At least Tegan had a half-day today, and we had a healthy lunch at the salad bar near my new office. If nothing else, she ate some of her vegetables. And for tomorrow night, I’ll make the dinner order myself—sushi, or a noodle soup.
And to be honest, I could use leftover pizza right now.
I ask my next standard-issue, end-of-day question. “How was the rest of your day?” And prepare myself for the equally standard non-answer.
It promptly arrives. “Great.”
“Did you do anything fun?” I prod.
Tegan shrugs. “Just homework and practice.”
She plays varsity volleyball.
When it’s clear I’m not getting any further information out of her unless I switch into interrogation mode, I smile and lean down to kiss the side of her head. “Okay, honey. I’m going to eat and watch some TV. I’ll be in the living room if you want to hang out.” She probably won’t, but I always extend the offer, just in case.
Half a pizza later, I settle on the couch ready for a good movie. I grab the remote and am about to turn on the TV when my phone rings.
“Lee! Hey.”
“Hi! How’s the new office treating you?”
“It’s perfect. Thank you again for setting me up. I couldn’t have wished for anything better.” Ogre neighbor excluded, my brain adds. “What’s going on with you? How was your weekend?”
A long, happy sigh comes through the line.
“Garrett proposed last night,” Leslie says, and my stomach drops.
“Wow, that’s amazing,” I say, trying to infuse enthusiasm in my tone. Don’t get me wrong, I’m happy for Leslie—but, lately, everyone around me is dropping off the single list right and left. In my twenties, it was okay to be on my own. I had as many unattached friends as I wanted. But now that I’m approaching thirty-five, that is no longer the case. I can count the people I know who aren’t married or engaged on the fingers of one hand. Leslie is the perfect example: we met four years ago at a Pilates class, both single, and now she’s engaged.
After years of practice, I’m trained on all the questions I should ask next, so I fire them all at once. “Were you expecting it? How did Garrett ask? Send me a picture of the ring.”
“Wait a second.” Scuffling noises replace Leslie’s voice, no doubt as she lowers the phone to forward me the perfect ring shot she must’ve already sent to all the people she called with the happy announcement.
A second later, my phone chimes with an incoming text. I stare, mesmerized, at a close up of Leslie’s hand with the Manhattan skyline in the background. On her ring finger shines a majestic pear cut diamond—over one carat, of the purest quality—that must’ve cost Garrett a small fortune.
For someone who gave up dating a long time ago, I’m becoming quite the expert on engagement rings.
“It’s beautiful,” I say. No need to infuse fake admiration in my voice—it’s gorgeous. “How did he ask?”
“Oh, he completely blindsided me. We were going on our usual run Sunday night. Garrett timed it so we’d reach Brooklyn Bridge Park at sunset, and then pretended he had to stop to tie his shoe. He dropped to one knee, pulled out the ring, and popped the question.” Leslie chuckles. “I should’ve been suspicious; he sent me to a manicure appointment Saturday I couldn’t remember booking.”
A sneak manicure. A small thing compared to a proposal. But Garrett knows how much Leslie cares about her Instagram, and he made sure she could take the perfect engagement photo with perfectly lacquered nails. Gosh, what it must be like to have someone care for and love you that much.
My chest tightens.
Hoping my voice isn’t too strained, I say, “I’m so happy for you, Lee. Have you already picked a date?”
“We’re thinking of summer next year. That should give me enough time to plan for everything.”
That’s when the jealous, cynic, scorned woman in me takes over for a second. “Don’t forget to come to me for a prenup first.”
“Sheesh, Vivi, romantic much?”
I rein in my inner bitter bitch and hastily apologize. “Sorry. It’s just the lawyer in me talking. You know I can’t help it. I’m sure you and Garrett won’t need a prenup.”
Leslie lets out a nervous laugh. “I hope not.”
An awkward silence follows, so I break the tension by asking a silly question. “Have you already bought all the bridal magazines on Earth?”
“Not yet.” I can hear the easy smile return in Leslie’s voice. “But I might have abused Pinterest a little.”
“Oh, gosh, that must’ve been quite the rabbit hole.”
“Yep, I have to delete the app from my phone, it’s a drug. Uh, listen, anyway, Garrett and I are hosting an informal engagement party Saturday night at our house. Are you free?”
“Sure,” I say.
“Great, I’ll text you the details.”
We hang up, and I stare around the living room for a few seconds, at a loss for words. A familiar lump in my throat is lodged in place, no matter how many times I try to swallow it away.
How did I end up here? In my mid-thirties, with no love life to speak of, and no prospect of a relationship. I’m a romantic at heart, but fifteen years of bad relationships have kept telling me I’m wrong. First, with what happened with Tegan’s father. Then, with all the gruesome love-turned-to-bitter-resentment I witness daily in my job. And, finally, with a good chunk of the men in New York not interested in dating a single mom. But when did I stop trying? I can’t even remember the last date I went on. Still, stories like Leslie’s make me hope love is possible, even in this chaotic world.
Not if you don’t put yourself out there, a voice admonishes in my head.
Garrett didn’t just fly
