Page 3 of Winging It with You

Mick isn’t a man of many words; I like that about him. “The Epic Trek.You know, the show where you trav—”

“I know the show,” he says, cutting me off. Mick leans back against the bar, crossing his arms. “But did you have to say yes?”

He’s got me there. “I thought that’s what a good partner does—agrees to things they don’t want to do. Even if that means spending the last four months training for an intense global travel competition that would pull me away from my friends and my career.”

“I don’t see the problem here. Your man wants you to travel the world together and have a chance to win some money. Could be worse,” he says. “Do you need anything else? I have other customers.”

Perfect. Another man just itching to get away from me.

“I’m all set,” I say, reaching for my glass of water and feeling just how pathetic this all is. “What am I doing here?” I groan, dropping my head into my hands, rubbing the ache growing behind my temples. The airport bar is buzzing with excited travelers. Families and couples and passengers flying solo like me. I thought about calling my parents, but each time my finger hovered over our family’s home number, I set my phone down. We don’t havethattype of relationship—the one where some version of a panicked phone call from their oldest son would be met with anything but a laundry list of questions and anI told you sotone.

That’s not to say we have a bad relationship. I love my family and I know they love me. Unconditionally. But my mother would make that painedtsking sound when I told her about Clint and me. And my father? Well, he’d go down some rabbit hole about things likefollow-throughandintegrity—two of Edward Bennett’s unwavering measurements of good character—and if he loses faith in your ability to adhere to those ideals, you’re screwed. And right now, neither of those things would be entirely helpful.

I’ve always been the reliable one. The one they didn’t have to worry over when it came to life decisions. They’d had their reservations when Clint and I told them about the reality competition, but when I laid out my plan, accounting for every penny of the prize money and how I intended to use it to start a science, technology, engineering, and mathematics program for LGBTQIA+ students, those reservations quickly faded, because in their eyes, the son who never caused them any stress had a plan.

Asher Bennett always has a plan.

Except for today, dumped and teetering toward tipsy in an airport bar with only a few hours to figure out my next move.

What am I going to do?

For the first time in my life, I don’t have a solid grasp on which direction to move. Since Clint’s confession, I think I’ve been operating solely on rage and adrenaline—and mimosas—but now? Emotions like humiliation and confusion and a deep sense of regret wash over me. I cycle through the last couple of months, searching for some sort of sign that this was coming, some indication that Clint wanted out, and come up blank. We’d been happy. Happy enough to still plan for a future we’d both wanted. Or so I thought. Which is why I believe his choice to end our relationship wasn’t something he’d just decided to do on a whim. Knowing him, it was probably something he’d been silently stewing on for quite some time. Waiting for the perfect opportunity to rip the rug out from under me.

The idea of it being premeditated hurts even more.

Perhaps I was too professionally driven? Maybe I wasn’t driven enough? Did I say no to too many threesomes? Or yes too many times?

I really need to know where we stand on threesomes.

Was allthis—the breakup, the last few years of my life, the fact that I stupidly agreed to go on this show to begin with—payback or some sort of cosmic karma?

And speaking of the show. Could I…still go?

The whole not-having-a-partner thing really screws me here. But what if I could find a replacement? The rational part of my brain is holding up a cardboard sign that readsDumbtriple underlined as my relationship with Clint rushes through my mind. Years of putting my hopes and dreams on the backburner so he could shine. Years of saying no to myself so I could say yes to him.

Years of allowing someone else to dictate whether it was my turn.

I think about what this money could do. How many students in my own community could benefit from the Own Voices in STEM program I’ve been silently dreaming about for years if by some miracle I walked away with the prize money. Despite the odds being heavily stacked against me, I know with certainty I have to try.

After all, what kind of Bennett man would I be if I didn’t have “follow-through”? I finish my drink, allowing myself just another moment or two of self-pity before I figure out what comes next. I scroll through my phone, looking for someone I could call to be a last-minute partner on the show.

A lifeline in my moment of need.

My brother is the first person to come to mind. But I’d never ask him to miss classes, and anyway, competing together would result in one of us killing the other. Outside our last names, we have literally nothing in common.

There’s my colleague, Simon. He’s mentioned on more than one occasion that he’s completed several marathons over the years, so I suspect the physicality of the challenges wouldn’t be an issue for him. As my thumb hovers over his contact, though, dread coursing through my veins, I remember he’s just a few weeks, if not days, away from getting married. I doubt his future bride would be okay with loaning me her groom-to-be for a high-stakes international travel competition.

A knot of frustration coils tightly between my shoulder blades as I realize just how unfair of me it is to even think about asking someone to drop their own responsibilities tohelp me out like this. Another Edward Bennett–ism comes to the center of my mind.

A lack of planning on your part doesn’t constitute an emergency on mine, he’d always say, and honestly? Fair.

I set my phone on the counter face down, resisting the urge to chuck it clear across the bar, entirely overwhelmed by just how hard it is to think of someone, anyone, I could ask—even if I were to be that selfish.

Holy shit. Do I not have any friends?

It shouldn’t be this hard to think of a single friend who’smine. Not Clint’s friend. Not a colleague. Not an acquaintance. An honest-to-goodness, call-you-up-way-too-late-to-vent-about-boys-or-work-or-both, always-down-for-margaritas-on-any-day-that-ends-in-day, ride-or-diefriend.

The realization sucker punches me right in the throat, sending a wave of pitiful regret straight to my bones.

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