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Three dots appear, and then Clarice Sinclair replies: I doubt it. Derek’s meaner than a wasp in summer.
I sigh. She’s right, of course.
Betty chimes in. Maybe this will help him forgive you for stealing his job.
I bite my lower lip and punch back: I didn’t steal his job. I won the position of manager fair and square.
Clarice: Well maybe this will help him get over it. Anyway, can we please discuss the Quilt of Horniness?
I laugh, then type, What are you talking about?
Betty: You know, the competition that was announced last night at the resort’s grand opening—which all of us missed because of the Golden Girls marathon.
Me: I’m trying to forget about last night.
But of course my mind keeps replaying the champagne splashing on Rhett’s face and his controlled composure—which somehow makes me feel worse. And let’s not forget the pièce de résistance: me being labeled a stalker.
My phone dings again.
Clarice: We’re gonna pin our names on the quilt. Aren’t we, ladies?
Betty and Thelma: Yes.
My gut instinct is to ask if they’re a little too old for soulmates, seeing as they’re in their seventies. Yes, I have geriatric friends who’ve nominated me as their official young-person companion.
But instead of bringing this up, I wisely bite my tongue.
Clarice, the matron of the group, and a woman who rides around town on her John Deere tractor, types, We have something to tell you, Cristina.
Me: Okay.
Clarice: We ladies have talked, and we’re officially firing you from the position of Bachelor Watcher.
I didn’t realize I had a position, but I kinda want to see where this is heading.
Me: Really?
Betty: We don’t want to hurt your feelings, dear. You were so nice to put this group chat together for us so we could talk about eligible men. But we feel you’re not living up to your responsibilities. Please don’t take it personally, and I’ve even made you a strawberry pretzel salad to ease the blow.
I will gladly take that cream cheesy dessert, blow or no blow.
Me: Are you asking me to leave the chat?
Thelma: No, we just don’t want you to feel responsible for finding men our age to date, is all.
Seeing as how I never actually did that in the first place, I’m okay with this development. However, it would be rude to act like this doesn’t matter to me.
Me: I’ll miss our Murder, She Wrote marathons.
Thelma: You can still come to those.
Dang. I hate that show.
Me: I will make each of you a Bitty Being to show my gratitude for all we’ve been through in the group chat—including the time when Clarice’s tractor got stuck in mud right outside Henry Smallwood’s house because she may or may not have been spying on him.
Thelma: She was trying to catch him in his birthday suit, and we all know it.
Clarice: I have a mind to cut you out of this chat, Thelma. I told y’all that was an accident. Cristina, can you have my Bitty Being wear a T-shirt with the phrase One Tough Bitch on it?
