Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86826 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 434(@200wpm)___ 347(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“The best sister ever,” Abby says.
Beau nudges me with his head, tongue lolling, and I give him the scratches he not only demands but deserves. I think about that conversation with my mom when I insisted Dylan needed to come live with me.
It wasn’t a dramatic decision. No slammed doors. Just phone calls and practical conversations and the acknowledgment that he was floundering. So he moved into the apartment, transferred schools and started over.
“He’s where he’s supposed to be. That’s what matters.”
On the Lower East Side, you learn early how to make things work with what you’ve got.
Abby pushes off the counter and drops into one of the kitchen chairs like she’s settling in for a proper interrogation.
“So,” she says, stretching the word out. “Let’s change the subject to a less daunting topic. Dating.”
I groan immediately. “Less daunting? More like more daunting… We were having such a nice conversation.”
“Were we?”
“There’s no dating,” I say, spreading my hands. “There’s work, and Dylan, and Beau shedding on everything I own. That’s the romantic landscape.”
Abby snorts. “You haven’t even downloaded any of the apps?”
“I downloaded one,” I admit. “I deleted it in twelve hours.”
“Twelve?”
“One guy opened with ‘You look like you’d ruin my life in a fun way.’”
Abby bursts out laughing. “Okay, that’s terrible.” She shakes her head. “From what I’ve seen lately, you’re not missing much.”
“Is that right?”
“Three dates in the last two months,” she says, ticking them off on her fingers. “One talked exclusively about cryptocurrency being the next big thing, one brought up his mother six times, and one had the audacity to ask if I’d ever consider moving to Jersey for him.”
I gasp in mock horror. “Did you end the date on the spot?”
“Did I have any other choice?”
We both laugh, but it’s the kind that has a little truth in it.
“It’s not even about finding someone amazing,” I say after a second. “I’d settle for stable. Mature. Someone who knows how to show up when they say they will.”
“With hair,” Abby adds solemnly.
“With hair,” I agree. “Why is that so rare now?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “It’s like the pool is either emotionally unavailable, financially unstable, or balding.”
“Or all three,” I add.
“Or all three.”
I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms. “Honestly, even if Mr. Fully Formed Adult with a 401(k) and a healthy hairline showed up, when would I see him? Between driving shifts and trying to keep Dylan on track, there’s no time for anything else. And frankly, Dylan is more important than anything I could ever want for myself.”
Abby’s expression softens slightly. “You deserve a break, you know. Not just responsibility.”
I look down at the table, tracing a scratch in the wood with my finger. “I know. It just feels… indulgent sometimes. Like dating is this optional luxury.”
“Harper,” she says firmly, “it’s not indulgent to want someone.”
I meet her eyes. “Maybe. But right now, I’d settle for someone who texts back, doesn’t ghost, and still has hair.”
Abby raises an imaginary glass. “To the endangered species.”
We clink invisible cups.
“All right,” Abby says, as if she’s just reached a verdict in a courtroom. “We are getting you out of this apartment.”
I eye her cautiously. “Out where, exactly?”
“Out out,” she clarifies, waving a hand. “On the town. In clothes that aren’t leggings. Around live music. Around people. Around men who might still possess both emotional availability and a—”
“Pulse?”
“I was going to say a job.”
I laugh despite myself, but she’s already leaning forward, momentum building.
“There’s this new band, The Geese, everyone’s obsessed with,” she continues. “They’re playing Thursday night in Greenpoint. It’s one of those buzzy, impossible-to-get-into shows.”
“Impossible is not usually a selling point. Regardless, I really can’t afford tickets.”
“You don’t have to pay for a thing,” she says with a self-satisfied grin. “One of my clients knows the promoter. I can get us in.”
I hesitate, picturing the logistics—the train, the late night, the inevitable exhaustion the next morning.
“You need this,” Abby insists, softening slightly. “You need to leave your apartment for a reason that doesn’t revolve around work or responsibility or crisis management. You need to mingle a little. Remember what it’s like to just exist in a room.”
I open my mouth to object, but she barrels on.
“And,” she adds triumphantly, “that marshmallow chocolate place we love? The one with the dark chocolate sea salt squares? They’re one of the sponsors. They’re doing samples.”
My resolve falters. “They are not.”
“They are.”
My expression betrays me. “Those marshmallow chocolates are dangerous.”
“I know,” she says. “Which is why you’re coming.”
I let out a slow breath, already halfway convinced. “Okay. Fine. I’ll come. I just need to check my driving schedule before I commit to anything.”
“That’s all I ask.”
I reach for my phone and open the chauffeur app, already calculating which bookings I might need to shuffle but hopeful I can snag others to make up the difference. The screen loads as usual, the familiar interface appearing beneath my thumb.