I'm cursed.
At least when it comes to finding Mr. Right.
I'm tired of men that only want one night stands or blind dates that are nothing but awkward and uncomfortable. I'm tired of avoiding inappropriate text messages and the constant disappointment of always meeting Mr. Wrong.
After all these years of dates that lead nowhere, I can admit that it's me. I'm the problem. I'm shy and picky and cursed. Definitely cursed.
So I've decided two things.
The first? I'm giving up dating and relationships and men in general. Maybe, possibly, forever.
The second? I'm going to have to try harder to avoid Ezra Baptiste.
If I couldn't hack it in the kiddy pool of dating, I certainly can't swim in his deep end. He's too successful. Too intense. He's all man when I'm used to nothing but boys pretending to be grownups. He's everything I'm afraid to want and so far out of my league we might as well be different species entirely.
So he'll need to find a different artist to paint his mural. And a different graphic designer to help him with his website. He'll need to find someone else to glare at and flirt with and kiss.
It can't be me.
We're too different.
My phone buzzed with an incoming email and I resisted the urge to check it during the middle of spin class. I could wait to open it. I didn’t need to know what it said just this second.
Really, it would be fine.
It could wait.
I could wait.
The sender could wait until after I’d sweated off the three pounds of pasta I’d gained this week from my favorite Italian takeout spot to hear back from me.
I couldn’t help the small smile of anticipation that lifted the corners of my mouth though or the way I suddenly didn’t notice the pain from pushing up the hill climb at five-forty-five a.m. Resisting the urge to pick up my phone, I opted for my water bottle instead.
But even after a big, refreshing gulp, I still didn’t manage to lose the smile.
“Why do you look happy?” Vera panted next to me, her legs moving approximately one thousand miles per hour. “You should be miserable right now. At the very least you should be contemplating puking. No smiling.”
“I think I see Jesus,” I wheezed said serenely. “I’ve pedaled myself to death. He’s coming to get me.”
Vann chuckled on my other side. “This is only the warmup.”
“Stop showing off, Vann.” My smile disappeared. “We get it. You’re a super cyclist. The bike seat up your ass isn’t bothering you at all. Stop bragging.” To Vera, I said, “Why did you invite him again?”
“Hey!” Vann protested.
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t invite him. I tried very hard to keep this a secret from him. But when he heard we were doing something bicycle related, he invited himself.”
“I’m here to motivate you,” he said seriously. “This is good for you girls. You both are in serious need of some cardio.”
“Your face is in serious need of some cardio,” Vera snarled back. At my look of not-the-best-insult-you’ve-
Vann leaned forward on his bike, lifting his bum off the seat and adjusting his bike to make it harder for himself. Because he was crazy and liked weird things- like exercise. This was the end of our friendship forever. I officially hated him. His overachieving did nothing to motivate me to work harder. This was it. This was as hard as I spinned. Spun? My brain was sleepy too.
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