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CARLEE
“That’s the one,” Lexi, my best friend, tells me over FaceTime.
It’s the fifth dress I’ve slid on and modeled for her in the past twenty minutes.
The black silk bodice clings to my small frame and hugs my waist; the cool fabric presses against my warm skin. I strut inside my tiny bedroom, glancing at the two paintings on the wall before I spin around to face the screen. The chiffon skirt flows around me.
“Does it givenew year, new meenergy?”
It’s the second week of January, and I just have a feeling this year is going to be different.
“Yes, and it’sperfectfor date night as long as you have a coat. It’s freezing outside, literally,” she says.
“Thanks,Mom.” I smile. “Now, which shoes?”
I hold up a pair of chunky wedges that add a playful edge, ankle boots that scream confidence, and strappy heels with ribbons that tie up my legs, like I’m a present waiting to be unwrapped.
“The last ones, unless they’ll make you taller than him.”
“Oh, babe, you know short kings aren’t my thing.I need a six-foot-something, or get the hell outta here,” I remind her. “I won’t give up my heels for anyone.”
“That’s the energy I like to see,” she says.
Lexi always reminds me never to settle on men or clothes.
We’ve been besties since we were naive eighteen-year-olds, freshmen at New York University. We instantly bonded because we had grown up in small Texas towns. It feels like yesterday, but now we’re navigating being thirty together. Getting older is a weird concept.
I sit on the edge of my twin bed, lacing the wide silk ribbons up my calves as anticipation creeps in.
“Are you sure you like this better than the blue minidress?”
It hangs on the edge of my full-length mirror, taunting me. It’s an insurance policy for getting some D.
“Don’t doubt me. He’llloveit.” Confidence radiates from her.
I stand, studying my ensemble in the mirror. I tilt my head, pushing my dark brown hair over my bare shoulders. The bodice swoops down in the back, showing just enough skin. “Lexi, if I wear this, he might fallin lovewith me,” I mutter.
It’s almost too elegant, like what one would wear to an engagement party. I trust her judgment, though.
“What’s his name again? I’ll add him to the long list of wannabe lovers.” Her laughter calms my nerves.
“Trever. T-R-E-V-E-R. Likeforever. And if he saysI love youtonight, I swear I’ll lose my shit. If you jinxed me …”
“You’ve got the magic touch with men,” she says.
“Feels like a curse,” I groan. “I just want to have an easy conversation with the possibility of being split in half without forcing commitment. I want to have fun.”
Over the past two years, I’ve gone on countless dates. At some point in the first thirty days, each has confessed their feelings, and love is always involved. It’s ridiculous.
If I’m ever blindsided by anI love you, I dump them immediately because we’re not on the same page. I’m convincedsomeone is teaching this unhinged behavior at bro school, and I’m growing exhausted.
In my early twenties, I was into thelet’s fall fast and hard, exchangingI love yous within two weeksinstalove behavior. Now, it’s a gigantic red flag.
At thirty, I crave a man who can match me emotionally. In New York, it’s as easy as finding a needle in a haystack. Abigail, my sister, says I’m being too picky for my age and that my options are dwindling, like I’m thirty going on seventy-five. Did I mention she’s been divorced twice and she’s only four years older than me?
I may be single, but I’mnotdesperate to be loved by anyone or to rush into marriage. My past relationship trauma could partially be to blame for that, but I’ve learned to embrace my independence and love myself without a man’s approval. It took a lot to become this confident. Even if I don’t need a man, I’d still like one.