dating department. I’ve been single since the winter before graduation. That’s eighteen months, give or take. My dry spell is older than a toddler. I’ll be damned if just any guy with a dick breaks it. What’s a girl have to do these days?”
Clea cringes. “Twerk on TikTok?”
“Not stooping to that,” I mutter. Then I scrunch my nose and add, “Yet.”
“You’re only twenty-three.” Clea’s declaration is meant to be reassuring and make me feel better. But her words have an adverse effect.
The pebbles in my belly double in size and start stirring, causing an ache. Just what I need right about now. “I’m a planner, dammit. If I don’t make this a priority, thirty will arrive with my tires still spinning.”
She scoffs and swats at the air. “Oh, please. We’ll intervene long before then.”
Presley pins her with a pinched glare, then tosses a gentle smile my way. “What’s the latest disaster?”
“Worst. Date. Ever.” Those three words continue looping in my mind.
They share another withering expression. These ladies understand my unfortunate dating history better than anyone. They’ve been sitting front row through the worst of it these past several months. Even Audria—my third bestie, who relocated to freaking Iowa last year—has missed out on the latest grievances. The fact that she decided to make the move permanent is an entirely different story, which has nothing to do with my current predicament. To claim I’m unsatisfied and annoyed would be a massive understatement—not to mention sexually frustrated. I’ve been going through batteries at an alarming rate. The towel isn’t getting thrown in yet, though.
“Tell us what happened,” Clea prods.
A crinkle of static seems to cut across the patio. The telltale swoop of guilt quickly follows. “I’m being a buzzkill.”
“You’re allowed to vent. That’s what we’re here for. Just get it off your chest and plan for a brighter tomorrow.” Presley makes a rolling motion.
“That’s part of the problem.” I pick at my thumb nail while trying to leap over this mental hurdle. “It’s been somewhat of an obsession lately. Usually my persistence pays off, but the opposite seems to be true when it comes to relationships. Relying on others to fulfill their part of the deal is extremely discouraging.”
“Prince Charming might knock on your door in the morning,” Presley grins, her brows wagging at the possibility.
“Oh, please. That man resides in fairytales for a reason. I’m not expecting that level of perfection. Just a few solid qualities would be stellar. I’m willing to accept being gainfully employed and not living with his parents. Is that asking for too much?” I slouch in my seat from the load of that implication. The wound is still fresh.
Vibrant rainbows and sunshine can’t compete against her perky demeanor. “You’ll meet Mr. Right soon enough.”
“Highly doubtful. No, wait—make that completely unbelievable. It’s not like fate is actually going to swoop in and grant me a love connection. The last guy I went on a date with had bigger boobs than me. I’m almost positive he had implants in his pecs.” I provide a visual for maximum impact. “He was a total gym rat.”
Presley scrunches up her face. “Don’t let those bad swipes ruin your sparkle.”
“How’d you know I met him on an app?” Am I becoming predictable? That would be the greatest crime of all.
She purses her lips in that knowing way. “Lucky guess.”
Clea finishes off her white wine spritzer, making an awful racket by slurping any remaining liquid through the straw. “I’m perpetually single too. You don’t see me getting into a tizzy about it.”
I hike a brow full of sass. “We’re well aware why that is.”
Red blotches stain her cheeks. “Whatever.”
I’d usually take this opportunity to pivot and share the misery spotlight, but Clea’s downcast gaze gives me pause. I don’t need more reasons to feel like an awful friend. Another tortured groan escapes me as I continue treading water. How can they not be sick of me complaining? I’m tired of this pity party, and my chops are the ones flapping. That doesn’t mean I’m quite ready to stop. “Are we destined to settle?”
Presley chokes on her sip of orange juice. “Hell to the no. Look at Audria if you need proof.”
“Sure would, if she were here.” I cluck my tongue. “I’m not moving to the country.”
Her eyes widen. “That won’t be necessary. Please don’t consider it. I can’t lose another friend to long distance.”
I wave the concern away. Not even the Duke of Hastings could get me to relocate. That blatant lie singes