Best Friends Don't Kiss

Me: Online dating? Seriously? You guys act like my situation is dire or something.Desi: Well, if you’re planning on going through with the whole “I’m not single” charade, you have less than two months to find yourself a boyfriend.Claire: That isn’t a lot of time.Me: Wow. You guys really know how to make a girl feel good.Claire: You should be thankful your friends are willing to be honest with you.Me: Blatantly honest. Bluntly honest. Cutthroat honesty. Oh yes, I’m forever grateful. Just thanking my lucky stars right now.Desi: Would you like the silver lining?Me: If it doesn’t involve Craigslist or banging Tad the copy guy, I’m all ears.Desi: Everyone online dates these days.Me: Do you?Desi: God no.Claire: LOL. You’re not helping, Des.Desi: Ava and I are different. I would eat online guys alive, okay?Claire: Okay, that IS true. It could be good for you, Ava.Oh yeah, I’m sure my soul mate is out there right now, sitting behind his laptop with Cheetos-stained fingers and a beer belly, just waiting for my profile picture to appear on his dating app.

Son of a buttered bitch.Me: Okay, I’m done talking about this. I’ll talk to you guys later.Once I force down two pieces of toast and pour myself a fresh cup of coffee, I check on Teddy 12, my green fern that has surprisingly managed to live for two years straight. Considering there were eleven Teddys before him and I forget to water him a lot, it’s a miracle. I swear, he’s like the Incredible Hulk of plants or something.

“Way to go, buddy,” I whisper to him. “Keep on keepin’ on.”

Lazy Sunday morning engaged, I snag my laptop off my desk and get cozy on my sofa.

Unfortunately for me, when I pull up my Google inbox to see if there are any updates about the art installation being placed in the South Wing of the Met, I come face-to-face with not one, not two, but three flipping emails from Callie Camden-Baccus.

First email? To tell me that I’ll be in charge of name tags and balloons.

Second email? To let me know that since she is an expert in décor and apparently went to some kind of design class, I won’t be the one handling the balloons. She’ll do that. Instead, I’ll be in charge of the cake and desserts.

And, last but certainly not least, the third message provides me with questions about my and my boyfriend’s food allergies and a Callie-approved list of bakeries where I can order the desserts. And it should be noted that Lakewood has exactly two bakeries, both of which are on the list.

While I contemplate just being honest with her and avoiding this whole find-a-boyfriend and help-plan-a-stupid-high-school-reunion fiasco, I roll through my usual social media stops.

Instagram. Twitter. Facebook.

I scroll through what feels like a thousand pictures of my sister Kate and her fiancé Zach and my old high school classmates smiling in cheesy photos with their significant others, and uninvited dread and annoyance form a fucking alliance and carve out a hole in my stomach.

It feels like everyone is in a relationship. Or engaged. Or married.

Everyone besides me.

Why does this bother me so much?

I don’t know. But it does.

Before I know it, I’m Googling things like “Best Online Date Apps for NYC Singles.” And it doesn’t take long before I’m downloading a stupid dating app onto my phone.

Fucking hell. What has my life become?

Pathetic. Your life is pathetic.

I roll my eyes at my annoying thoughts but carry on with the insanity and scroll through the saved photos on my phone in search of the best picture to use for my brand-new profile.

A few minutes later, I have it narrowed down to a couple pictures, but the sound of keys jingling in the lock of my front door stops me from deciding on the winner. By the time I look up from the screen of my phone, Luke is already walking into my apartment.

“Hey there, sleeping beauty,” he says with a smirk as he shuts the door behind himself and tosses my keys onto the table beside my coatrack. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be up this early. How are you feeling?”

I ignore his question completely and get straight to the point. “I’m sorry I’m an asshole.”

“You’re not an asshole,” he says with a smile. “You’re a Fantana.” He waggles his eyebrows when he says the word correctly, and I almost laugh.

The guilt of the position I put him in wins out, though, and a heavy sigh brings my face back to contrite.

He shakes his head and runs a hand through his messy but stylish dark hair. “Let me guess. You already talked to Desi and Claire.”

“Yeah.” I nod.

“It’s no big deal, Ava.” He waves me off with a casual gesture of his arm and walks toward the couch, sitting down beside me.