Thirty-five and Single

He turns to face me after surveying the room and spotting the drawing I’ve been working on. “Who’s that?” He picks up the sketch that I’ve begun of Olivia, which is merely an outline at this point. “Now I see why you’re distracted.”

I’d first drawn a rough likeness of her face with her hair fanning out. It’s the image I memorized as I first drove into her. The details aren’t on the page yet, but they’re still vivid in my mind.

I ignore his question. “You know I’m not going. So why are you really here?”

My brother hasn’t given up and it worries me.

“You can’t hide from the family forever,” he says.

“Hiding,” I say. “You were there when Father all but banished me.”

“You’re being dramatic,” he says, waving a dismissive hand.

“I believe his words were something like you’re no son of mine. Hard to misinterpret.”

His slightly amused expression disappears under the weight of a frown. “This isn’t about Dad.”

My brother isn’t the serious one. That honor belongs to our middle brother, who is driven by unknown forces for a goal none of us are aware of.

The fact that the jokester of our family is requesting my presence at a family gathering in person worries me.

“What’s wrong?”

“Mom got her test results back.”

Those words change everything.

Chapter Fifteen

Olivia

My hair feels frayed, my clothes soiled, and my mind feels like I’ve been through the wringer because I have been.

I push through my front door and Sable nearly scares the bejesus out of me as she scurries by. I fall onto the couch, clutching my chest, never more grateful for my automatic feeder since getting up seems impossible at the moment. My first coherent thought after that is how I want to tell someone about the worst date ever. There has to be some sort of contest for that. But the person I want to call is Joel, and isn’t that the icing on the cake?

The next person on my list is Amelia. But at just after midnight, she’s very asleep.

Ella is gone and is probably nestled with Rog.

My mind travels back to Joel, who’s a night owl and would probably be up.

Hey, I type.

Hey, he types back.

Do you still have that bottle of tequila?

That bad? he texted back.

That bad.

A minute later there is a knock at my door.

I lumber there and open it. On the other side stands the most gorgeous guy in all his glory holding up the half-empty bottle.

“I’ll get the shot glasses,” I say.

He snags my hand and steers me toward the couch. “Why bother.”

I follow willingly and land next to him. He’s way too close and smells fresher than the air I’ve smelled for the past few hours. I take the bottle, and after opening it, I swallow as much as I can before I need to breathe.

“Slow down there,” Joel says, taking the bottle from me.

He takes a swig before asking me the question.

“Do you want to talk about it?”

It’s probably weird considering everything, but over the past year, he’s become my best friend.

“I don’t know where to begin,” I say.

“Try the beginning,” he suggests.

Air leaves my lungs in a rush. “Can I just say this wasn’t my idea? I mean, I wanted to date, but it was Ella who’d swiped right on the guy.”

I glance over at Joel and his lips are right there. I grab the bottle instead and take a big gulp, pursing my lips like it had been a lemon I swallowed before I have the courage to tell him.

“Everything was fine. Conversation was flowing. He was a decent looking guy. The receding hairline wasn’t in his profile picture, but looks aren’t everything, right?”

Joel doesn’t answer and I continue.

“We were choosing a dessert when a man walks over and stops at our table. Immediately, I’m on guard. He says my date’s name and proceeds to hand him a thick envelope with the parting words, You’ve been served. But that’s not the worst part.”

I proceed to explain how my date went MMA fighter on the guy. Tables toppled over with food and drinks flying everywhere. I’d been so dumbfounded, frozen in shock.

“The police were called and I along with my psychopath date were taken to jail.”

When Joel says nothing, I poke him. “Did you hear me? Jail?”

He laughs as I continue jabbing him. “Hey, killer, that poke classifies as assault,” he teases.

“It’s not funny. I was put in an interrogation room after they’d taken my purse and phone. I was questioned for hours or it felt like it until the process server was able to tell the police I had nothing to do with it.”

My head starts to spin from the tequila, so I lean over and press my cheek into Joel’s rock-hard chest. He circles an arm around me, and it feels way too good as his laughter rumbles through his chest.