The other agents hurry to congratulate her with dated catchphrases and I mumble along with them. It’s not fun being Bitter Betty. I’m not used to the role, and it leaves a bad taste in my mouth. Eventually, I will have to leave the agency or learn to put up with Lori in a healthier manner…like killing her with kindness, or murdering her with smiles, or disemboweling her with compliments. That sort of thing.
I drop my coffee and notepad on my desk and take a deep breath. It’s time to get to work. My cubicle is clean, my inbox is empty, and I have one blinking red light on my office phone, indicating a voicemail. I smile as I take my seat, confident that it’s Mr. Boggs getting back to me about one or more of the houses I showed him yesterday. Mr. Boggs has been a client of mine for as long as I’ve been working at Hamilton Realty. While he was passed on to me because no other agent could stand working with him, I feel like he and I share a sort of kinship with one another. He’s old and grumpy and cynical, everything I aspire to be one day. Also, Helen makes us meet a weekly quota for showings, and I can always count on Mr. Boggs to fill up at least one of my days with aimless wanderings around Hamilton’s real estate market.
Too bad the voicemail isn’t from him.
It’s from Daisy.
“Hey, just wanted to remind you about the housewarming party tonight. Lucas has completely gone insane with inviting people. I don’t even know half the guests who are supposed to come, so if you don’t show up, I’ll kill you—before Mr. Boggs does.” Daisy has said from the beginning that at best, ol’ Boggsy is just wasting my time, and at worst, he’s planning on abducting me. I disagree. “Anyway, come early and bring Mouse if you want to. Last week he chewed off a chunk of our living room rug, and Lucas might let me order a new one if he chews off a little bit more of it. Okay, Beth’s calling my name about a patient, so I better go. Have fun dealing with Lore-the-Bore at work today and I’ll see you tonight.”
Just as the voicemail cuts off, Lori’s bell chimes again, announcing another sale.
“I guess I’m just on fire today!” she exclaims.
“You’re all that and a bag of chips!” someone shouts.
Though it’s tempting, I don’t skewer my eye with the nearest pen. Instead, I get to work.CHAPTER FOURMADELEINEI didn’t plan to be this dysfunctional at 27, but dysfunctionality has a way of creeping up on you. One second, you’re 22, wrapping up your undergraduate degree from a top business school, and then suddenly, you’re sitting alone in your car at 27, wondering how five years slipped through your fingers without so much as a blink.
There are the obvious struggles—my bills are piling up, my rent is late, and my car is a clunker—but it’s the other, more personal aspects of my life that keep me up at night. The fact that I am currently (and probably forever) single is a much harder pill to swallow than my overdue rent. Dealing with car troubles isn’t so bad if you have someone there to commiserate with.
Worse, my single status is not from a lack of trying. I am signed up and active on no less than four dating apps. I’ve attended multiple Hamilton Singles events, and I’m never one to shy away from a blind date.
My mother has been relentless about it too. Just last week on the phone she babbled on about how when she was my age, she already had two kids. I told her I have Mouse, who is pound for pound worth about five kids, but she didn’t seem to think that compared. Whatever. There’s nothing more I can do. I want to be madly in love as much as she wants me to be, but unless she can wave a wand and magically produce Mr. Tall Dark & Handsome for me, I’m kind of screwed.
See, my lack of a love life doesn’t really have anything to do with me. I mean, sure, I’m not everyone’s cup of tea. I’m kind of sarcastic and crass at times, but Daisy assures me guys don’t care about that because of my other more prominent features. I think her exact words were, “You’re hot, you’re in shape, and you’ve got nice boobs. I don’t see the problem.”
She might be lying to me to keep me from throwing myself off the nearest cliff, but I’ve lived in my body long enough to know it’s not the problem.
Hamilton is the problem.
This town is small.
Most dating apps show you eligible men within a certain number of miles. I’ve widened my parameters to encompass the entire county, but the prospects are still abysmal. I scroll through Tinder now as I sit outside of Daisy’s house, wondering if I’ll see a new face pop up. I don’t know why I bother; there are never new faces. I scroll past Jimmy, who was my boyfriend in elementary school for a week and a half. There’s Martin, who is about a foot shorter than me on a good day, and Cale, the cowboy who lives on the outskirts of town who isn’t half bad-looking once you’ve had three or four beers. Oh and look, it’s Jared, the guy who owns Hamilton’s only gym and who routinely updates his dating profile to include even more overly tanned, overly muscled bathroom mirror selfies. I swear if you ran a finger down his arm, you’d come away with spray tan goop.