Abnormal Luna Completed

SPRING FLING

One

“Is this the hill you’re going to die on, Chloe?” Boy, if I had a quarter for every time someone asked me that. And then another for every time I did, in fact, die on said hill…well, I would have to drop “starving” from my artist bio.

The Instagram-worthy eyebrows of my bestie challenge me to stand behind today’s bold statement—that I prefer to be alone.

My brain frantically rummages through my extensive collection of history facts, trying to find one that applies to modern times. Since women can no longer be arrested or considered a prostitute for going on a date, I’m not sure how to answer Charlotte’s question in a way that makes it believable. No one wants to die on a hill alone, do they? Unfortunately, I may. Unlike me, most twenty-six-year-olds are pro-actively seeking their other half, succumbing to their biological clocks which are ticking down the tragic seconds until they die...not alone.

“What’s wrong with being a lone wolf?” is all I can come up with.

“Nothing. But...humans aren’t wired to be alone. We’re pack animals by nature.” Narrowed brown eyes pin me to the sofa. “Plus, I know why you’re choosing to not date anyone, so it’s my duty, as your best friend, to give you a nudge in the right direction.” With a whirl of her chair, she turns back to the computer she’s convinced holds my future partner.

I drain my second glass of Merlot and slump into the leather of Charlotte’s couch, silently asking it to swallow me whole so I won’t have to go through with her outlandish idea of finding me a man via dating app. When I arrived at Charlotte’s place, I had no idea this was an intervention of sorts. This visit was supposed to be chilling with wine and flower shopping for Charlotte’s upcoming wedding. Instead, I’ve been bamboozled with an online matchmaking site that will have men sending a rock, if they’re interested in me. Not the kind on Charlotte’s finger, a poorly drawn stone rock to symbolize the building of a solid foundation.

How can I take this seriously when I’m not impressed with their branding?

“Granny Mae would not approve of this,” I counter, since history has failed to provide me with an adequate defense. “You know how she feels about the internet.” Maybe I’m not playing fair using Charlotte’s adoration of my grandmother and her questionable southern charm, but desperate times call for desperate measures, so I continue, “Full of damn trolls I believe were her exact words.”

Charlotte gasps at my underhanded attempt to thwart her plan, but is undeterred. “Granny Mae is in North Carolina. Probably making biscuits, with her sweet little granny hands. Besides, she’ll never have to know how you met the love of your life. You’ll blow her bonnet off when you go home to visit.” She points to the website with smiling people on the screen. “Look, it’s called FriendsOfFriends, so that’s respectable. F-O-F. And you know what that O is for!”

“Of?”

Charlotte glances over her shoulder at me. “Wow, this is why you never get laid.”

Never is a bit harsh. It’s not like I’ve intentionally chosen to be celibate for years. Well, maybe I have, but there’s no time to respond with more grannyisms about the dangers of social media, because the front door opens and in walks the reason for my nun-like state and Charlotte’s insistence that I give this a try.

“What’s up, ladies?” Austin, Charlotte’s roommate extraordinaire, drawls in his husky timbre that warms my wine and brings the fine hairs on the nape of my neck to attention.

“Hey,” I say, sitting a bit straighter. “How was work?”

“Busy.” He deposits a white to-go box on the counter separating the kitchen and living room. “What do you have for me today, Chloe?”

For a moment, I can’t think. He truly is extraordinary, in an understated way. Dark eyes, dark hair, and a dark sense of humor. He’s the holy trinity in my book. But, like all good things, he’s taken. So I can only mope and admire his tall frame from atop my lonely dying-hill.

“Forks were once thought to be sacrilegious,” I finally say.

He chuckles and leans against the counter, crossing his arms. “Why is that?”

“When they were introduced in the 11th century, they were considered artificial hands and as such, an offense to God.”

“Amazing. You never disappoint me, Chloe.” And his amusement at my gems of worthless knowledge never disappoints me. “I’ve got something for you, too. A customer ordered fettuccine Alfredo, and while I was making it, they canceled due to carb-guilt.” He winks at me. “I know you love to eat, so I brought it home for you.”