Page 3 of 10 Signs You Need to Grovel

“Non.” She shakes her head. “Not according to the night we met.”

This grunt turns into more of a hiss. “Haven’t we talked that night to death?”

“But you were so broken, Edward.” She stares at me.

I glower harder. “Wrong again.”

She sighs dramatically. “You were just so triste that evening. So, so sad. Going on about the love of your life and how you had lost her once and for all. A man who feels that much should not be alone.”

What I was that night was destroyed, because I’d done the one thing I promised myself I’d never do: search for Sadie Jones.

The love of my life had disappeared off the face of the earth (and internet) after I’d disappeared, and I knew looking for her was a horrible idea. If I found her and she was with someone else, the knowledge was bound to crush me beyond recognition. Still, I caved. I’d recently learned we didn’t need to stay in WITSEC, and I hired a PI before I could overthink the choice. A week later, the man came to me with a phone number and an address—digits in an email that held more power than nuclear codes.

Lacking the courage to drive to Sadie’s home in Tennessee, I called the number . . . and breathed in her ear like a pervert while she said hello three times.

Then a little-boy voice called “Mom” in the distance, and Sadie replied to him, “I’ll be right there, sweetie.”

I swiftly hung up and nearly shattered my no-puking streak, then proceeded to go on an epic bender, after which I stumbled home drunk, punched the wall, and blabbed my sob story to Mirielle while she tended my cut-up knuckles. Ever since that disaster, she’s been up my ass about dating and finding my next true love, when all I’ve done since hearing Sadie’s voice is miss the hell out of the woman who owned my heart.

“I should head to work,” I tell Mirielle, standing unceremoniously. A man can only handle so many blunt pep talks. “I have a feeling E will show up early.”

“Say bonjour for me. And next week we’ll try crocheting. It might suit you better. Clear that busy, busy mind of yours.”

“Sure,” I say gruffly. “We’ll surf the net tomorrow. Choose the sets you want.”

“And I need more of my Bahamas Fever lipstick.”

I walk her to my door. “We’ll get that too.”

“And we’ll sign you up for dating sites. Walter,” she adds as she sails out the door, her colorful caftan flowing behind her.

“Walter?” I call, bristling. “What part of me looks like a Walter?”

“The part that no longer knows how to have fun.”

Fun? I know how to have fun. I was the definition of fun in college. I’m the guy who swapped my roommate’s laundry load with a bag of old lady’s undergarments. That was hilariously fun. Except it makes me think of underwear shopping for Mirielle, which was definitely not fun.

Grumbling under my breath, I tidy my small place, which does look half-vacant and maybe not very fun. I move the book from my bed onto my nightstand and stare at the title, Eleanor Oliphant Is Completely Fine, feeling a pang behind my ribs.

I started reading book club books to discuss them with my mother. A couple of years into WITSEC, after I moved out on my own, I’d surprise her at her regular coffee shop to perk her up. Distract her from her sadness by talking about books. Until the day she took one look at me and burst into tears. I wasn’t sure what set her off, but seeing me made it worse. So I stopped going.

Even though I’ve avoided her coffee shop for the past year, she still emails me which books she’s currently reading, and I still read along. But I don’t reach out. The last thing I want is to make my mother cry.

I knot my hair on top of my head and grab my keys, needing air and a walk before meeting my brother. But the air doesn’t clear my head. My mind is busy, busy, as Mirielle would say, picking over E’s worrying call. Missing my mother and our book club talks.

When I arrive at my latest place of employment, Down in the Hole, I pause at the trampled cigarette collection outside the front door. The cancer-causing stubs overlap in a mess of white and yellow. A flattened pile that resembles a slightly deformed dolphin. The title Mutant Dolphin Attacks Bystanders pops into my head.

My stomach churns again.

Sadie used to do ridiculous stuff like this, point to gum on the sidewalk or bird shit on a window and pretend it was art. She’d give the piece an elaborate name—Solar Eclipse Monsoon or Parody of Swan Lake—describing the nuance and depth of the nasty splotch, while I’d tickle or kiss her, daring her to eat the stepped-on gum. I was an unabashed pest back then. She was light. Playful, creative, clever. No clue how she put up with my idiocy.

Not that it matters now. She’s living a full life, and I need to do the same. Forget her the way she’s forgotten me. Find my fun. Quit dodging my family. Date properly again, even though the thought makes me itch. Prove to Mirielle I can do better so she quits calling me Walter. Be a source of happiness for my family, not a source of tears.

Determined to make this meeting with E pleasant, I yank open the bar door. In the early-afternoon light, the wooden bar top looks like it got mauled by a bear, and the dark stains on the scuffed floor appear more suspect than usual. Half the lights on the bathroom sign are burned out, so the sign reads B RO M. Run down or not, the place is jam packed at night.

My coworker Frankie glances up from scrubbing one of the tables by the dartboard, her lined eyes doing a sweep of my face. She grunts at me. I grunt back. Frankie is my people.

I glance at the bar, ready to work on a new cocktail. Something to share with E when he shows up, but my eyes lock on a six-foot-four wrench in that plan.