Not in Love by Ali Hazelwood

“What? Sleeping with my accountant?”

“Dating. Maybe get married again?”

She laughed. “After all I went through to get rid of Brock? No, thanks. If I get lonely, I’ll adopt a cat, like Tisha. Is that who she’s with tonight?”

“I believe she’s with Diego, the tech bro. But Bruce might be tagging along.”

“I’m sure things will get wild.” She gave me a sideways look. “What about you? Are you going to start dating again?”

A flash of Eli Killgore flooded my brain, and I swiped it away with the vehemence it deserved. “Technically . . .”

“Technically, it wouldn’t be again, because you’ve never actually dated ?”

“Correct.” I shrugged as the car slowed down. Not only was interacting with others a challenge for me, but the feeling was mutual.

Why are you always so quiet?

If you smiled more, people would think you like them, and then they’d actually want to spend time with you.

I wish I was as cold as you. I love that you just don’t care about stuff.

I’d been an odd child, then an odd teenager. Then I’d become, maybe as a result, maybe unavoidably, an odd adult. Tisha had been easy—Want to jump rope with me? she asked in first grade, and the rest smoothly unfolded—but as grateful as I was for my best friend, she was also a constant reminder of what I could never be. Tisha was smart, outgoing, quirky, imperfect in a way that was universally considered fun. I was weird. Cringe. Too awkward or too withdrawn. Off-putting. There had been whispers, snickering, and a conspicuous lack of invites by the same crowds that adored my best friend. Tisha had never chosen others over me, and she never hesitated to tell those who were openly rude to me to piss off. But we both knew the truth: people were inexplicably, neverendingly difficult for me. So while Tisha had boyfriends, friends, high grades, a promising future, I was busy with figure skating and faint hopes of getting the hell out of Texas, soon.

But then I had gotten out. And while being with humans hadn’t been any easier in college, I’d realized that there was one type of social interaction I could rock. I may struggle to keep the conversation flowing, or fail at exuding the kind of warmth that made others want to be in my orbit, but some people did approach me. Men, for the most part, with something very specific in mind, something I discovered I found highly enjoyable myself. I didn’t mind if they wanted to use my body, not if I got to use theirs back.

Only fair, I thought.

As college morphed into grad school and grad school bled into internships, meeting new people organically became harder. On top of that, lots of men my age seemed to be looking for something more. Shortly after joining Kline, I had some fairly mediocre sex with another team leader at the company, and was confused when he emailed the following day, asking me out for dinner.

I must have gotten better at hiding the way I am, I thought. I briefly let myself imagine saying yes, and the scenarios rolled through my head like a movie. Me, frantically trying to keep up the pretense of being an appealing, easygoing person and not just dozens of neuroses in a lab coat. The dismay I’d feel when my ability to fake it finally reached the end of its rope. His disappointment after my mask slipped, showing how socially inept and messed up I was. The potential for hurt was bottomless, and I didn’t even like the guy.

Sticking to the apps and avoiding repeats seemed like the better course of action.

“Is this the place?” I asked Florence when the Lyft came to a stop outside of a manor-like building.

“Yeah. We won’t stay long, just an appearance. But he has an ego and would notice if I didn’t show up.”

“There’s nowhere else I need to be. I’ll find a nice corner and wait for you.”

Florence squeezed my hand over the leather seats. “You take such good care of me.”

“You do the same.”

I’d never been to this part of Lake Austin, but I recognized the name of the club from some of the charity drives Mom would take us to as kids, to stock up on hand-me-downs and school supplies. It was the sort of fancy place frequented by people who loved prenups and air-kisses, where folks like me should set foot only on select, philanthropy-themed occasions. I spotted an easel at the entrance, and on top of a picture that could have been the stock photo for an investment banker, the words Happy Retirement, Eric in handwritten calligraphy. Florence signed the guest book, but I gave it as wide a berth as I could.

The crowded reception area was full of suits and evening gowns. A small band was preparing to play, and waiters weaved through the crowd, carrying large trays of drinks and appetizers. My stomach clenched at the idea of eating anything among these people.

“There is Eric,” Florence said, pointing at where the stock photo held court. “I’ll introduce you. He’ll say, ‘You’re too young and beautiful to be in a lab all day,’ or some shit—sorry in advance.”

He didn’t say that. But he did tell me that if he’d “known engineers came in this pretty shape,” maybe he “would have switched majors.” Because I loved Florence, and Kline, I smiled amiably down at him, and didn’t mention that I’d have reported him for sexual harassment without hesitating. In my high heels I brushed six feet and relished his obvious discomfort when he had to crane his neck to utter his crap.