Till Summer Do Us Part(3)

Finky moves aside and says, “My wife. Taking her up to the Finger Lakes this weekend for a wine tasting.”

“I was just there with Sanders,” she says as she takes a seat at the head of the table. God, look at her poise. Beauty and grace. Shoulders back, an air of confidence surrounding her, demanding respect. “Stayed at a really nice bed-and-breakfast. The cinnamon rolls were to die for.”

“Was it the place I recommended?” Brad S asks, hope in his eyes.

“It was,” Ellison says. “We did the lovers special like you said, and it was fantastic.”

Freaking lovers special.

What does that entail? Petting each other with a purple rabbit’s foot for luck while staring deeply into each other’s eyes?

“I was thinking about taking the hubby there,” Duncan chimes in, looking all kinds of squirrely, trying to get her attention. “Maybe I can take him there for his birthday.”

“When is his birthday?” Ellison asks as she leans back in her chair and brings her cup of coffee with her.

“Next month,” Duncan says.

“If he likes wine and cinnamon buns, then he’ll love it.” She then turns to Chad and asks, “How’s Danielle?”

Chad’s stupid face lights up. “She’s great. Still trying to get pregnant. Taking her to Fire Island this weekend to help her relax. I think she’s putting too much stress on herself.”

“I think that’s a very smart decision,” Ellison says. “If you’re looking for more assistance or outside-the-box thinking, I have a wonderful acupuncturist that can help.”

“I’ll send you an email.” Chad winks.

I’m annoyed.

The winks, the suggestions, the palling around…

Of course they’re all friendly with Ellison, because they’re all married.

Like I said, a cult. A freaking cult, and I’m the lonely spinster on the outside. Even the interns are either married or engaged to be married. If I didn’t know any better, I’d have assumed being paired up with a partner was a requirement to work at Butter Putter.

“Jenna made that recipe you sent the other day,” Brad S steps in. “The buffalo wing dip in the Crock-Pot.”

“How did it go?” Ellison asks.

Why wasn’t I sent the recipe?

I like buffalo dip.

Brad S chuckles and shakes his head. “Let’s just say she added a little too much sauce.” He rubs his stomach like a forty-year-old dad wearing jean shorts and New Balance sneakers with tube socks. “I had quite the bellyache.”

Ellison winces. “But I’m sure you ate it anyway, because that’s the kind of husband you are.”

“I sure did.”

This is a living nightmare.

Surrounded by happy couples boasting about their weekend plans, talking about their partners like they worship the ground they walk on. What’s that like? Couldn’t tell you.

And frankly, let’s call a spade a spade. It makes me jealous.

Insanely jealous.

Because, I’m going to be honest with you, the rom-com life I planned on living when I made the move to the city was not the kind of Nancy Meyers dream I was looking for. Sure, I might have the apartment aesthetic with the cozy, slipcovered furniture and herbs in the windowsill, but the falling in love with myself, not so much.

My neighbor next door to me keeps pointing out that I walk as if I have a lopsided leg. She’s on the younger side of eighty and holds a broom as a cane, so I don’t think she cares much about what others think of her, hence telling me I walk weird.

I also caught a reflection of myself in the Trader Joe’s window a week or so ago, and guess what? I looked like a crazy bag lady who feeds pigeons because they’re the only beings that will give her the time of day.

It was horrifying.

And worst of all, I woke myself up in the middle of the night precisely three days ago because I suffocated myself with morning breath. Yeah, popped those eyes right open as I gasped for air, only to realize the stench whispers was me.

So falling in love, not so much.

“What about you, Scarlett?”

I’m knocked out of my thoughts as I look up and all eyes are on me.

Did Ellison just call me Scarlett?

“Uh…” I drag out. “It’s Scottie actually.”

“Oh, my apologies,” she says, pressing her hand to her chest. “I don’t know why I said Scarlett. I know it’s Scottie.”

Bet she wouldn’t call Brad Bueford. Or Chad Charles.

No, just the lopsided single pigeon lady with dragon breath.

“So, what do you plan on doing this weekend?” she asks, a smile on her lips.

I glance around the table, beards and puffy vests all staring back at me, waiting for an answer, probably expecting me to talk about the yoga class in the park that I say I’m going to but actually just watch as I eat a chocolate croissant.

They’ll humor me, but none of them will ask me what class. No, they’ll just move on, and after the meeting, I’ll skulk back to my office and sit in front of a computer to correct all their copy for every single social media post and article.

Maybe not this time though.

Maybe, just maybe, I could fit in.

Ellison’s here, this is my chance to impress her, and maybe she’ll notice me if I actually have something to connect with her on.