“Drew!” Mona’s voice bounces off the overstuffed bookshelves. Even at seventy, she strides through the store in her trademark three-inch stilettos, which make my feet wince. Her gray hair has not a strand out of place and her pink-painted lips stand out on her pale, gently wrinkled face, which has aged gracefully over the years. “What are you doing standing over here looking all sad? Is it because you’re wearing those sandals again?”

“The way you come for me every time you see me is still completely unnecessary, Mona.” We live in Colorado: Birkenstocks are not only a completely reasonable footwear choice; it’s practically mandatory for all Denverites to own a pair.

Also, it’s still strange for me to call her Mona instead of Mrs. Fuller, but as I transitioned into adulthood, she insisted that I call her by her first name only. It’s weird, but I acquiesced. Respect your elders and all that jazz.

It is kind of nice to feel like I’m on an even field with them now. Even though they’re a lot older than me, they’re still the coolest people I know.

“Coming for you? I just want you to join us and sit with some old ladies for a little while.”

“Well, if you insist.” I play it cool, but there’s actually not a chance in hell I’d ever pass on the opportunity to listen to them very self-righteously talk shit about every person they know.

I aspire to be just like them when I grow up.

Minus the book club, obvi. Maybe I’ll start a podcast club or something.

She links her arm through mine. Her nearly translucent skin is a stark contrast against my golden-brown skin.

“How’s Mr. Fuller?” I always ask about her husband of almost fifty years when I see her.

“Old and cranky. Happy golfing weather has returned, though not as happy as I am to get him out of the house.” The snide words don’t match the dreamy look that crosses her face whenever his name is mentioned.

I love seeing how happy she still is. My best friend, Elsie, married her high school sweetheart before she could even legally drink—I still tease her relentlessly for her sparkling grape juice toasts—and is blissfully happy with four kids. As for me, however, I’m very much not into the idea of marriage.

I don’t even like myself half the time and you’re telling me it’s a good idea to latch myself on to one other person until death do we freaking part? Or more likely, until they cheat, get bored, or whatever other reason fifty percent of marriages end in divorce.

Yeah. No thank you.

It’s probably a good thing I have no interest in marriage. I’m not fighting off a swarm of potential suitors. Apparently my winning personality isn’t doing it for them.

Their loss.