Mine Would Be You (3)

“Thank god,” Harper mumbles as she takes a sip of wine.

“Harps. Be nice,” Sloan scolds.

If Sloan was an object, she’d be your favorite blanket from childhood.

Harper would be a samurai sword.

I take a sip of my own wine. “It’s just weird. I’m sure it’ll go away.”

“Well, you know what my advice is. You need to get laid,” Harper mumbles over her food, eyes flickering between me and the TV. “Or go on a date. Or something.”

Jenko meows from his spot on the gray armchair as if to say, she’s right you know, and Sloan bites her lip as she nods as well. I’m not saying they’re wrong.

It’s been over two years. Dios ayúdame.

“You know it’s not that easy.”

It’s not that I physically can’t—instead, I mentally can’t—if I’m not comfortable with someone, I don’t want them to touch me. I clam up and get nervous, and hook-ups make me intensely uncomfortable. Myles was my first everything. He knew me like the back of his hand. After that ended, all the dating I’ve done and attempted one-night stands, courtesy of my friends’ encouragement, have failed. Hence, the never-ending dry spell.

“Yeah, well, I’m still undyingly determined to find you someone.” Sloan tugs a curl, and I watch as it bounces back up. I’ve always been jealous of her curls. Mine are wavier, looser, never quite enough. “I don’t think you’re crazy, by the way. Maybe it is a sign of something, who knows.”

I nod as I take another bite. We fall into a comfortable silence, one where there are no conversations of Myles or getting me laid, just the comforting problems of Carrie Bradshaw from the TV. Only after two more episodes, one bottle of wine down, and a clean counter do I break out the makings of homemade brownies and the second bottle of Moscato.

Sloan is bent over her pile of mail and her open laptop. Probably pouring through appointment requests for the salon and replying to customers on her waiting list. She’s a wildly successful hair stylist down at Fringe on the Lower East Side, an extremely popular salon.

Harper twirls on the stool where I previously sat, clutching her wine glass, with her eyes glued to the TV. I pull my hair back into a ponytail and break two eggs into the bowl over the sugar, vanilla, and oil. I mix the ingredients together as I get to the good part. The cocoa powder, the flour, and the chocolate chips.

The oven beeps, letting me know it’s fully preheated, and I stop twirling the now chocolaty batter long enough to spray the pan with PAM. I spread the batter into it but leave a healthy amount for me to spoon out. Because eating raw brownie batter will solve everything, I just know it.

Just as I place them into the oven and grab the spatula topped with chocolate, Sloan’s hand shoots up to cover her mouth, a loud gasp escaping as she stares at the paper in her hand.

“What?” Harper looks at me, eyes wide.

“Holy shit. Holy freaking shit.”

There is a blush pink envelope ripped open on the counter with cursive lettering on the front, but the square she holds in her hand is what has her undivided attention. I’m still more concerned with the brownie batter resting on my spatula.

“Go get your mail,” Sloan says.

Her voice is muffled because her hand is still covering her mouth. I cock my head, my eyebrows furrowing together as I taste the first glob of brownie batter.

“Sloan, what the hell!” Harper says as she leans in to read it while simultaneously trying to finish the rest of her wine.

“Oh my god.” Her eyes shoot up to me as shock spreads over her face.

“Will one of you idiots tell me what is going on?”

Harper doesn’t say anything as she finishes off her wine before she stands up. Her red hair falls forward as she searches in her bag and pulls out our mail and two identical pink envelopes, both with the same cursive lettering that’s on Sloan’s envelope.

I’m three more globs of brownie batter in before she slides me a pink envelope. I pick it up with my other hand, and I feel both of their eyes burning a hole into my forehead. It’s addressed to me, obviously, so I tear open the seam and pull out the contents.

The pretty pink envelope is discarded, but my heart stops when I realize what I’m holding. Light purple and pink flower accents line the edges of the textured paper.



Your presence has been requested

To celebrate the union of



My eyes glide easily over the introduction and focus on the two names.

They are perfectly centered in jet black calligraphy.

My heart beats painfully slow in my chest.



Emma Tate & Myles Henderson



I blink. And blink again. Hoping the words will rearrange themselves in a way that makes sense. But my heart feels completely dead in my chest as my eyes travel further down the paper. Before I finish reading, I gulp the rest of my third glass of wine.

Harper and Sloan do me the honors of sliding over their own refilled glasses.



Saturday, the 21st of May, Twenty-Twenty Two

Six in the evening at the Midtown Loft & Terrace



I stare blankly at the perfect piece of paper in my hand. With the perfect cursive. With the address of one of the best views in the city. In May.

Myles is getting married.