Page 8 of Clinically Awkward

“I’m not going to crack.” Honestly, I wished I sounded as sure as I did in my head.

“You will absolutely crack,” Vivian said, grabbing her phone in the manner of a woman marking a future victory. “Give it six months. A year, tops. You’ll meet someone, fall head over heels, and completely forget about your whole ‘marriage trap’ theory.”

“That’s not going to happen.” I tried for nonchalance. It probably landed somewhere closer to hopeful denial.

“It’s definitely going to happen.”

“It’s not.”

“It is.”

“Want to bet on it?” I asked, feeling the spark of competition that had gotten me through med school and most of Fitz’s Sunday trivia smackdowns. I leaned forward, matching her grin with one of my own.

Vivian’s gaze sharpened, interest piqued. “What kind of bet?”

“If I’m still single and commitment-free in a year, you buy me dinner. If I crack, I buy you dinner.” I tried to sound casual, but I was already picturing steak and the smug satisfaction of a man proven right.

Vivian narrowed her eyes. “Define ‘crack.’”

“Any romantic relationship that lasts longer than three dates.”

“Three dates? That’s nothing. Make it five.”

“Four,” I said, splitting the difference like a seasoned negotiator with nothing at stake except my dignity.

“Deal,” she said immediately, hand shooting out to seal our fate. “But I get to pick the restaurant when you lose.”

“When you lose,” I corrected, shaking her hand. “And I’m picking somewhere expensive.”

“Dream big, Wesley,” she said, already sounding like she was making a reservation in her head. “I’m thinking about that new Italian place downtown. The one with the pasta that costs more than my car payment.”

“You’re not going to win.”

“I’m absolutely going to win,” she said, standing with her phone in hand, that knowing smirk firmly in place. “You’re going to meet some gorgeous, intelligent woman who laughs at your terrible jokes, and you’re going to fold like a cheap lawn chair.”

“My jokes aren’t terrible.” They weren’t. Usually.

“Your jokes are aggressively mediocre.”

“You laughed at the fishing lure story.”

“I laughed at the concept of a fishing lure in someone’s ear. Not at your delivery.”

“That’s the same thing.”

“It’s really not.” She paused at the door, her hand on the frame, a smile playing on her lips. “For what it’s worth, Quinton, I think your plan is sweet. Misguided, doomed to fail, and probably a sign that you need a therapist, but... sweet.”

“Thanks,” I said dryly, hoping my poker face hid the uneasy flutter in my chest. “That’s exactly what I was going for.”

“Also, when you inevitably lose this bet? I’m ordering the most expensive wine they have.”

“You’re not going to win.”

“Keep telling yourself that,” she said, vanishing into the hallway with her usual flair, leaving behind nothing but the scent of her coffee, the remains of her banana, and the faint echo of her laughter.

One year. No dating. No marriage traps. No complications.

It was foolproof—unless you counted my track record with plans, which, thankfully, no one ever did.