Page 4 of Redamancy (Fated Fixation #2)

“I do not want to talk about this now,” I groan, already knowing exactly where this conversation is headed. It’s LuAnne’s favorite topic these days. Since she found her Prince Charming, she’s made it her life’s mission to scope out mine.

“You never want to talk about this,” she retorts. “Besides, isn’t now the perfect time? You’re twenty-eight, you’re hot, and you just landed your big career break. You’ve got options, Poppy.”

“You just called New York’s dating scene a hellscape ten seconds ago,” I remind her. “There may be options, but they’re not good ones.”

She opens her mouth. “If I could—”

“— find Joe then you can find someone too ,” I finish, my voice pitched high to mimic hers.

“Unfortunately, I think you found the last attractive, well-rounded eligible man in New York City. All that’s left are finance bros that think they’re God’s gift to humanity because they’re over 6’2 and married men trying to cheat on their wives. ”

“Okay, well…” She reaches for a retort, but eight blissful months with Joe aren’t enough to cloud her memory that much.

“That might be true, but you also haven’t been trying.

You don’t go on dates. You don’t try to meet people.

You don’t use dating apps. Is a meaningful relationship supposed to drop from the sky and fall into your lap? ”

Most days, LuAnne’s candor is my favorite thing about her. She’s direct. I always know exactly where we stand and what she needs from me.

Some days, it’s also my least favorite thing about her—namely, when she’s not willing to accept my bullshit, not even for a single night.

I sigh. “I wouldn’t be opposed to something falling into my lap, but I do try. Hellscape, remember?”

She gives me the same look she gives Toby when he tries to swindle a second breakfast from her. “Okay, if you’re trying so hard…when’s the last time you went on a date?”

I pause. Run the numbers through my head.

Shit.

“Okay, so dating hasn’t been a priority lately, but—”

“A year,” she repeats, and I blink, surprised that she’s kept track. “The last time you went on a date, and yes, I know, I literally live with you, was a year ago. Some old classmate from Pratt, and you came back complaining he was just as pretentious as he was in college—”

“He was,” I tell her. “His ‘art’ was just a bunch of voice recordings of him screaming fed through old video equipment to make it seem cool. He made me listen to it for an hour, LuAnne. I was one recording away from giving him a proper reason to scream.”

“And what about the guy before that? Marcus-something? You only went on two dates with him before you called it quits.”

“He had an Australian accent.”

She raises an eyebrow. “So?”

“He wasn’t from Australia.”

She blows out a breath. “And the barista you brought home? The one I found cooking pancakes in our kitchen, completely bare-assed ? Kevin or Kyle or—”

“Ken, you mean?”

“Right,” she nods. “Ken. He seemed nice enough, and really hot, which makes the brazen nudity a little more forgivable.”

Joe scoffs, but I recall Ken and his pancakes.

Hookups are even rarer than dates for me, but as LuAnne admitted, he was really hot. “Yeah, I liked Ken,” I shrug. “He was decent in bed. I would’ve given him a chance.”

She gives me an expectant look. “So…?”

“So, he never called me back,” I tell her. “Completely ghosted me.”

Her lips purse. “Fine, Ken is an outlier, but it doesn’t change anything. Dating in New York sucks, but you’re not the kind of person who has ever shied away from a challenge. You make things happen. Just like you did with this art show.” She glances at her boyfriend. “Back me up here, Joe.”

He holds his hands up in surrender. “I am not getting involved in this topic.”

LuAnne rolls her eyes, and then sighs. “Look, I don’t mean to be pushy, but I want you to be happy, and I just hope there’s nothing specific holding you back.” She pauses, eyes softening. “And nobody. ”

I freeze. “What do you mean?”

She doesn’t look away. “You know what I mean.”

I shake my head vehemently. Discussing my dating life is bad enough; there’s no way we’re headed here. “Nope, no. We are not talking about this.”

She leans forward. “You never want to talk about him .”

Joe’s gaze bounces between us. “Okay, what am I missing here?”

“This guy she dated a decade ago in high school,” LuAnne explains before I can stop her. “He really fucked her up, but Poppy refuses to talk about it.”

I groan again.

I am never drinking Malibu Rum again.

And certainly not around LuAnne.

I can’t remember the details, but a year ago, I drank an entire bottle of the stuff, and apparently decided I wanted to share my entire life story with LuAnne.

Fortunately, I was too drunk for her to make much sense of it, and I promptly passed out before I could say anything too horrifying, but LuAnne pieced together the broad strokes: that I’ve only ever loved one person, in high school, and it didn’t end well.

And she’s been prodding for more information ever since.

“I’m not hung up on him ,” I tell her. “That was a million years ago. What I do now has nothing to do with him.”

LuAnne assesses me. “Then why don’t you talk about it?”

“Because there’s nothing to say,” I shoot back, unable to tell if the alcohol is dulling or worsening my frustration.

“I was young and stupid, and I fell in love with someone who couldn’t love me back.

So I left. He promised—” I pause. “—that we’d…

reunite one day, but clearly, that’s never happened.

I don’t think about him , and I certainly don’t make dating decisions based around him. He’s a memory. That’s it.”

I lean back on the barstool, an itch building beneath my skin.

Her brow furrows. “Where is he now?”

“No fucking clue,” I tell her honestly. If the world’s done me one favor, it’s not shoving Adrian Ellis in my face. “Probably a doctor and married to some supermodel. Or an Olympic athlete who can twist her body into a pretzel. Or both. Probably both.”

I try very hard not to sound bitter—because you can’t be bitter about memories—but judging by the expressions on LuAnne and Joe’s faces; I don’t succeed.

“And it doesn’t matter.” I scratch my forearm.

“Let him be some uber-successful, wealthy doctor with a supermodel-Olympic-athlete wife who has no idea how much of a psycho he is. Or maybe she does. Maybe he’s married to another psycho and they’re just psychos together—I don’t care. ” I take a deep breath. “I don’t.”

Liar, a little voice in the back of my head whispers.

I think the itch is spreading now—I can feel it climbing up my arms, toward my shoulders.

LuAnne looks like she has even more questions, but all she says is: “I’m sorry.” She rubs my shoulder, but it does nothing to ease the invisible itch. “I shouldn’t have pried. It’s none of my business.”

It’s not, I want to snap, but don’t.

Deep down, I know she doesn’t understand.

LuAnne is good.

An honest, wholly, unequivocally good person.

She doesn’t hide. She doesn’t pretend. She doesn’t guard her secrets like they’ve got teeth—but mine do.

And I can’t fault her for expecting the same honesty she shows me.

“It’s fine,” I eventually sigh, scratching at my collarbone. “I’ve got to revisit some of these…memories, anyway. For the art show.”

“Which we’re here to celebrate, right?” Joe chimes in, smiling through the tension.

“Right,” LuAnne nods. “So…another round then?”

We don’t revisit the topic of Adrian Ellis.

But the itch never goes away.