Page 12 of Clinically Awkward

“That’s—” Colton laughed, and it was the wrong move. “That’s ridiculous. Who thinks that?”

“Someone who’s watched all his friends get married and lose their minds,” I said. “And honestly? After tonight? I’m starting to see his point.”

“Viv, come on.”

“I’m serious, Colton.” I set the dumbbell down on the floor—not on him, just near him—and stepped back. “I’m tired. I’m tired of being forgotten. I’m tired of being stood up. I’m tired of feeling like I’m competing with your gym schedule for your attention.”

“You’re not competing⁠—”

“Then prove it,” I said again. “Show up. Be present. Actually try.”

Colton sat up slowly, rubbing the spot where the weight had been. “Okay. Okay, I will. I promise. No more missed dinners. No more forgetting plans. I’ll be better.”

“You said that last time,” I reminded him.

“I know, but...” He reached for my hand. I stepped back. “Viv, please. Give me another chance. I’ll make it up to you. Dinner tomorrow night? Anywhere you want. My treat.”

I looked at him. At his perfect hair, his perfect smile, his perfect everything that somehow added up to someone who couldn’t remember to show up for dinner.

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Viv!”

“I said I’ll think about it, Colton.” I picked up my purse from where I’d dropped it on the floor. “Right now, I’m going home. I’m going to take off this dress, eat an entire pint of ice cream, and seriously reconsider my life choices.”

“Babe.”

“And if you post another gym selfie in the next twenty-four hours,” I added, turning back to look at him, “I’m coming back here with a ten-pound weight. Understand?”

He nodded quickly. “Understood.”

“Good.”

I walked out of the gym with my head held high, my dignity mostly intact, and the growing suspicion that Quinton’s “marriage trap” theory was looking less ridiculous by the minute.

Maybe opting out of dating entirely wasn’t such a crazy idea after all.

My phone buzzed as I reached my car.

Colton: I really am sorry, babe. I’ll make it up to you. Promise.

I stared at it for a long moment, then typed back.

Me: You have one chance. Don’t waste it.

His response came immediately.

Colton: I won’t. Love you.

I didn’t respond. Instead, I got in my car, started the engine, and sat there for a moment, my hands on the steering wheel, my mind racing.

Three strikes.

That was the rule, right? Three strikes and you’re out?

Colton was definitely on strike three.

Maybe even strike four.