Page 2 of Fan Favorite

“I’m thirty-five!” she said, throwing her shoulders back to present herself at her best angle.

“Yeah.” Dave grimaced. “There’s no way to say this without looking like a dick. I’m looking for someone more like twenty-eight.”

Edie shoved Dave’s profile in his face. “You’re thirty-nine!”

Dave shrugged again. “Look, twenty-eight’s the sweet spot—not young enough to be ridiculous, not old enough to be neurotic.” When Edie looked like she might cry, Dave’s voice took on a soothing tone, and he started to rub her arm encouragingly. “I’m sorry, you’re great, but I’m about to turn forty, ya know? I gotta think about getting married. I don’t want to be one of those dadswho’s too old to coach Little League ’cause his shoulder or knee is blown out or whatever. I can’t waste time on relationships that aren’t going anywhere.”

“But I want to get married!” Edie exclaimed. “I want all of this!” But as she gestured at Dave’s “all of this,” for a second Edie wasn’t so sure. Did she really want Dave Last-Name-Unknown’s framed Wrigley Field “art” on her living room wall? Was she even capable of smiling-smiling-smiling through dinner while Dave lectured her about the comedic superiority ofThe Good Place? Could she spend the rest of her life listening toUnder the Table and Dreaming,or tolerate being finger-banged like it was a search for lost change? Or had Edie Pepper finally—finally—become too old, too tired, too brokenhearted to give a shit?

“Hey, look, you’re dope. You’re gonna meet someone great.” Dave smiled the smile of a really chill dude. “Sorry about the miscommunication. For real. And I’ll still go down on you. Or you could blow me. Honestly, it’s cool. I’m down for whatever.”

“You,Daayyvvve—” Edie said, drawing out each smarmy syllable of his dumb, stupid name while gathering her shit from around the apartment: coat on the couch, purse on the recliner, kitten heel under the table. She clambered beneath it on her hands and knees and reached for the shoe. “—do notdeservemyorgasm.” She jabbed the shoe at him emphatically before accidentally banging her head on the table. “Fuck me!”

“Literally just offered to.” He winked.

“Aargh!” Edie screamed as the heel of her pink Jessica Simpson pump—the one that had been worn so many times a nail stuck out of the stiletto—struck Dave Last-Name-Unknown right in the middle of his forehead.

Bullseye.

2

Edie got into an Uber bound for the too-big, too-expensive apartment in Roscoe Village she was supposed to be sharing with her ex-boyfriend, Brian, and his two-year-old son, Cayden (every other weekend, alternating holidays, and for six weeks in summer), desperately brooding over this latest dating debacle. Fucking Dave Last-Name-Unknown! Why were men like this? Sure, yes, Edie scrolled past articles about patriarchy and misogyny and emotional labor and the mental load on social media every single day, but sociological research didn’t interest her like the smiling photos of couples and babies and couples and dogs and couples at birthday parties and on New Year’s Eve. She refused to believe that a loving, fulfilling relationship between a man and a woman was impossible. What about George and Amal? Tom and Rita? Barack and Michelle? Harry and Meghan! But keeping hope alive amid all this die-alone energy was getting harder and harder. Edie was at the end of the line, and there were only two options: psychotic optimism or total spinsterhood.

“Hey, girl, hey,” Daryl R. said from the front seat of the Kia as they pulled away from the curb and headed north. He popped his chin at her. “Where you goin’ lookin’ so fine?”

“Sir,” Edie said with her talk-to-the-manager-hand in the air. “No, thank you. I’ve had enough for one night.”

Edie put in her earbuds and sighed as she collapsed against the back seat. Perhaps being a spinster wouldn’t be so terrible. Wasn’t it true that no one added stupid shows likeMythBustersto her Netflix watchlist, forever tainting her algorithm? And couldn’t she come home after work and throw her bra on the living room floor and watch all her reality shows with one or two or three glasses of wine without anyone criticizing her choices? And couldn’t Edie order plain cheese pizza and not defend it to anyone or have to compromise and order half mushrooms or onions or olives that never stayed on their half and always contaminated her side? And didn’t she sleep until seven thirty on weekdays while all her coworkers got up at like five a.m. to deal with their children and commutes from the suburbs? And couldn’t she do absolutely whatever she wanted in her very own bathroom, including, but not limited to, staring at her pores in a magnifying mirror or periodically shaving her asshole? And with nothing tying her down like a husband or children, couldn’t she drop everything at a moment’s notice and go on an adventure? Sure, she’d never done that, but the point was, shecoulddo that. Maybe she’d spend Christmas riding elephants in Thailand. The world was her oyster.

Edie poked at her phone until the soothing voice of Oprah filled her ears. “I’m Oprah Winfrey. Welcome toSuper Soul Conversations, the podcast. I believe that one of the most valuable gifts you can give yourself istime. Taking time to be more fully present. Your journey to become more inspired and connected to the deeper world around us starts right now.”

But who wants to go to Thailandalone?

