Page 11 of Minted

I’ve known Bentley for fifteen years now, give or take, and I’ve seen him date a lot of women. One thing I’ve never seen is Bentley dating a large woman. I doubt he’s even dated a size eight.

I’m a solid twelve.

Okay, fine, sometimes I’m a fourteen.

But it’s not like I care about the number. Or that Bentley could never be with a woman my size. It’s not like I thought I was really going to date him. I just thought he’d be a safe person to impose on as a meat-shield.

Until he made me feel like an idiot for giving Killian a gift card.

It’s not like the teenagers at Seren’s need anything, and I haven’t had time to go shopping for the perfect gift. I shouldn’t feel bad about giving him what I did.

Or maybe I’m not being honest with myself.

In that moment, when Bentley was lunging for me, smiling, and teasing me. . .it felt almost like he was flirting. I felt special, and I haven’t felt that way in a long time.

But all he wanted was to open my gift, so I was the idiot for thinking he was flirting.

And his utter shock when he saw what I got?

I doubt I’d have been so upset about it if I hadn’t had my hopes up for some reason. Which is stupid. I know he dates supermodels—he’s stupid rich. He’s smart. He looks like Liam Hemsworth. He’s probably the prettiest guy in most rooms, even now, even a little older, at least, when Dave’s not around.

There was no world in which I’d ever date Bentley, and I’ve always known that. So if I really was upset because I had stupidly been hoping he might, I don’t know, turn around after fifteen years and suddenly express an interest in me? Shame on me for being an idiot.

My pet peeve is when girls write love letters to men who have been in their lives forever, confessing their feelings. They always seem to think the guy is going to magically wake up and be like, “Whoa! I never noticed you there, but now that you’ve said you like me, shazam! I find you irresistible!” It’s nuts. There’s no guy in America who has just been overlooking the girl who’s standing right at his side.

I’m not delusional. If Bentley liked me at all, he’d have found some time in the past fifteen years to express his interest.

I do what any somewhat mopey, recent divorcee would do when her hopes flew high for no reason, but were painfully dashed. I change into pajamas and hop into bed with a bowl of ice cream and a slice of chocolate cake. The better part of an episode of Emily in Paris, and I’m feeling a little better.

The cake didn’t hurt.

But then my phone buzzes.

I whip it off the nightstand, and it’s a text from Bentley. As if I didn’t already know he was an unattainable unicorn, he actually apologizes for. . .what? Looking underwhelmed by my gift card? Openly acknowledging the silent battle he and I have had over the past decade and a half, in which I usually make each kid something special that’s not very expensive, while he shamelessly tries to buy their love?

YOU’RE A GREAT AUNT. I’M SORRY FOR SNATCHING THE GIFT AND MAKING YOU FEEL BAD, IF I DID. YOUR GIFT WAS GREAT.

I never got upset about any of that before. It was kind of our thing.

But this time, he saw that he hurt my feelings, and he sent me an actual apology, with proper punctuation and everything. I slump down against the pillows. Even watching the rest of the episode in which poor Emily makes stupid decisions while inspired by a hot chef, I can’t quite seem to get out of my funk. There might not be enough cake in the container Seren packed for me.

Normally, I’d call my mom in a situation like this.

And I know I’m not the only person in the world who has lost a parent. I’m not. I know that. I’m not even the only person who has lost both parents. But it feels like I’ve lost two legs on the stool of my life or something, and I’m not sure there’s a way for me to get them back.

Eventually, I do force myself out of bed to brush my teeth and start the dishwasher, and that’s when I see it.

A notification from stupid eHarmony—I haven’t logged in for at least a month, but it’s always sending me little teasers that I ignore. Only, this one is weird. Given my bizarre thoughts tonight, it’s really weird.

“You’ve been Matched!” That’s hardly surprising. The only being on earth excited about my social life is eHarmony. No, the surprise is the name it’s listing as my match.

Bentley Harrison.

I mean, it’s not a common name. How many Bentley Harrisons can there really be? In a million years, my friend Bentley would never ever ever get on a dating app. I’ve heard him talk about them and the people who use them.

I know this beyond a shadow of a doubt.

And yet.

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