I blinked at the realization that his question seemed to be directed toward me. Was he picking up on the pairing off that seemed to be happening? Was he hoping I’d be his buffer?
Did it matter? He clearly wanted me to go, and who was I to pass up the first college hangout I’d been invited to? At my nod, the line was abandoned and we were on our way to procure swimwear, like we were one big group. Apparently, that’s all it took to make friends in college: free food and the key to a pool.
I followed along, thrilled to be a part of something, not yet realizing how important we’d all become to each other. I had no idea that Phoebe and Mac would end up dating for the next six years. That Deiss, despite having what was rumored to be a very active sex life, would somehow always make his way back to us, almost every single day, without fail. That Simone’s fear of missing out would lead her to abandon her legacy status in Kappa Delta （or that she’d end up dragging us to all sorts of Greek events after her mother declared this resistance an unforgivable betrayal to the family name）。
I was simply grateful to have found friends.
It took a year or two before I realized what I’d actually found was a family.
CHAPTER 1
It’s the third Thursday of the month. If I were asked to pick my favorite holiday, Christmas or Halloween wouldn’t even stand a chance. I’d choose a third Thursday every time. The first third Thursday of the year. The last. The third Thursday in April. They’re all winners. Third Thursdays are the day all five of us commit to venturing out of our neighborhoods and making our ways to each other. It’s my grounding post, the evening that saves me from feeling like my entire life is a role in a play with a rigid and repetitive script.
A Third Thursday is not a day to get caught up in the stresses of everyday life. Yet caught up is exactly what I seem to be. Actually, panicking is a more accurate description. I’ve had to pinch my wrist three times to stop myself from picking anxiously at the manicure I got during my lunch break. Take on a mountain of debt or give up my home. I twist the glass of chardonnay on the sticky high table I’ve scored, weighing the equally distressing options in my mind.
The busy bar buzzes around me, muddying my thoughts. Or maybe that’s the wine. I gave myself an hour and a half to get a handful of miles across town because that’s how you have to budget your time if you’re brave enough to attempt an exit from Santa Monica at the end of a workday. Shockingly, though, the roads chose today to be somewhat functional, and I arrived early enough to not only procure a table and drink but also make my way through most of a glass. It’s enough of a miracle that I pull out and reread the mostly memorized letter in case the date has miraculously been pushed back as well.
Sadly, it’s all still there in black and white. The building that contains my rent-controlled apartment has been sold, and I have until the end of tomorrow to declare my intention to buy the place I’ve been living in for the last seven years or let it go. Which is why I’ve made sure to always have at least six months’ worth of rent in my savings, just as Seeking Security: A Woman’s Guide to Securing Her Own Future told me to. It’s going to be fine. I’ve prepared for this.
Except, of course, I have no idea what I’ve prepared myself to do. Am I supposed to buy my apartment and bury myself under a mountain of debt when I was just starting to see glimmers of light from beneath the boulder of student loans? Or am I supposed to start over somewhere else? Both options cause my chest to tighten, my heart hammering. I always imagined I’d have a partner by the time I attempted homeownership. There was supposed to be room for a child, or maybe even two.
But I don’t have a partner and, for now at least, I only need space for myself. I’ve made my apartment my home, and I swore to myself that I’d never be forced out of my home again. And maybe walking away won’t leave me homeless in the way I’ve experienced before, but I’ll know I can’t trust myself any more than I could trust my mother. So who’s left to make sure everything doesn’t crash and burn once again?
“You look lonely,” says a guy who leans an elbow on my table, pressing into one of the many glasses left behind by its previous occupants. He has artfully mussed hair and a rakish grin that says he knows exactly how attractive he is.
“Alone and lonely aren’t necessarily the same thing, though, are they?” I keep my voice light because the internet’s Husband Huntress insists it’s important to never pass up an opportunity to practice the art of flirtation. This guy is barking up the wrong tree, though. Even if I weren’t currently pondering the breakdown of my entire existence, I wouldn’t go for someone this flashy. My mom used to date someone who wore a pinkie ring very similar to this one; he left her for a woman with bigger breasts and longer purse strings.