Page 28 of Runaway Bride's Guide to Love

“What? I was simply asking if there’s a woman in my brother’s life?”

Don’t think about Tiger…Don’t think about Tiger.

“And, just like the last time you asked, the answer is no.”

And the time before. And the time before that.

“Unacceptable. I command you to go to Florida and meet someone. Have a fling. A vacation romance. Something.”

“I don’t fling.”

“You should.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because…” She pauses before continuing. “You don’t date. At least, that I know of. I’m sure there are…women…you meet when…things need done.”

I cringe. “Please don’t talk about my sex life.”

“Do you have one? I’m not being sarcastic. I truly don’t know. And if you do, that’s great. Because you don’t date. I’ve never seen you with a woman. Aren’t you lonely, Emmett? I know Rhonda didn’t give us the best example of a healthy relationship, but you do know that being with someone doesn’t make you her, right?”

I know this. The rational part of my brain knows that just because she birthed me, doesn’t mean I’m like her.

My true worry is that I’m like him. The parent I don’t know.

So I made the decision a long time ago not to experiment with “which parent am I” and have opted to stay single.

Honestly, it’s worked out well so far. I get what I need when I need it. The Nashville bar scene usually leaves plenty to choose from when I need to scratch the itch. And even better, I can usually sneak out before the sun comes up.

No long term. No leaving. Nice, clean, and easy. Just how I like it.

“I know,” I say. “Please don’t worry about me.”

“I am and I will,” she says. “It’s not healthy to be that alone.”

“I’m not alone,” I protest. “I have Winnie.”

“Your dog doesn’t count.”

“Quiet!” I scold mockingly. “She’ll hear you.”

“She’s too distracted by Jack. And I’m getting her a pup cup. She’s on my side now.”

“Even getting my own dog to turn against me,” I groan as I pass the signs that say I’m entering Florida. “Are you done with the brother bashing?”

“For now,” she says. “But please, I know you’re there for work, but try and have a little fun. You’re in Florida. Maybe see a beach. A night club.”

“I’m too old for night clubs. And I hate beaches.”

“Not in Florida you aren’t,” she says. “And who hates beaches?”

“I’m hanging up now.”

“Love you, big brother!”

I sigh. “Love you too.”

As I head to a rest stop to fill up on gas and grab something to drink, I try to picture myself at a nightclub. It’s laughable. I didn’t even like going to dance clubs in college, when I was admittedly more fun than I am now. My idea of a night out starts at a reasonable time—no later than seven—and it’s at a bar witha reasonable volume for music, a few beers, and a game to watch on the television.

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