Total pages in book: 154
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 148473 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 742(@200wpm)___ 594(@250wpm)___ 495(@300wpm)
But the truth keeps staring me in the face—this isn’t something I can fix with a toolset or a few Google searches. It’s bigger than that.
I swallow hard as I swipe to my contacts. Marcus’s name blurs on the screen, and for a moment, I hesitate. Calling him feels like admitting that I can’t keep everything together.
But I can’t keep running from this. I drag in a breath, finally pressing the call button.
He doesn’t answer. But when his voicemail clicks on, I say the hard thing for the first time in my life.
I ask for help.
“Hey, it’s Asher Callahan. I would like to book a session to see you. For me. Ideally, this coming week. I need it.”
That night, I lean back against the headboard in my Seattle hotel room, alone, phone in hand, scrolling through my messages. A notification pops up—appointment confirmed with Marcus for Monday. A step in the right direction. I want to tell Maeve. I’m dying to tell Maeve.
But that feels like something you say in person.
Still, I can’t not contact her while I’m on the road. Even if my head’s a mess. Even if I’m trying to figure things out. Even if we’re stuck in this limbo.
I can still do something though.
I swipe to another screen, pulling up an online delivery service in San Francisco. A few clicks, and I’ve arranged for a package to be sent to Maeve tonight. Something small—but something she’ll love.
I pause, my fingers hovering over the phone. Am I trying to get her to love me?
No. I exhale slowly. I just like making her happy. And that’s okay too. Maybe it’s more than okay.
I press send and close my eyes. For now, that’s enough.
55
PROPER CARE AND FEEDING
Maeve
Some bartender dude on First Dates is debating whether to see a customer again—convinced she’s catfished him—when the doorbell rings. I tense. Doorbells don’t sit well with me, especially when I’m home alone. My girl doesn’t like them either. She growls, fur prickling as I set a hand on her back. Lifting her snout, she barks again. That rooster crow.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, pausing the show. “It’s probably UPS.”
Ruby Rooster side-eyes me.
I pop up from the couch and head for the door. I peer through the window slat—no one’s there. I look down.
Oh.
There’s a food delivery bag on the porch. From Ding and Dine.
I didn’t order anything. I grab it and lock the door behind me. Peeking inside, I find a warm takeout box. Intrigued, I pull open the flaps—and burst into laughter. Asher sent me a box of warm nuts. The smile on my face is too big, and I’m still not sure if we’re friends or lovers or somewhere in between.
But maybe that’s okay.
I open the box and read the note:
Tips for the proper care and feeding of your best friend—keep snacks handy, especially if you’re working on conspiracy theories.
At least I know this: we’ll always be friends. Like we’ve been for the last ten years. Through all our big adventures—hot sauce taste tests, ice hotels, tree tents, lavender farms. And now to studios, pole-dancing crawls, tofu curry, flamingo underwear, napkin-folding at dinners with board members, impromptu proposals at jewelry stores, hockey games with custom jerseys, and late-night painting sessions where I felt like the women in all my pop art paintings. We’ve shared so many kisses that made me feel like love is worth chasing.
And auctions too. Where I bid on him to save him from a woman spinning lies. Then a night in Vegas, where he saved me from my own sadness and made good on a marriage pact inked one night as we danced to Frank Sinatra.
I flop back onto the couch, cashews in hand, reality dating show playing again. I go through the nuts quickly, but I’m still not satisfied.
I can’t wait, even though I said I’d give him space.
I reach for Tatiana, the tarot deck I left on the coffee table, shuffling it, wondering if I should ask her what happens next.
But it’s not like a deck of cards will know. Someone might though. Or several someones, really.
The next morning, I’m at High Kick Coffee with Josie, Fable, and Leighton for a hastily called meeting of The Padlockers. Everly’s in Seattle—she traveled with the team. Said she has fond memories of the last time she was there.
The café hums with the buzz of morning chatter, and we huddle in the back, lattes and teas in hand as I give them the SparkNotes. I don’t tell them about Asher’s obsessive tendencies—that’s personal—but I tell them enough: we’ve hit a rough patch.
“I did what I said I would—I didn’t cling. I gave him space, even though it felt like dying. And it still does. How can doing the right thing feel so wrong?” I ask, since I’m nothing if not dramatic. But this moment calls for drama, dammit.