Prologue
Skyler
* * *
At some point in your twenties, everyone in your social circle begins pairing off and pairing up. It’s a checklist—one minute you and your three roommates (because how else is a woman supposed to live in the city?) are rescuing perfectly salvageable bookcases from the curbside, and the next, you’re buying thirty-dollar bottles of wine as housewarming gifts. Your girl-power pub quiz team becomes co-ed, then splits off into pairs, and then suddenly you look up and everyone you know is counting down to thirty like it’s New Year’s Eve and they have to find someone to kiss before the ball drops and they’re partnerless at midnight.
The horror . . .
Not that your friends want to leave you out in the cold. No one loves love more than someone in love, and they want all their friends to be just as happy as they are. All my friends know a guy. Or their guy knows a guy.
But I made a decision after my last heartbreak—to take a full year off from dating.
I went on a man cleanse. One I desperately needed to reset myself.
I’ve resisted romance. Each time my friends said, “Can I set you up?” or “I know a guy,” I dropped some coins in a jar.
And every day I stayed off the dating apps, I fed the piggy bank.
My reward? A “me” trip.
To celebrate.
Even if that “me” trip happens to coincide with my cousin’s wedding. I’ll just breeze through that, then hit up the bar, or the spa, or the line of shops all calling my name to indulge in me, me, me.
Here I am. One year, no dating. Achievement unlocked.
At least, that’s the plan.
1
Skyler
With one silver ballet flat in hand, I open my door for Katie before she has a chance to knock. “Come in. The mate to my shoe has pulled a vanishing act.”
My friend stands with her fist raised for another second or two, then follows me into the apartment, closing the door behind her. “Hmm . . . maybe the universe is trying to tell you something, Skyler. To buy new shoes?”
I fish out the missing footwear from under the sofa. “Or it’s telling me to put my shoes away before I fall asleep during the latest Webflix romantic comedy.”
Katie idly picks up the large glass jar from the kitchen island, turning it over so the coins inside jingle loudly. “Skyler, sweetie, you could crack someone’s skull open with this! It’s that heavy.”
“Hawaii heavy.” I slip on the rejoined pair of ballet flats, take the jar of loose change from her, and replace it on the counter with a thud. “I’ve resisted Tinder, Bumble, and Match every day to save up for this trip.”
Katie rubs her hands together. “So, are you ready to go?”
“Ready to go to Hawaii? Absolutely.” I sling my purse over my shoulder and lead the way out, locking up behind us. “Ready to go bathing suit shopping?” I waggle a noncommittal hand. “Debatable.”
Katie tsks as she takes out her car keys. “Says the professional shopper.”
I pop open the passenger door of her rented Tesla—she’s in town from Los Angeles, where she runs her yoga empire. “People hire me when they don’t have the time or inclination to shop for themselves. Searching for something to fit me and my budget is totally different.”
We both climb in, and Katie turns to me, a challenging brow raised. “Don’t tell me you’re intimidated by a few items of swimwear?”
“It’s not the swimwear that scares me. It’s the fluorescent lighting in the dressing rooms.”
She’s laughing as she starts the car and heads toward the heart of San Francisco’s best boutiques. “Cheap and chicken.”
“I am not cheap,” I protest, which makes her laugh harder as we make our way to Fillmore Street.
Once in the shop, Katie drafts a salesperson into raiding the racks with her. They sort through tops and bottoms with efficiency that I envy as a personal stylist, and when the saleswoman has armfuls of itty-bitty items, she ushers me into a dressing room.
I thank her, and with an encouraging smile, she says, “Good luck. Let me know if you need another size.”
Ugh. I need to not wear bikinis.
Katie taps her chin with one finger as she eyes the array of nylon and spandex hanging before us in the dressing room. When her gaze lands on what she wants, though, she knows it immediately. “Try that one.” She points. “I have a good feeling about it.”
I stare at the scraps of fabric dubiously. “The one with pasties for the top and dental floss for the bottom?”
Katie challenges me with a deadpan look. “You did say you wanted a brand-new style of bathing suit. Surely, a floss-bottom would qualify.”
“Yes, as a new form of sartorial torture.”
“You’re not wrong.” She flicks through the options and stops on a fuchsia two-piece. “How about this cute little number?”