“Uh.” I’m down to single-syllable grunts. That’s all I’ve got. My body is in flames, like a jetliner shot down by a rogue state.

A rogue state called Friendlandia.

“I mean, when I later realized he put more thought into his outfit than I did into mine for prom…” Her eyes go unfocused. “And he had much better hair.”

“Maybe you have a thing for gay guys,” I say.

I instantly regret the words.

“What?”

“Um, maybe it’s just… there’s some reason they appeal to you. They’re your type.”

“I don’t have a type. I don’t fall in love with a type. I fall in love with people. Not types.” She snorts and chews, then swallows. “And from what Zeke’s told me about you, you have a type, and it’s not gay guys. We might both love watching stupid survivalist shows, but we don’t both love the same people.”

“What’s Zeke said about me?” I’m going to kill him.

“You know. You two go on the prowl most weekends.”

“On the prowl? I haven’t heard that phrase since my grandma was alive.” Zeke’s lying. Sure, I go out with him to the bars a couple times a month, and some nights he finds someone to go home with. Not me.

I mean, I date, but...

“It’s okay, Ryan,” she says sincerely. “I get it. Guys like you, you know… you have different standards.”

“Different standards?”

“For women. When you’re a 10, you can pursue 10s.”

“You think I’m a 10?” I sit up nice and proud, batting my eyelashes, buying time to control the crazy surge of need that makes me nearly lunge across the couch.

She sputters, then starts laughing, a hyena sound that ends with giggles. It’s adorable. It makes me want her more. “You wouldn’t be at O in your job if you weren’t a 10. You’re a 10. Zeke’s a 10.” She thinks for a minute. “And Henry’s an 11.”

“Hey!” I’m mildly offended, but happy to talk about anything that distracts me from the fatal mistake I almost made just moments ago. “I’m not an 11?”

“Henry is nearly seven feet tall, built like Superman, a gorgeous ginger like Prince Harry, and is married to the sweetest woman on the planet who is a whip-smart health journalist.” She gives me a look that says, Beat that.

“But can he braid hair like me?”

Her lips puff out like she’s considering the evidence. I want to kiss her again.

I shove a throw pillow over my crotch and stuff my face with Tom Yum soup, slurping be damned.

“Okay, you do get points for braiding. You’re a 10.5.”

“As long as I beat Zeke, I can handle that.” I give her a serious look. “What would it take for me to become an 11?”

“Find someone as awesome as Jemma?”

I stare at her, the words caught in my throat.

The episode begins, and the first words out of the announcer’s mouth are, “Kill two birds with one stone.”

Yeah.

Right.

Chapter 4

CARRIE

People talk about muscle memory all the time. It means when you do something over and over, you get really good at it. It becomes automatic. I was good at loving Jamey.

The heart's a muscle, right?

And now loving him is such a habit, I can't seem to stop.

I reach for my phone before I'm really awake in the morning, checking for his messages. It's not till I'm squinting at the tiny screen that I remember.

I stagger into the kitchen and pour my coffee into one of the beautiful French mugs Jamey gave me when I moved into this tiny apartment of my own. He bought them at Anthropologie, our favorite store. My kitchen is so small, he only bought two. One for each of us.

I want to go back to bed. If I can just stay asleep, I won't have to remember that I'll be drinking my coffee alone from now on. When other women get dumped, they can tell themselves, "He'll be back. He'll realize what we have, how great it is."

I don't have that comfort.

No matter what happens, Jamey is never coming back to me. I’m not his type. I never was. My heart isn’t just breaking. It’s slamming into a massive concrete wall of reality every time I remember.

Jenny hasn’t texted me. Not even an R U OK. Maybe Jamey hasn’t told her yet. I’m sure as hell not rushing to let my friend know that her brother dumped me for a guy. I’m not going to out him to his family before he’s ready. I’m not that angry — and I’m not that person, either.

And what about the wedding? How can I show my face there? I joked about Ryan being my date because I need a date. Not Ryan, though. No way. He would do it if I forced him to, but I don’t just need a date.

I need a boyfriend. A lust and passion-filled whirlwind romance that will shock Jamey to his core and make everyone not think of me as Poor Carrie.

The only thing worse than being dumped by a gay guy you didn’t know was gay is being treated like Poor Carrie. Like it’s not even two separate words. Poorcarrie. Poorcarrie. The whispers and gossip and sad puppy-dog eyes will kill me.

I have to back out of the wedding. I have to. Where am I going to magically find some guy who’s madly in love with me, who can’t keep his hands off me, who is sweet and kind and generous and broad-shouldered and muscled and so hot even Jamey lusts after him, thus making me the Queen of All Comebacks? In only three weeks?

Right. Never going to happen.

It’s too late for a shower. I can barely drag myself to the closet to get dressed. Who cares what I look like? It's just work. It's not like I have a date tonight. Or ever.

The black knit skirt I wore yesterday is lying on the floor by the foot of my bed. I pick it up and give it a shake. No one will notice if I wear it again today. Most of my clothes are in the laundry basket now, but I pull an old white shirt off a hanger. I add black boots, simple flats that scream Soviet era utilitarianism.

Good enough.

It's not till I'm trudging down the stairs to the T station that I remember: I have a meeting today. A big one. The Anterdec team is coming to talk about our new phone tree customer interface, and Chloe asked me to sit in because of my involvement in the project. I freeze on the stairs, forcing the hordes of hurrying workers to dodge around me.