“Oh, and you’ll never guess who I ran into at the store the other day?”

She pauses for dramatic effect, and I groan, assembling leftovers for dinner.

Here we go again.

I’d bet every puny dollar in my checking account—all two hundred and eighty-six of them—that the next words out of her mouth will be the name of some local Jersey boy who’s roughly my age. Usually, it’s someone that I went to high school with or one of her friends’ younger relatives who she’s almost sure is my perfect match, but every once in a while, she throws me a curveball.

“Remember Joshua Dell, that nice young man who used to pop into the beauty salon all the time to pick up his mom’s hair products? He’s so handsome, and still dresses like a million bucks. Anyway, I got his number, I figured maybe you could give him a call and try to meet up when you’re in town for Hannah’s party. I bet you two have a lot in common…”

Sure we do. Starting with the fact that we both prefer having sex with men.

I delete the message, bring my bowl of noodles to the window by the fire escape, and crawl out, to eat cross-legged on my little balcony. She never learns—or stops trying to fix me up. My older sisters were already married with kids by the time they turned twenty-five, but here I am, with thirty on the horizon and still at a loose end.

Because in my mom’s eyes, chasing my dreams and trying to build a one-woman makeup empire still falls short compared to a ring on my finger and a crib in the corner.

And, OK, maybe I am behind the curve. I know that twenty-eight is pretty late to be starting over, trying to build something from scratch, but that’s only because it took me so long to work up the courage to actually go after it.

I’ve been playing around with makeup since I was a kid, emptying out my mom’s old lipstick tubes and blending all kinds of fabulous concoctions, but I never thought my passion could get me more than a nice stack of tips at the local salon. It wasn’t until I took some business classes at the local community college that I started thinking seriously about making the leap, and after moving to Manhattan and working at Fleishman’s (for the research, and the discount), I’ve gone all-in on my dream.

In all its technicolor, glossy, sparkling glory.

I finish eating and climb back inside, turning my attention to the dining room, a.k.a., my workshop-slash-chemistry lab. The huge table is covered with bottles and jars, and the explosion of ingredients and half-completed experiments always makes me think of Frankenstein’s lab…

… If Viktor Frankenstein had ever decided to forego the nuts and bolts in favor of Jojoba oil and carnauba wax. One day, I hope to afford a real lab, but for now, I’m grateful for the space I do have.