The Magnolia Chronicles: Adventures in Modern Dating(14)

The best thing about Andy was that she was unflinchingly honest. She'd tell you if the jeans weren't right for your ass, if the lipstick was a crime against your skin, if you were making drama where none was necessary, if you were dying on the wrong hill. She was direct and sometimes that was tough, but it was the good kind of tough.

She was staring at her profile in a full-length mirror, running her hand over her perfectly flat belly. "Would you stop it? You're the size of a popsicle stick," I snapped, my tone loaded with faux exasperation. "Really, Andrea. You're a string bean."

Her eyes crinkled as she laughed. "A string bean?"

"Yes." I shoved a section of the hangers to the side on the rack in front of me. "A really fucking skinny string bean with no ass. You could be actually pregnant and eat a large gyro bowl, and still look like Audrey Hepburn with big, kinky hair. You're going to be slender and glowing and beautiful when you're pregnant. Like Kate Middleton or Amal Clooney. Please. I eat a bag of peanuts and I look like I'm full term with twins."

"No, you don't," she said, laughing. "And my name isn't Andrea."

I pulled a dress off the rack and held it out to her. "When I'm giving you a talking-to, you're Andrea. Be careful or I'll invent a middle name for you while I'm at it." I wagged the dress. "Go try this on."

She shook her head, sending her long, dark curls swaying over her shoulders. "I can't squeeze myself into that right now. Why did we eat lunch before dress shopping?"

"We think with our stomachs." I tipped my chin toward the other side of the shop. "Let's look at flowy sundresses."

"Perfect." She plucked the dress from my hands and returned it to the rack. "Flowy is good. That's going to be my summer style this year. Loose and flowy."

"Says the new wifey with baby fever," I said under my breath. After a years-long engagement, Andy finally walked down the aisle last month.

She shot me a pointed glare. "We're not talking about that right now. I am not interested in getting pregnant for at least two or three years. Maybe longer."

She made it too easy to poke at her on this topic. Even when I knew she was dead serious about waiting. Even when I shared her sentiments about wanting a baby but also waiting a couple years to meet that baby. Then again, Andy and I were in different boats when it came to starting families.

For starters, I had to meet a man I tolerated for more than a single evening.

"Baby fever," I repeated, smirking.

"So, Magnolia, are you seeing anyone special? Let's talk about you."

My back pocket vibrated. I glanced to the side before responding. "You don't want to know."

She handed me a pink and green sundress. "You called me a skinny string bean. If you're going to call out my ass or lack thereof, you can entertain me with your adventures in dating."

"Adventures." I snorted, pushed a black dress toward her. She didn't believe in wearing color. "That's an interesting way to look at it."

"Any second dates? Or promising leads?"

I snorted again. "No second dates."

We exchanged several more dresses. "But some promising leads?"

Another vibration from my back pocket. Was it wrong that I wanted it to be Mr. Nine Inches? Maybe it was. Maybe the past few months had ground my expectations down to the point that I was optimistic about a guy who seemed kind and genuine, even if he only wanted to bury his dick in someone as a means of exorcism.

"Let's try these on." I nudged Andy toward the dressing rooms. "Enough of this city has witnessed and live-tweeted my shitty dates. I don't need the shopgirls tuning in too."

We dropped onto the bench in the dressing room but made no move to change into the items hanging from the rail in front of us.

"Do you ever have days," I started, staring at the garments, "when you don't want to be a girl boss?"

"What do you mean?"

"I don't know. It's complicated," I admitted. "I love my work. I love being my own boss. I love relying on myself and not answering to anyone else. I love it. I really do. But…but there are days when I want to give it all away and be a bad feminist. Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I wasn't a goal digger. If I was married to a man who wanted me to be a stay-at-home wife—"

"You would never go for that. Never in a million years."

"I know, I know." As she started to protest, I continued, "But what if it wasn't him telling me what to do? What if it was him offering it to me? Or us arriving at the conclusion together like a good progressive couple should. Would I still want to conquer the world one roof garden at a time? To prove myself every damn day?"

"Yes. Maybe you'd worry less about proving yourself but you'd want all those roof gardens. And you wouldn't stop there. You've been renovating your aunt's house in your spare time and that's on top of working a ton of projects in the past year. And you read books and go to tons of ball games too. You don't know how to do nothing."

That wasn't the complete truth, but I wasn't going to educate Andy on my history of slovenly ways today. The drive to prove myself came from wasting so much time when I was younger. From flunking out of college—twice. Getting fired from no fewer than five waitressing jobs because I forgot to show up. Struggling to find anything that interested me for years.