The Yes Factor - Erin Spencer Page 0,70

it seems that Liv is feeling the same way. We’re both soaking in a tub of apathy.

I get out of bed to sort through the pile of clothes from when I was trying to figure out an outfit for my millionaire date. God, what a disaster that was. My mouth sours at the thought. I reach for the discarded dress that Liv begged me to wear—a strappy red number that we bought in a consignment store in Buckhead a bazillion years ago. It’s Versace, and at the time it was a total score. Now, it’s too short, and too tight in all the wrong places. I hold it up to my body and look in the mirror, wishing for that lost feeling of youth and opportunity. Things sure have changed.

When I was in my twenties I felt like I couldn’t make a wrong turn, that any mistakes could be easily erased. I didn’t even worry about making mistakes. It seemed there would always be time to find my way. Now, as I’m pushing forty, my choices feel permanent, my mistakes don’t just affect me but also my daughter, and I don’t have time to lose my way on wrong turns. As a result, everything now feels too precarious, too fragile, and so I’m stuck; stuck in the mud of my day-to-day complacency. Of just getting by. Of accepting where I am and not wanting to tip a single domino for fear they all tumble.

I set aside the Versace. Maybe I should take it by Encore Couture and see what I can get for it, I think as I thumb through the stack of mail I brought up with me from the kitchen. Nothing but junk and bills. I could certainly use the extra cash this dress might bring. Tossing the mail aside, I pick up my phone and check my email to see that a rush order has come in for a custom-made piece. With a quick glance at my voicemail, I note there are no messages from anyone. It’s disappointing and boring. Life is as it was, and I’m hearing the whisper of reality getting louder. Maddie comes home next week, my Etsy shop will continue to get orders, and I’ll lie in bed at night alone, watching Outlander, lusting after Jamie while wallowing in my non-dating hibernation, until I pick up my phone and start swiping. And the cycle will repeat…

Oh, Liv. I have to give her credit. She tried. She really did. And I did like her “Yes Factor” philosophy. She was right, I have been self-sabotaging, making excuses, and closing myself off. I should try to stick with the “Yes” motto. If someone seeks me out, I’ll say yes, but I’m done chasing after love. The apps, the swinger parties, the weird yoga, the Hollywood bars—it’s definitely not for me. If I meet someone out in the world and it happens, well, then it happens. Kinda like Devon.

I take this month’s edition of Simple magazine from the mail pile to use as a coaster for my wineglass and pick up my laptop to see if I can find Devon on the Internet. I type in a variety of options—“Devon Antiques Sierra Madre,” “Devon Wood Refinishing,” and a handful of other search words that come to mind. This is ridiculous. The search is fruitless and I know it. He just vanished into thin air. Actually, no, I vanished into thin air.

I rest my head in my hand. I know I can’t keep beating myself up about it, but I can’t help replaying how I dashed off without a goodbye. And then I can’t help but replay his smile or the way his lips felt next to my ear. Or how comfortable I was in his presence. Or the way my insides zinged when his hand touched my leg. God, I really blew it. Maybe we’ll match up on another dating app? Crazier things have happened.

Am I just putting too much stock in the experience? Did I read the situation wrong? Could he be thinking about me like I’m thinking about him? Did he feel the electricity between us that lit me up like the Aurora Borealis? I want to reach my hand down to feel the heat between my thighs, but I’m wallowing in too much regret and it kills the high. But those eyes, that voice.

My phone rings. I can’t seem to get through a Devon daydream without interruption! It’s Patrick, so I answer instantly. There’s