Page 1 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

1

THE LAST SINGLE GIRL STANDING

ARIANA

The first time Will proposed, I said no.

It was the right no. A no we should never have documented. But Instagram never forgets.

The memory pops up on my cell screen like a sucker punch to the gut.

Look. There we are.

Twenty years ago. Fresh-faced. Naive. Twenty-two.

Him down on one knee, holding a ring he bought with his first internship paycheck. The grainy flip-phone photo screams early 2000s, back when we were young, stupid, and in love. And I was stupid enough to believe that was enough. So, the second time he proposed, last year, I said yes.

My thumb hovers over the delete button on the photo. Again.

I should remove it, just like I removed every other picture of us after discovering my ex-college roommate’s infinitely more risqué ones.

The ones of her and my fiancé.

Couples’ yoga in Bali. Sipping wine in Tuscany. Making heart hands in front of the Eiffel Tower.

All on days he was supposedly at PR conferences.

All on days I was handling our life together—alone.

“That’s it.” My older sister Kat’s voice cuts through my spiral. “No more.”

In a Vegas hotel room, sounds tend to echo, and hers does, reaching me under the bulky white duvets. Burrowing deeper into the thousand-thread-count sheets I’ve been marinating in for two days, I roll over. “Leave me alone, Kat.”

“I have,” she says, her voice getting closer. “For two days. Two days I’ve let you sleep.”

“It’s my bachelorette weekend. I can do what I want.”

“Which,” I hear her cleaning up the room service carnage, “is why Lily and I let you rot in bed. But technically, this isn’t your bachelorette weekend. We canceled that a month ago. This is ‘Fuck Will Drake’ weekend, and you’re ruining it.”

My phone buzzes with another notification.

Probably one of my clients. Some Washington Hill politician trying to dodge a sex scandal. Or another A-list celebrity trying to scrub paparazzi shots of her leaving a vaginal steaming session.

I start to reach for the phone, but Kat snags it first.

“Hey!” I kick the covers.

“Don’t ‘hey’ me.” She tucks the phone out of reach. “The world won’t implode if you take one night off from being Wonder Woman.”

“Bold of you to assume I’m wearing the costume under this ratty shirt.”

“At least she still has her sense of humor,” my younger sister, Lily, calls from across the room. Her long caramel-brown curtains around her face as she sprawls by the window, painting her nails some shade of nuclear pink. “Though I votewe find Jenny Whatever-Her-Name-Is and see how funny she thinks my right hook is.”

“Lily,” Kat warns.

“What? There are worse things than assault charges when family’s involved.”

“No one’s assaulting anyone,” I manage, though the offer warms something in my chest. “I’m a professional. An adult. Therefore, I plan to handle this like one.”

---