I peer at my phone. This weird tension tugs inside me. I keep thinking about Jamie and that almost kiss last week. How ridiculous it is that I got all hot and bothered for a stuffy starched shirt who ran out of that closet like I was a communicable disease. Just goes to show how badly I need to get laid, how badly something needs to change in my love life.

The truth is, I’m a little desperate, and this is all I really have left. It’s not like I’ve met a bunch of other great candidates lately. I can’t stand the dating apps or small talk at a bar—all that socializing that rarely pans out and even more rarely leads to sex that’s anything to speak of. If my sister and friends want to send me a preapproved date, should I really be looking a gift horse in the mouth?

BEA: That works for me. I do want to be upfront, I’m not sure how serious of anything I’m looking for. I know we’re just starting to talk, but I don’t want to mislead you.

NRB: Thank you for your honesty. I’m not sure what I’m ready for either. Let’s take this one day at a time and stay open with each other about how we’re feeling. It’s a strange set up, and no one’s to blame if it doesn’t work out.

BEA: It’s really strange. But strange can be good sometimes.

NRB: Is it too strange to say I already like talking to you?

I smile again and trace my finger across the words.

BEA: I hope not. If it is, I’m right there with you.

—

I’ve decided I forgive my sister fifty percent. Enough to let her make me dinner while I sketch at the kitchen island.

“Your dino nuggets, madame.” Jules lays down the plate with a flourish. “As Jean-Claude would say, bon appétit!”

“If he ever cooked,” I mutter.

“Yeah, pot, that criticism only works if you’re not just as guilty of relying on my culinary talent as the kettle. You’re welcome, by the way.”

I glance up and grimace at the four baby carrots she stuck on my plate, drowning in a runny puddle of ranch. “You foisted vegetables on me.”

“Extra-crunchy ones,” she says.

Sighing, I drag the plate closer. “Thanks, I guess.”

“You’re welcome, sunshine.” Jules turns off the oven and sets down her garden salad next to mine, a colorful leafy terrain with dino nuggets prowling across it.

“I might have to take a picture of that,” I tell her.

“Be my guest. It is kind of cute.”

I find my phone, set it to portrait mode, and adjust the angle. Zoom in. Zoom out.

“Okay, Annie Leibovitz,” Jules says. “Some of us are hungry.”