Page 84 of The One Month Boyfriend (Wildwood Society)

“The other activities include monogramming tube socks for the groom and…” I push my glasses up, thinking. “Crafting bridal night lingerie from fabric scraps and googly eyes.”

Now she’s laughing, the sound booming through her living room, and I’m grinning at her.

“That might work,” she says. “Will you help me make a mockup bra so I can show her what she’s getting herself into?”

“As long as the googly eyes go on the nipples.”

“Duh.”

“Let me know where and when.”

We drink beer in silence for a few minutes, both half-watching the TV, though if there’s a plot, we’ve both lost track of it. All I know is that, for some reason, all these attractive women want to date this very boring white man, and I don’t know why.

“Speaking of men who aren’t worth it, have you murdered Evan yet?” she asks, as if she can read my mind.

Now it’s my turn to tilt my head back onto the sofa and groan dramatically.

“That bad?” she asks, petting my hair away from my forehead.

“Anna Grace, he is such a dick,” I say. “He never shuts up. He mutters to himself all day, probably because he knows I hate it. He’s always on the phone when I’m trying to concentrate and I get that it’s his job, but every time I take my headphones out and listen for a few seconds he’s talking about golf scores or some shit. He CC’s Greg on every email he sends me, like I’m not gonna do my job otherwise. And he’s being a fucking asshole about—”

About Silas. For three mornings now he’s walked in at ten and asked how’s Silas doing, in the most condescendingly concerned voice possible, then gone on to make “helpful” suggestions that he knows are dickish concern trolling.

Maybe he could use a mental health day. Maybe he needs some time off. Is he talking to anyone? I hope he gets the help he needs.

If I thought he meant it in kindness, it would be fine. It would be nice, even, but he says it with a snide edge to his voice and his lip curling in that way that I’ve come to hate, so I know what he really means.

I’m starting to think that making him crawl won’t be good enough.

“—everything,” I finish, because I suddenly don’t want to tell Anna Grace that Evan being a dick about Silas bothers me.

There’s another silence. Some women on the television are presented with roses. Some are not. The roseless women seem sad.

“What did I see in him?” I ask.

“Mmmm. Nope,” Anna Grace says. “Not going down this road.”

“I know, I know.”

“You can’t blame yourself for wanting to see the best in someone when that’s all they showed you, right up until it was too late,” she goes on, despite her previous statement.

“I know.”

Anna Grace thinks Evan’s a narcissist and a sociopath. I think she’s not a psychiatrist. We’ve been over this a thousand and one times, but the truth is that I still can’t believe all the tiny clues, signs, and signals that I ignored right up until he dumped me in front of everyone I knew.

“Is he at least mad about Sir Suction?” she asks, smirking.

“Jesus,” I mutter.

“The man really commits,” she goes on, still grinning. “A hundred and ten percent.”

“I should’ve never told you about that.”

“At least one of us is getting hickeys,” she says, still laughing. “I’m over here going on dates with men who think that a Fish Fear Me, Women Want Me shirt is a good look and women who turn out to only be there because their boyfriend wants a threesome.”

“What, you’re not that adventurous?” I tease, because despite everything, Anna Grace is traditional in her own way.

“I might consider it a little more if the opening ploy weren’t so my boyfriend loves watching girls fool around. Like, damn, at least tell me I’ve got nice tits first, then tell me you’re there in service of some dipshit getting his rocks off.”