Chapters (89)
- Dedication
- AUTHOR’S NOTE
- ONE
- HENRY
- TWO
- EMMA
- THREE
- HENRY
- FOUR
- EMMA
- FIVE
- EMMA
- SIX
- SEVEN
- HENRY
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- HENRY
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- EMMA
- THIRTEEN
- HENRY
- FOURTEEN
- HENRY
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- EMMA
- SEVENTEEN
- HENRY
- EIGHTEEN
- HENRY
- NINETEEN
- HENRY
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- EMMA
- TWENTY-TWO
- EMMA
- TWENTY-THREE
- HENRY
- TWENTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- TWENTY-FIVE
- EMMA
- TWENTY-SIX
- EMMA
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- HENRY
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- EMMA
- TWENTY-NINE
- HENRY
- THIRTY
- HENRY
- THIRTY-ONE
- HENRY
- THIRTY-TWO
- EMMA
- THIRTY-THREE
- HENRY
- THIRTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- THIRTY-FIVE
- EMMA
- THIRTY-SIX
- HENRY
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- EMMA
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- HENRY
- THIRTY-NINE
- HENRY
- FORTY
- EMMA
- FORTY-ONE
- HENRY
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- EMMA
- FORTY-FOUR
- EMMA
- FORTY-FIVE
- HENRY
- EPILOGUE
- ALSO BY CHELSEA CURTO
- ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
- ABOUT THE AUTHOR
RB: Now all that’s left is learning small details about each other that a couple would know and knocking out a family event.
JD: I think I just had a heart attack.
JD: When I pass, tell my parents I love them, and I’m sorry I disappointed them. Scatter the crumbs of your Zebra Cakes over the plot of dirt in my memory.
RB: Baby steps. We’ll get there together.
RB: I’m here to help.
JD: Good night, RB. Thanks for chatting with me.
RB: Good night, JD.
RB: Talk to you soon.
When I click my phone off, I’m off-center. Discombobulated. I’ve ignored work emails and the never-ending group messages from my friends, our chat blowing up with discussions I don’t care about. I even deleted an invitation to meet up at a bar for drinks with an old fling, rejecting the sex that would have inevitably occurred, because I was too focused on discussing which villain from Stranger Things is the most powerful with this mysterious woman.
I’m not going to initiate contact with RB tomorrow. Or over the next few days. I don’t want to come across as too much like a boyfriend.
That’s not me.
That’ll never be me.
That’s also not what this arrangement is.
It’s fake. Not real. It has an end date. Nothing is going to change that.
EIGHT
September 21st
RB: Why do you need a date for this party?
RB: I had three glasses of wine with dinner and I’m feeling bold.
RB: Is there an ex-girlfriend who will be there? Shoot. Sorry. Or an ex-boyfriend. I shouldn’t assume. Are you the overlooked middle child, trying to win their attention?
RB: Whatever the reason, I’m here to support you and won’t think any less of you.
JD: Wow. I put my phone down for five minutes and come back to an avalanche of text messages.
RB: Sorry.
JD: No need to apologize. This sounds more fun than listening to my friends talk about state-mandated testing.
RB: That’s incredibly random.
JD: My buddy is a principal.
RB: Ah. Makes sense!
JD: Let’s take this from the top. Three glasses of wine? You didn’t drive, did you?
RB: Nope. Rideshare.
JD: Okay, good. Your guesses aren’t bad. The real answer is stupid.
RB: Tell me!
JD: Fine, but no making fun of me, okay?
RB: I promise!
JD: I’m in my 30s (the young end, by the way) and I’ve never had a serious relationship. Or any relationship.
RB: Never? Not even a high school sweetheart? A college fling?
JD: Nope. Never. I lied to my mom and told her I had a date when I didn’t, mainly because she’s been insistent on setting me up with the daughter of a family friend.
JD: I don’t speak poorly about women, but this girl is truly diabolical.