Page 7 of Fixing Up My Love Life

“It’s only Tuesday.” She groans, slinking down the hall like a disgruntled raccoon.

I grab a change of clothes, duck into the bathroom, and crank on the shower.

But as the water warms, his face comes back—grinning at me from Rome, then India, then the Great Wall of China. Living his best life, without me.

Something about that burns.

I don’t even have time to shampoo my hair or shave my legs. It’s a miracle I made it into the shower at all.

Curse that stupid dating app.

And curse Jackson Sanders.

And his world tour of closure.

“Jackson means nothing to me,” I tell the mirror.

If I say this enough times, maybe I’ll believe it.

After the school drop-offs and Ellen’s daycare handoff, I swing by Twin Waves Brewing Co. for my morning muffin and coffee. Michelle’s already behind the pastry case, her signature blonde ponytail bouncing like she’s in a shampoo commercial.

“Hey, girl,” she calls.

“Hey yourself.” I eye the blueberry muffin like it holds the meaning of life.

I consider telling her about the app, about him, but instead, I talk spring inventory for the boutique, grab my order, and get out of there before I blurt something dramatic.

Mads is already at the shop, counting the till in the back office.

I point at her. “You’re in big trouble.”

She smirks. “You just made me lose count. Again.”

“You can count later. We need to talk.”

She crosses her arms, trying not to grin. “The dating app? You’re welcome.”

“Did you swipe on every single man within a fifty-mile radius? I woke up to twenty matches!”

Mads grins. “Nice.” She plops onto the stool beside me. “So how many of them are you messaging?”

I scroll through the app. “None.”

She snatches the phone. “Come on! There has to be someone. Who’s this guy? I don’t remember swiping on him. And he already messaged you?”

She holds the screen up—and there he is.

Jack. Smiling. Tanned. Like heartbreak never touched him.

“Ugh. Don’t remind me,” I mutter, diving into my paperwork mountain.

“Wait a second,” Mads says, eyes narrowing. “Didn’t you date a Jackson in high school?”

I snatch the phone back before she Sherlocks the whole thing. “I’m not talking to him. End of story.”

“Seriously?” she says. “You always said he was your first biglove. This could be fate!”

“I forgave him years ago.” I say it calmly, like I mean it.

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