Best Friends Don't Kiss(6)

Mom: Oh, whoops! Sorry, honey, he introduced himself before I got your last message. We just showed him your picture, and he thinks you’re cute!



A gasp of betrayal is the only thing I manage before fully realizing they played me from the beginning. There’s no way my mom would have known he was a lawyer if she hadn’t talked to him before sending me the message in the first place.

Help me. Someone help me.

Knowing the ship has sailed on this mission, and that there’s no way that poor guy is leaving there without my number and a selection of photos, I settle for reminding them of simple geography.



Me: You do realize that you guys are in Vermont and I’m in New York, right?



Aunt Poppy: That’s why they make cars and planes, Ava. For hot dates.



Me: Um, no. I highly doubt Karl Benz invented the car so he could hook up more easily. But you three ARE about to have a hot date with handcuffs and jail time if you keep taking unsolicited photos of strangers.



Aunt Poppy: Loser.



Good grief. Damn, Aunt Poppy. Don’t hold back.

I don’t know what else I’m expecting, though. She never does. And, when it comes to their shenanigans, there’s no end in sight. Thanks to my baby sister Kate and her stupid fiancé Zach, by this New Year’s Eve, I’ll be the oldest and only single Lucie sister left.

My other sister Emily helped seal that fate by marrying her husband Landon two years ago.



Aunt Poppy: I’m just being real, Ava. You need to find yourself a man before your little beaver shrivels up.



Dear God, is this what spontaneous combustion feels like? Is my brain matter seconds away from splattering across the room right now?

It sure feels like it. I know, once you take out the pushiness and mortification, what they’re all trying to say is that they don’t want me to end up alone. They were all married by the time they were my age, and they want the same security for me. But the world has changed since they were my age. Women don’t need to get married right out of high school.

Frankly, women don’t need to get married at all.

There is absolutely nothing wrong with being single and empowered and independent.

Truthfully, I’d love to find someone to settle down with, but I need to do it in my own time.

On a sigh, I type out a response that will put an end, albeit temporary, to the peanut gallery’s opinions.



Me: Well, it’s been lovely chatting with you guys about my little beaver, but I gotta run! I sure hope your husbands don’t get suspicious when they find the evidence of other men in your phone.



I know well and good that my dad understands my mom is nuts when it comes to her—very much unwanted—mission to find me a man, and that Great-Uncle Don, Aunt Lil’s husband, and Great-Uncle Al, Aunt Poppy’s husband, gave up on keeping track of their nutty wives years ago. But it makes me feel better to put just a little bit of fear in their hearts.

Three more texts flash across the screen, but I ignore them and toss my phone back down onto my bed and finish getting ready for tonight’s big bash at our favorite bar.

I slip on the knee-high white go-go boots I purchased at a secondhand shop and stand up to check out my appearance in the mirror.

Not too shabby, Ava.

Tonight’s attire is not my usual choice in fashion, but that’s because it’s Halloween. A bright yellow crop top and miniskirt cover my body, and a vintage silk scarf is wrapped around my head, holding back my long blond locks so they stay behind my ears and fall behind my shoulders.

And the boots. Of course, I can’t forget about these kick-ass boots. No doubt, I spent a hundred dollars too much on them, but I couldn’t help myself. They are the perfect addition to this year’s costume.

Also, I will most likely never wear them again, but no need to slave over the details of my irresponsible economics.

I do a little twirl in front of the floor-length mirror in my bedroom and grin. Perfect.

The heels of my boots click-clack across the hardwood floors of my apartment as I head into the kitchen to snag a bottle of yellow Fanta out of the fridge and shove it into my purse, along with my keys and wallet and phone.

But just before I can sling it over my shoulder, the all-too-familiar sounds of an incoming call stop my progress.

I reach back into the Mary Poppins-style sack and fish around until I find the noisemaker.

I just barely pull it out before my ringtone comes to an end, and I glance at the screen.

Incoming Call Emily.

I hate to admit it, but the sight of my sister’s name on the screen makes me temporarily consider sending the call to voice mail.

Familial guilt stops me. I swear shared DNA is more powerful than the world’s most potent drug. At least, it is when you’re an eternal people-pleaser like me.

“Hey, Em,” I answer finally.

“Ava!” she greets, her voice all chirpy and cheerful. “I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all week! Where in the hell have you been?”

I cringe, spitballing on the fly to come up with a believable lie. “Sorry about that. I’ve been a little busy at work.”

This week at work has been one of the slowest in a while, but there’s only so much I can stomach talking about Kate’s wedding and my current single status with the female members of my nosy family.