Page 5 of Aim for Love

“We’re your friends, we’re always going to want better things for you,” Sophie says, a weird turn of phrase that makes me suspect they’ve been having conversations behind my back where they pass judgment on my life. I have friends with less accomplished lives—friends who live for long Sunday brunches and cheap finds in the latest clothing trend—and they’ve neverpushed me to look for “better.” What’s better than a bottomless mimosa?

OK, mimosas are actually the worst. All that sugar gives me an instant hangover. And I constantly have to deal with the nail-biting terror that is parallel parking when I go out to restaurants in the city.

Still, I go to brunch with my friends and try to ignore the painful boringness of my life; why can’t Sophie and Nora? Maybe their livesaren’tboring. Maybe I’m the only one.

Maybe we need more alcohol.I scan the bar for our waitress.

“Starting tomorrow, you should make a resolution to try every new thing you can while we’re here,” Nora announces, with the finality of a decision made for me. “By the end of the week, I bet you’ll have found your thing. Or your thing can betrying new things! Maybe that’s it!”

I blink at my friend. “Trying new things is not my thing. I hate trying new things.”

“Doyou?” Nora asks, like it’s a serious question. “Are yousure?”

“Yeah, Mollie, how often have you tried new things?” Sophie chimes in. “It might be better than you expect. Especially with that hot guide there toinstructyou.” She and Nora exchange grins.

“You guys,” I say, because despite my sweaty palms, I need to stop this disaster before it happens. “Hunter was just being nice while doing his job. Let’s stop objectifying him.”

“You’re so sweet, Mollie,” Nora sighs. “Always seeing the best in people while missing the opportunity they represent. Maybethat’syour thing. Hunter probablyisa nice guy. That’s why we want you to sleep with him. He won’t screw you and then pretend not to know you the rest of the week.”

“I mean, he could still be like that,” Sophie warns. “It’s hard to tell with guys.”

“Well, start with kissing, then,” Nora replies, with surreal logic. “We’ll work up to trusting him with plowing Mollie all night long.”

“Shhh!” The tips of my ears are burning as I dart my gaze around the bar to see if anyone’s listening. What if Hunter werehere—not outside the realm of possibility, in a community this small—and heard that?

“Good idea, or they could wait until the night before we fly out and that way he won’t get a chance to be a douchebag afterward,” Sophie says. “Even if he wants to.”

“Smart,” Nora nods.

They both laugh at me for cowering into the smallest size I can on my side of the table.

“Mollie. You need to be fucked so bad,” Sophie says. “How long has it been?”

“Oh my god,” I say. “I don’t keep track.” That’s a lie, of course.

“That’s a lie,” Nora says. “Every woman keeps track. I bet the time you’re thinking of isn’t even the last person you slept with. Getting fucked is different from having sex.”

Whimpering, I put my head down on the table. The thing about Nora is, she’s almost never wrong. The last time I “got fucked” was a disaster—he left after and unmatched me on the dating app—andit was the best sex I’d ever had. It was a year ago. I’d slept with guys since, but none were as memorable. Once, I’d been so drunk I cried, and he told me I should talk to a therapist while putting on his pants.

“I don’t want to have a one-night-stand,” I tell my friends. “They make me feel like shit.”

“Well, it’s important to know your boundaries,” Nora agrees. I knew that would get her. Nora can’t resist therapy-talk.

“Maybe only the make-out session, then,” Sophie concedes. “You know we’re not going to leave you alone until you agree to try something new. Something you wouldn’t do back home.”

And then they start discussing strategies to get me alone with Hunter over the next week we’re here. Maybe we can invite him out for drinks (Sophie’s idea) or lock the two of us in the equipment shed together (Nora’s idea, assuming there is an equipment shed somewhere since we haven’t seen the adventure center yet).

Poor Hunter, probably the inspiration behind many a city girl’s plots to “have an adventure.” How could he not be? The combination of that man bun with the glasses is like a nerdy He-Man. A gal desperately wants to take the glasses off and comb her hands through his blond hair. Or maybe I’ve had too much to drink that I’m imagining that, shifting against the crease in my jeans in the middle of a crowded public bar.

Another beer in, I find myself agreeing to their wild plots. I want them to stop trying toconvinceme. Yes, I need to get fucked, I find myself agreeing. Yes, Hunter is hot. Therefore, yes, I should get fucked by Hunter. Logic!

It’s fine. I can bail on this plan later.

It’s not like Hunter would be interested in me, anyway. He must have his pick of women—both local and out-of-towners. He’s not at home thinking about me.

As though I splashed cold water down my front, I suddenly pull up short. My friends got me carried away with this fantasy, even though Hunter is a real person and not a tour we can sign up for. The “get fucked” tour. It’s not like me to get lost in my thoughts to this extent, mixing up reality and what will never be.

What if Nora and Sophie are so determined to make it happen, they don’t let go of this plan even when we sober up?

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