding showers that seem to be getting more and more frequent as the years slip by.

But maybe my luck is about to change. Winning these tickets — maybe it’s a sign that things can get better between Ralph and me. Maybe two people who aren’t perfect for one another can still be happy. Or, if not happy, then maybe… content?

I don’t know.

But I’m glad when he laces his fingers through mine and guides me across the street into the TD Garden stadium —