Page 4 of The Underachiever’s Guide to Love and Saving the World

COURTNEY

Will did not understand. Will did not understand at all.

The next few months of my life looked like a Disney movie played in reverse.

I lost my prince (Will), I left the castle (Will’s swanky apartment), and got an un-makeover—which consisted of me transforming into a Boomer’s nightmare, to make myself look as un-hirable as possible, in case I ever got tempted to go back to the corporate world.

Sporting freshly box-dyed blue hair and a slightly infected lip ring, I moved to a cheap duplex in a no-name town in Ohio and picked up a dead-end job at a home improvement store, vowing to live my new, insignificant life with one simple goal: have no goals.

Being good enough would never make me be enough, so I lowered the bar for my whole life. No more dreams or aspirations, and especially no more relationships. People always wanted those they cared about to succeed, and I’d only let down anyone I dated the way I did Will.

My only personal fulfillment came from volunteering at an animal shelter on weekends. Dogs, I decided, were the only creatures in existence who knew what unconditional love was.

“Who the hell pays fifty dollars for a doorknob?” I muttered to myself, placing the item on the shelf I was stocking. Over the intercom, “Santa Baby” played for the seventh time today.

It was only my first week here, and while I was still happy with my decision overall, I hadn’t accounted for just how lonely I’d be.

I was content merely existing, which, for some reason, made a lot of people discontent.

Everyone, even my family, disassociated from me, as though mediocrity were contagious.

Apparently, phrases like it’s the little things were reserved to be displayed on plaques in million-dollar homes like trophies, as though contentment itself were something you had to earn.

Because if you truly were happy with little things , you were unambitious, and if you weren’t ambitious, then you must be lazy. Worthless.

“You’re deliberately making your life worse. How can I support you through that?” Will had said when I told him I was done chasing material success. “All I want is for you to succeed.”

To everyone else, Will’s concern sounded valid.

My family praised him for worrying over my “obvious cry for help.” But I knew Will better than any of them, knew how much he clung to that future we’d imagined together, the one with country clubs and RVs.

Unless I continued to max out my retirement account and kept pretending to like tennis, I’d never fit into his “wife” box, and he’d never let me live outside of it.

He didn’t care that I was happy for the first time.

He only cared about what was best for him .

I missed Will, though not in the ways I’d expected. I didn’t miss things that were uniquely Will. It was the absence of anyone in my life that hit me the hardest.

“Where’s Courtney?” one of my managers asked from the next aisle over, drawing me from my thoughts.

My coworkers’ responses chimed in. “Courtney’s working today?” and “Hopefully fired” and “Who cares?”

I checked my phone and realized it was time for my scheduled break.

While old-me would have gone running to see what my manager needed, the new me forced herself to ignore the tug that urged me to comply.

He’d convince me to help him with something for “just a second,” and then two hours would go by, and I’d miss my break entirely without being compensated for it.

Instead, I made my way across the store to the vending machines, which were by the gardening section. The best thing about my new job was, as long as you showed up and pretended to be busy for at least a few hours, no one would actually fire you.

After buying a few candy bars, I made myself comfortable on the floor, leaning against the vending machine for support.

Usually, I liked hiding in a coatrack near the lighting department on my breaks, but I’d seen Dave from appliances lurking around there earlier, and I didn’t want him to spot me.

I loved the lighting department—there was something whimsical about all those twinkling chandeliers—but Dave was just the kind of guy who’d rat you out if you stretched your break a few minutes long, which I was certainly planning on doing.

So I settled for the less-aesthetic vending machine alcove.

I’d just taken my first bite out of a KitKat when I experienced the unmistakable sensation of being watched.

I looked up, and there he was—some pale redheaded guy looking lost in the garden department. It took me a minute, but I recognized him as my neighbor—a guy I’d seen coming and going a few times from the other side of the duplex. My landlord had mentioned his name was Bryce. Bryce Flannery.

Bryce turned and looked at me—focused, sharp, intense—in a way that no one had looked at me before.

A little thrill went through me because he looked at me as though he saw me, the real me, unlike Will, who saw the pretty cape I wore.

To be fair, judging by Bryce’s frown, he clearly wasn’t liking what he was seeing, but I didn’t mind.

I knew what I looked like: a lazy degenerate slacking off at work. But he wasn’t leaving. He was associating with me, if only in a small, negative way. He seemed to view me as something worth hating rather than something not worth the effort.

“What do you want?” I asked when he continued to stare.

“Your mom’s phone number,” he fired back, before looking slightly surprised, like he couldn’t believe he had actually just used my mother to insult me.

Something stirred inside me, that competitive spirit that used to get super horny for math tests and tight deadlines. “She doesn’t date men who look like a child’s crayon drawing of a leprechaun.”

“I find it hard to believe her standards are high, considering you came out looking like you belong under a bridge, demanding answers to riddles.” He was on a roll now, but I wasn’t backing down either.

A few weeks ago, I would have suffocated my snide comebacks under an agreeable cape.

Now, I let them fly because there was nothing to lose.

I didn’t care if this guy liked me or not.

“Riddle me this: After listening to your own voice all these years, why do you still think it’s a good idea to talk? ”

Despite my insult, I hoped he would continue thinking it was a good idea to talk, because Bryce Flannery was my new favorite jerk. His feelings for me, though negative, were based on who I was, not on the things I did. He’d never ask me to be more, do more; he’d just hate me for who I was.

This one thirty-second interaction was the only honest relationship I’d ever had.