History repeats itself in my family, but at least Grace is happy enough with her husband and their kid.
As for me, I want more. I want the real deal. I’d like to find a guy who looks at me the way Delilah looks at River.
When we’re back in the car, my friend wiggles his brow. “Just you and me now, cutie,” he says, a little rumble in his voice.
That rumble fries my brain.
Does he know how much he flirts with me? Does he mean it?
“Yes, just you and me and ten thousand other people driving to Tahoe on a Friday afternoon in mid-November,” I say, deflecting, since that’s been my MO whenever we’ve veered into dangerous territory—the too flirty kind.
I’ve avoided it since I don’t want to get hurt.
I don’t want my hopes crushed.
I know how that feels, thanks to Ezra, thanks to others. Everything went south at the end with Ezra, but for a while there, we had a good thing going.
A real thing.
An intense and passionate artist, Ezra went from zero to sixty with me in a few days, and I liked that. Suddenly, without warning, we were spending nights and mornings together, going to concerts, and grabbing breakfast. I was caught up. There’s something about waking up with the same person every day that fills you head to toe in endorphins.
He was a whirlwind of need, and that was its own kind of magic. The kind that made me believe in possibilities.
Just like I’d hoped to have with the guy before him, the venture capitalist I dated a few years ago. Todd was fun, loved to try the spiciest food, go to racetracks, and bet big in poker games.
His relentless energy and daring attitude were a huge turn-on.
Trouble was, he was only out at work. He turned out to be closeted to his family.
He didn’t invite me to join him for Thanksgiving. Or Christmas. When he finally asked me to a Fourth of July event, he said I could come but I’d need to be just a friend. So I said, how about you become just an ex?
The zinger alone was nearly worth the heartbreak, but I had liked him.
Legit liked him.
I was falling in love with him, so it hurt like hell to walk away.
Even when guys turn out to be wrong for you, the ending still stings.
But so can a bad relationship. I saw that in my parents, in the way they snipped and sniped at each other at the dinner table, and in the way their petty arguments spilled over into family time. Pass the salt was code for I’m still pissed at you. Like, they couldn’t have waited till Grace and I were at school to poke at each other’s sore spots. They had to do it in front of us, with underhanded jabs they thought we wouldn’t notice. There’s a time and place for hard conversations, and that time is in private.
Not in front of your kids.
I don’t want that kind of relationship.
I want something real.
Something that could last.
Something meaningful.
I haven’t dated anyone since Ezra. Maybe I’ve been hoping for the right moment with River.
Maybe I shouldn’t deflect anymore.
After eight years, and plenty of other boyfriends that didn’t pan out, perhaps I need to start leaning into his flirting more. Even if it is terrifying.
As we pull away from Petaluma and onto the highway again, I vow to hunt for the right moment to let my best friend know how I feel. But I add another vow. A brand-new one—one designed to protect me. If I tell him and it doesn’t work out, I’ll move on. Right away. I’ll get back on the apps before Christmas.
I’ll start dating again.
It’s time.
“Yes, it’s just you and me,” I say, my voice strong, masking the nerves underneath.
“Just the way I like it,” River says, then he taps the dash. “Your turn. You play some music. I want to be wowed by the deejay in the passenger seat.”
I want to wow him.
Because this chemistry isn’t only terrifying.
It’s thrilling.
5
River
I am the worst.
I tell myself I won’t flirt, but what do I do?
The opposite.
And all this banter and sweet talk isn’t curbing my craving for Owen. It’s fanning the fire. Hell, the flames are climbing sky-high. Talking to him is easier than mixing drinks, than deciding to go on a hike, than goofing off with Delilah.
Hell, I made the guy happy by finding a perfect podcast for him—by knowing his tastes. And that feels so good.
Too good.
The last hour with Owen has my brain spinning forward, picturing future days. I need to pop this tingly, shivery bubble of my own making.
Stat.
When the first tune to fill the car is an Arctic Monkeys cover of a poppy love song, I seize my opportunity. “Wasn’t this Ezra’s favorite band?”
Owen scrunches his brow. “No. I’m the one who likes them. Not him.”