Page 1 of It's Complicated

1

LORI

The moment I flip through my mail and find an ivory wedding invitation, my heart cracks in my chest and my mind snaps back to a spring night of fourteen years ago when I could’ve stopped it all and didn’t.

My two best friends and I were at a home party, junior year of college at Urbana University. I can’t remember much about that night, whose house it was, what day, or even what I was wearing. But I do remember the drinking game we were playing: Never Have I Ever. At least Aiden and I and his then girlfriend were playing. Jace was somewhere probably being hit on by all the single women at the party.

I’d already taken quite a few shots. One for losing my virginity. One for breaking a bone in the fifth grade. One for googling myself—I know embarrassing. One for crashing a party—we were probably crashing that party as well. One for reading an entire book in a day—duh, how are there people who’ve never done that? And one for giving out a fake number—not cool, I know, but I’m not big on confrontations, even for something as small as telling a stranger I don’t want to give them my number, so I always choose the path of least anxiety.

I’d just downed the shot for the fake number, when it became Tracy Dillon’s turn to speak.

A textbook mean girl in our year, she locked eyes with me as she spoke, “Never have I ever…” she paused for suspense, studying me with a malicious glint. “…Been in love with my best friend!”

A dare.

And it must’ve been the six shots I already had in me that made me accept the challenge. Because next, I looked Aiden straight in the eyes, not even caring that his girlfriend was sitting right next to him, and downed the seventh shot of the night.

I drank.

He didn’t.

I don’t know why my mind flies back to that night of so many years ago as I trace a finger over the expensive cotton fiber paper of the envelope. Maybe because my subconscious knows better than I do that something could’ve changed that night. Or maybe it’s just the usual wishful thinking on my part. I can still remember the dumbstruck expression on Aiden’s face as I downed the shot. And the closed set of his jaws as he didn’t touch his. Or the way he frowned as strong arms hooked under my armpits and scooped me up from the floor. Next, I was in Jace’s arms, and he was carrying me away from the game.

“You’ve had enough to drink for tonight, Lola,” my other best friend said, using the nickname he always called me. “I’m taking you home.”

“But I was having fun,” I protested.

“Trust me, you’re going to thank me tomorrow.”

Too drunk to object, I waved at Aiden over Jace’s shoulder as we left whoever’s house we were at. I don’t remember how we got to my dorm. I probably fell asleep in Jace’s arms on the way. But the morning after is another one of those moments that will remain forever etched in my memory.

Aiden knocked on my door bright and early, looking all serious while he asked me if we could talk. That was my moment. I had broken the eggs the night before and I should’ve made the omelet that morning, aka confess to Aiden my undying love for him. Instead, I chickened out saying that if by talking, he meant he wanted to feed me pizza and one of his famous hangover-crushing smoothies I was game because, seriously, I’d never felt more under the weather and couldn’t remember a thing from the previous night. Had the party been any good?

Gosh, how I hated myself at the relieved expression on his face.

Crisis averted, I guess. No one had to deal with silly old Lori’s unrequited crush and unwanted feelings. We could all go back to being The Three Amigos, a trio where I was considered a sort of asexual being—not exactly a man like the other two, but also not someone either of them would ever date. In all the years we’ve known each other, neither Jace nor Aiden ever went for anything more risqué than a hug with me. No matter if I was in sweats watching a movie, or out clubbing in a miniskirt, or even sharing a bed with one of them on a trip. Nothing ever happened. I was friend-zoned from day one.

Now, crushed under the weight of the posh envelope, I lean against the front door for support—I sure didn’t expect such a bomb to come out of my mailbox when I got home after a long day at work.

I shouldn’t feel so blindsided, but I do. It’s too soon to send out wedding invitations. Aiden proposed to Kirsten only a few months ago. And even if I saw the ring, the engagement posts plastered all over Instagram, and have been to the engagement party, a small part of me still hoped he wouldn’t actually marry Kirsten.

I’m an idiot.

Of course, Aiden would marry Kirsten. She’s the ideal woman—beautiful, posh, funny, with her head on her shoulders, and from a good family. She has everything.

But me? I’m a hot mess. I can’t keep a boyfriend for more than a few months—being secretly in love with your best friend will derail most relationships right from the start. And my hobbies are spilling all over the place—none of them are suitable for a wife.

As new cracks spread down my heart, I want to rip the letter into a million pieces. Instead, I let it fall to the floor, holding on to the walls for support as I head for the safety of the couch. To reach the living room, I have to meander through the piles of old novels littering my apartment—inconvenient hobby number one: I rescue books from destruction.

Why do certain books need rescuing? Because when sales of a novel slow and not even a prolonged sojourn in the bargain cart can make copies shift, the unfortunate volumes are returned to the printing facility and destroyed through a process called “pulping.”

I shudder, thinking of the piles of books stripped of their covers and munched into the recycling machines. I can’t stand to fold a book’s page and do my best never to crack the spine while reading, so witnessing the book pulping process scarred me for eternity.

How did I get into this hobby? The manager at one of these printing facilities is a patient of mine—I’m a family doctor, the only accomplishment of my life—and he lets me save some of the volumes destined for the paper grinder. The liberated novels then move in with me and litter my floor until I manage to resell them online or at garage sales. Some I donate to little free libraries. But most just keep on not selling and end up camping in my apartment for a very,verylong time.

I dodge another leaning tower of neglected dystopian novels and make it to the open space living room. Four cats await me sprawled on the couch—inconvenient hobby number two: I also rescue animals. The addiction started with cats and expanded to chickens when I moved into my industrial loft that has a cozy backyard. I’ve always been a cat person, but the extension to chicks came after I saw a traumatizing documentary on chicken factories, which also converted me to being a vegetarian.

Unlike books, I have to set strict limits on the pet population I’m allowed to keep. At any given time, I can’t house more than four cats and six chickens.

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