“You know, it’s been a while since I’ve had sex. Maybe I’ll match with my perfect future husband right away, and then I can get laid and snap out of this funk.” Good sex, whether from a relationship or a flirtation turned hookup, had always been a nice reset for me. Like a spa day, only with more coed nudity.
Meow Meow didn’t seem impressed. She continued to lavish her front paws with her pink tongue.
I turned my attention back to the screen. Username.
I probably didn’t have to get too creative here. After all, I had a one hundred percent success rate when it came to walking into a bar on the prowl. It wasn’t going to be that hard to find someone suitable on an app designed to match people up.
I glanced around the room, looking for inspiration. Books. Booze. Dust. Cat.
My thumbs flew over the keys.
“Look at that,” I said. “Four-EyedCatLibrarian isn’t taken.”
Meow Meow shot me a disgruntled look, then yawned, baring her teeth.
Likes? That was easy. “Bad tempered cats, books, and comfy pants,” I muttered as I typed.
Looking for? The standard options weren’t very specific. There was a lot of mileage between companionship and marriage. I decided to go with “other” and typed in my best approximation.
“Okay. Now all we need are a couple of pictures, and we’re good to go.”
I scrolled through my camera roll and selected a handful of cute selfies.
“Boom! Done,” I announced, dropping my phone in my lap like it was a microphone.
It had only taken me four minutes, and now I wouldn’t have to lie to my friends. I was starting to impress myself with this comeback.
I glanced around the room for another easy task to cross off and remembered that I’d promised Mom I would gather up any of Dad’s old files. Since I was seeing Lina today, I could give them to her instead of paying a personal visit to Suited Satan.
I marched out of the dining room, looped through the living room—man, I really needed to dust—and entered the study. The cabinet behind the desk held a collection of old ballpoint pens, broken pencils, change, and rubber bands.
In the second drawer of the desk, behind a stack of legal pads, I found Dad’s candy stash. Pronounced prediabetic a few years before his first cancer diagnosis, he’d taken it upon himself to ration his candy to one piece per day.
I pocketed a mini Kit Kat that was definitely too old to eat and moved on to the bottom drawer.
It was a deep pullout with tabbed hanging folders. Most of them were empty, though their labels remained. Property Taxes. Gift Ideas. Fantasy Football. Kids Drawings. Recipes.
I paged through them, smiling at the ripped-out catalog pages filed under gift ideas and the stack of crayon drawings he’d collected over the years of being a father, an uncle, a grandfather, and a neighborhood favorite.
Toward the back of the drawer were a few fat files. These I liberated and piled on top of the desk as the cat pranced into the room. She jumped onto the desk and placed her front paws on the stack of folders.
“Excuse me. Do you mind?”
Meow Meow blinked at me and slowly deflated on top of the paperwork.
I ruffled her ears and then marched into the hallway to grab my coat and tote bag.
Just as I closed the closet door, I heard the frenetic skitter of claws followed by a series of thumps coming from the study. There was a final, louder thud, and then Meow Meow careened into the hall and galloped off in the direction of the staircase.
Back in the office, I discovered my neat stack of folders had exploded everywhere.
“Freaking cat,” I muttered.
I sank to the floor and began gathering the jumble of paperwork. Mr. I Can Be of Assistance to You could put them back in their rightful order, I decided.
A series of now mangled printouts of newspaper stories caught my eye.
Upshaw sentenced to twenty years for drug arrest
Judge makes example of first-time drug offender
Defendant’s family suggests Upshaw’s sentence too harsh
I skimmed the headlines, but it was the picture of a devastated young man leaving a courthouse that caught my attention. The image was grainy and crumpled by cat feet, but I still recognized him. It was my father’s law student protégé, Allen.
After an interminable amount of time spent suffering in northern Virginia traffic, I slid out from behind the wheel of my Jeep with my phone pinned between my ear and shoulder.
“Yeah, hey, Maeve. I have a question for you. It’s about Dad. Give me a call when you get a chance,” I said to my sister’s voicemail before disconnecting the call. If Dad had been interested in Allen’s mother’s case, he probably would have discussed it at some point with my sister.
I reached back inside to drag my tote across the console.
I was five minutes late, which annoyed me. But I filed away the annoyance, straightened my shoulders, and pasted a cheerful smile on my face as I engaged bridesmaid mode.
I plugged in the parking info on my app and marched the two blocks to the bridal shop. Rather than a bell tinkling when I opened the front door, angelic harp music announced my arrival. I found Naomi, Lina, and Stef seated on a pink velvet banquette, each holding a tall flute of champagne, surrounded by an explosion of underskirts, lace, and every tone of white identifiable by the naked eye.
Naomi looked as though she was having the time of her life.
Lina looked like she was about to vomit.
“And how does our bride feel about one dress for the ceremony and a second dress for the reception?” asked a bald man rocking blue velvet loafers and matching cobalt glasses.
Lina choked on her champagne. “One dress is more than enough,” she insisted. Her eyes darted to me. “Oh! Look! Sloane is here. I’d better go greet her.” Her long legs wrapped in designer denim ate up the pink carpet between us. “Help me. I feel like I’m suffocating in taffeta,” she hissed, pulling me in for an awkward and unexpected hug.
“You must be terrified. You’re voluntarily hugging me.”
“I’ll voluntarily make out with you if you help me pick a dress in the next ten minutes so we can get out of here. I’m breaking out in hives.”
“I thought you liked fashion?”
“I like clothes I’m going to wear every day. I like badass heels and designer suits and luxury gym apparel. But apparently I don’t like wedding dress shopping. It reminds me that…” She looked over her shoulder. “It reminds me that I’m getting married.”
Prior to the appearance of the broody, wounded Nash Morgan, Lina had been more love ’em and leave ’em than “get engaged and build a house together.” She was still finding her way as a soon-to-be married woman.
I took her by the shoulders and squeezed. “You still want to marry Nash, right?”
She rolled her eyes. “Of course I do. But not dressed as some virginal princess!”
“Lina, what do you think about a veil?” Naomi called from the girlie couch where Stef was modeling an eight-foot-long veil with seed pearls.
“Oh God,” Lina squeaked. “I’m either not going to survive this, or I’m going to pick a dress that I hate just to get it over with.”
“Oh boy,” I whispered as she towed me toward our friends.
Ahmad, the dress shop employee with great shoes and a surprisingly thick southern drawl, led Lina back to a dressing room while a series of unsmiling assistants paraded after them carrying five gowns that looked increasingly princessy.
Naomi sat back on the couch and took a satisfied sip of champagne.
“Why do you look so smug? She’s going to hate every single one of those dresses,” I asked, accepting the glass Stef poured me.
“I know,” Naomi said gleefully.
“Witty here has a plan,” Stef explained.
“What kind of plan?”
“The kind of plan that ends with our friend getting her perfect wedding dress,” Naomi declared.
“You’re either being cocky or diabolical,” I mused. “I can’t wait to see which one.”
“So. Hook up with any baby daddies yet?” Stef asked me.
“Geez. I literally just set up my profile. Give me a day or two to find the perfect man. Did you ask Jeremiah about moving in together yet?”
Naomi hid her smile behind a delicate cough.
Stef glared at her over the rim of his champagne.