Free Never the Bride by Rene Gutteridge

definition of hopeless when it comes to romantic.”
    “It’s funny.” I sigh. “You’re independent and always have a guy. I’m codependent and can’t find an eligible man to save my life.” I lean into my chair and stare at my cuticles. “Brooklyn, do you remember when I was nine? I don’t know, maybe you were too young to remember what happened.”
    “I was one, but I figured it out later,” Brooklyn said.
    “You did?”
    “I knew something was wrong when I was playing tea with my dolls and Mom totally freaked out on me. I was just doing voices for all the girls, and she’s asking me if I’m seeing people.”
    I laugh. “I had no idea that happened.”
    Brooklyn stands and moves to the kitchen. She puts the kettle on. “Well, Mom was very diplomatic about the whole thing, I guess. She told me you had a ‘sunny’ imagination but that sometimes it went a little too far and that if I started having more than dolls show up at my tea parties, I should talk to her about it.”
    “Wow.” I join her in the kitchen, pulling up a bar stool to the breakfast bar. I open the St. John’s wort bottle. “Well, it wasn’t a good experience. It was the first time in my life that I started feeling like I was different.”
    “Different is good, Jess.”
    “Except in speed dating.” I dump a couple of pills in my hand.
    “You didn’t.” She hands me a glass of water.
    “I did. It was awful.” I throw my head back and down the pills. “And now look at me. I’ve become a pill popper.”
    “Jess, you’re not a pill popper.”
    “I am! You can pill pop herbs too.”
    “Pill poppers don’t stop to determine if there will be drug interactions.”
    “I just thought…” I set down the pills. How do I explain that I’m hoping an herb will keep God away from my purple pen?
    “So you okay?” Brooklyn asks as she retrieves two tea mugs. “I hear women mostly have nervous breakdowns in their thirties.” All right, that was as deep as she is capable of going. Sometimes you just have to accept people for who they are.
    “I’m fine.” I smile and nod.
    “Good. Can you fix the tea? I have to get back to bed and meditate.” She’s about to leave the room, and then she turns back and smiles. “The good news is that I should sleep good. Gary used to suffocate me in bed, you know? Arms around me, feet next to mine. Now I have the entire bed to myself!”
    And off she goes, bounding up the stairs to freedom. I wait for the kettle to whistle, make two cups of Sleepytime tea, and head upstairs. I deliver the tea to Brooklyn, but she’s fallen asleep in her yoga position, except she’s now face forward into her comforter, where she’s snoring. I take my bottle of pills to the bathroom. At this point, I decide, an herb is not going to help my delusions. I’m beyond help, I think.
    I sit on the edge of my bed, my tea in hand. The sheets are cold. The room feels empty, and not in a clean, organizational sort of way. Just a few hours ago a man was here, and as weird as it was, it was at least another warm body. But now I’m alone again. I force myself tofinish my tea. Then I fold back the comforter, turn off the light, kick off my slippers, and slide under the sheets.
    The darkness is suffocating.
    Nicole has come with me to get coffee, desperate for caffeine. One of her kids had croup overnight, and she’s talking about how she had to hold him in front of the freezer for twenty minutes. Frankly, compared to my evening, it’s just a little boring, but I listen anyway. Or try to. I’m very distracted because as we approach Starbucks, I realize the man I saw earlier this week, staring at me by the wall of mugs, was the man in my bedroom last night. It jolts me to a stop. Nicole turns around.
    “You okay?
    “Yes, sorry.” I start walking again, keeping a wide eye open for him.
    I order for Mr. Coston and then glance up at the menu. “I’ll have whatever drink you have that has espresso but doesn’t taste at