Edie opened Bumble and started swiping. What waswrongwith her? Bad dates, bad boyfriends, bad choice after bad choice—until here she was, buzzed in the back of an Uber at 9:13 p.m. on a Tuesday, reckoning with the fact that if something didn’t change soon, she was absolutely going to die alone, most likely crushed to death by her bookshelf while reaching for a tattered copy ofLittle Women. She’d be found weeks later, nibbled to the bone by cats. Because surely by then she’d have multiple cats. Left, left, right, left, right, right, left she swiped. Guys who “just wanted to fuck.” Guys in “consensual non-monogamous” relationships. Guys looking for someone “spontaneous” to travel and run with, #fitlife #vegan. Guys in cars. Guys lounging against cars. Guys holding fish. Guys holding a woman’s hand, the rest of her body amputated out of the photo. Guys pulling down the waistband of their jeans to present the top of their pubes. It was exhausting. But she was thirty-five years old, and as Dave had just reminded her, there was literally no time to waste. Suddenly Edie wondered if a thirty-five-year-old woman who’d had the kind of one-night stands she’d had—where a man spooged in her hair with complete disregard for her wash cycle, or who’d penetrated her anally with his thumb after buying her a single Coors Light at a street festival—could even wear a white dress down the aisle. Everything was starting to feeltoo late too late too late, and the more Edie felt her dreams slipping away, the more frantic she became.

She needed more wine.

“Learn from every mistake,” Oprah said as Edie trudged up the steps to her apartment, “because every experience, particularly your mistakes, are there to teach you and force you into being more of who you are.”

Edie paused and stared at her front door. This apartment had been a real fucking mistake. “If you’re still breathing, you have a second chance,” encouraged Oprah. Edie sighed andunlocked the door, opening it directly into a tower of unpacked moving boxes. She slid inside through a crack. The apartment was like a storage facility, crammed with boxes and bags and unplaced furniture, all of which Edie had fastidiously ignored since the movers dropped them off a month ago. Edie threw her purse on the floor and stripped off her date-night clothes, leaving them in a puddle. She plucked a T-shirt withBRUNCH SO HARDprinted across the chest from the couch, put it on, and made her way to the kitchen.

“Hey, Nacho,” she said to her cat Nacho Bell Grande, who was meowing and circling. She dumped food into his bowl and all over the floor.

Edie returned to the living room with her favoriteCLASS OF ’03mug filled to the brim with boxed rosé. She made her way to the brand-new couch that she and Brian had ordered at IKEA on a blissful day in spring when they were drunk on the thirtysomething’s aphrodisiac—Swedish meatballs and plans for the future. He’d held her hand and discussed plates and bowls like they mattered. He’d pinched her butt with a pair of salad tongs. And when they’d reached the display of sleek Swedish bathrooms, he’d unbuckled his belt and pretended to use the fake toilet, which was dumb—so dumb!—but had made her laugh anyway because Brian had this way of making dad jokes seem sweet and original. And when she pulled him away, laughing, he took her in his arms, right there in the middle of the aisle, with all the people rushing to make their own fresh starts swirling around them, and he’d buried his face in her hair and whispered he loved her.

But who wanted to think about that now? Edie threw herself onto the couch and turned onE!. Was it too much to want to love and be loved in return? To have someone to go to dinner with? Someone who’d have to text her back becausevows? She gulped some wine and ruminated over what miracle of science had produced Kim, Khloé, and Kylie’s respective asses as they appearedon-screen. Sure, of course Edie wanted an impossibly tiny waist. Of course she wanted to look like she’d shoved balloons down her bra and up her shorts, even if it did seem to make simple locomotion a challenge. But how could she be expected to diet or exercise or get plastic surgery when she had a broken heart?

Edie opened her phone and stared at the last message Brian had sent her:I think Rachel and I are getting back together :/

Edie’s entire life decided by some rudimentary sad face emoji. Like clockwork, the rush of memories flooded Edie’s brain, hot and shameful. There she was at her office, six weeks ago, the fabric of her desk chair itchy under her thighs because it was a Thursday and she’d dressed up for the team meeting. The overwhelming floral scent of Barb’s perfume when Edie burst into the bathroom. The sweat that had engulfed her entire body as she stared at her phone, at that little colon and slash, wondering what the fuck was happening.We are moving in together. We’ve just signed the lease.The ensuing phone call, which he’d waited until the very last ring to pick up, Edie whisper-yelling in the tiny stall. He was sorry, but this was what was best for Cayden. It justhappened. Brian had loved his time with Edie. Edie was great. But, you know, Brianhad a family.

Now Edie felt the tears coming in hot, so she turned her attention back to the TV, and that’s when, out of nowhere, the answer to all her questions—to where her life was truly headed—appeared.

Because right there on Edie’s TV was her One True Love.

But then the connection dropped, the television went black, and Edie was left rubbing her eyes, wondering if she’d passed out and entered some peculiar dream. But then the screen flickered and he appeared again, inexplicably wearing aFREE TIBETT-shirt. He was standing next to, of all people,Ryan Seacrest. Edie sat up quickly, and the coffee mug of rosé she’d been balancing on her stomach plunged to the floor.

“Hey, guys, I’m Ryan Seacrest and this isE! News Now. The hunt for love is on as twenty of America’s most eligible bachelorettes descend upon Los Angeles to meet Bennett Charles—”

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