on my shirt, but I’m drawing extra attention to breasts that Chad once described, in a disappointed voice, as “not quite a handful.”
What a dick he is.
But what did I expect? Not all guys named Chad are awful, but not-awful Chads are definitely the exception, not the rule.
Bethany, I see, has way more than a handful. Her naturally bouncy and bountiful chest barely fits in a tiny crocheted top that leaves nothing to the imagination. She’s got the curvy thing going for her, no doubt, and she’s probably a nice enough person. But as she and Chad canoodle while they unload their groceries, giggling and touching each other for absolutely no reason except that they’re hot for each other and don’t care who knows it, I can’t help comparing the two of us.
Why am I always the girl left un-chosen?
Sure, my boobs are small, but so what? Boobs aren’t everything. I’m as attractive as Bethany. And I have many other good qualities—I have especially nice lips, if I do say so myself. And I’m fun too. Most importantly, I’m a good person. I care about people—really care. I try to be thoughtful and compassionate to everyone who drifts into my orbit, and I’d do anything for a friend, family member, or significant other. I’m loyal to the bone.
But so far, none of the men I’ve dated seem to see that.
Or to value it.
I’m always second best, the girl who’s easy to leave, the woman they date until the one they really want comes along.
Maybe Jesse’s right. Maybe you do need the list. Maybe it’s just the thing to get you out of your rut and on the path to making your dreams come true.
“Or to figuring out what my dreams are,” I murmur.
They’ve been packed away for so long I can barely remember what I put in those boxes. And there are worse ways to spend my vacation than hanging out with a gorgeous man who wants to help me live my biggest, boldest, best life—even if he is a sneaky leaver who’s departing New York in two measly weeks.
And it would be sort of like spending time with Claire again.
It would be bittersweet, but still . . . sweet. And even sweeter to share the experience with someone who misses her as much as I do.
Ducking behind a cereal box display, hiding my pie-covered self from Chad and Bountiful-Boobed Bethany, I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text to Jesse.
* * *
Ruby: Okay. Maybe we can do this. We can at least try. On one condition—if I want to stop, we stop. That’s it. No peer pressure. No guilting me into doing things I’m not ready for.
* * *
Glancing around the cereal boxes I hit send, fighting the urge to gag when Chad snakes his hand down the back of Bethany’s shorts.
We’re in a place that sells food. This is a no-touching-your-girlfriend’s-bare-butt zone. Or at least, it should be.
Or am I being a prude?
One way to find out.
I’m leaning around the cereal display with my phone, snapping a pic of Chad’s hand so I can ask Gigi if she thinks it’s gross—Gigi has a good gut for how gross is too gross—when my cell rings, sending Chad’s head whipping around for the source of the sound.
I freeze, heart leaping into my throat as I scramble to mute my cell and pretend I wasn’t spying on my ex, but it’s too late.
I’ve been caught.
Caught!
Chad pulls his hand out of Bethany’s shorts and heads my way, a frown tightening his expansive forehead. Ironic, that Chad is the kind of guy who complains about the size of a woman’s boobs while expecting kindness and compassion regarding his receding hairline. And hey, I had zero issues with that whatsoever. But the fact that he feels entitled to some kind of mythical perfection in a girlfriend when he’s no Chris Hemsworth is as irritating as Twitter rants that misuse they’re and their.
And now I’m irritated. About both grammar and exes.
So irritated that when my phone buzzes again, I lift it to my ear and say, “Hello?” taking the call even though Chad is standing right in front of me, clearly intending to say something.
“You look busy. Want to call me back?” a deep voice rumbles in my ear, making my cheeks prickle in the places where he wiped the pie off of them.
Jesse.
Just the sound of his voice makes me bolder.
I lift my chin, staring Chad down as I say, “No,