Page 2 of So Wrong It's Right

“And maybe someone whose IQ is larger than his shoe size.”

My track record with men isn’t great. Actually, it’s awful. I tend to skip over the cerebral types in favor of eye candy with personality issues. And sometimes I like the big dumb ones. And the one time, a biker. In my defense,Sons of Anarchywas really popular.

I don’t date for conversation—that’s what my friends and family are for. It’s a problem that I understand when I’m not in the presence of a hottie. But when they are around, I usually fail to see the problem. I only see their pecs. And their forearms. And their quads. If my libido is in charge, I like them big and stupid. I’ve been told it’s because I have commitment issues, so I’m attracted to men I would never be able to really care about.

So I tried commitment last year and it was a disaster. He ended up being the definition of toxic masculinity. Unfortunately, Devon still has a lot of people in Brazen Bay fooled. Including my sister. It doesn’t matter anyway because now I’m on a self-imposed break from all men.

Including bikers. And personal trainers. And hot pizza guys.

All of them.

“Hey, Megan. I need to get back to work. Can we talk about this later? I’ll call you tonight and you can tell me all the things that are wrong with my breasts and my taste in men then, okay?”

Because the conversation is going to happen whether I want it to or not, but I can at least show up armed. Wine and fuzzy slippers are the preferred armor when it comes to Megan, but even just being home would be an improvement.

I let my attention drift back to my monitor. According to the website, Dr. Rivers, one of Dr. Anderson’s friends in the city, took on a new vet. I wish Doc would be like her friend and get some more help around here. Another vet would sure take some of the pressure off her. As it is, I pretty much handle her personal life scheduling or she’d neglect to have one. Leann Anderson is a fabulous animal doctor, but she totally sucks at things like eating regular meals and getting her hair cut. I have resorted to filling her Netflix queue and forcing her to take time for relaxing.

She wasn’t always like this, I’m told. Back in her twenties, she was the drummer in my dad’s band, Ironwing. But when they came home after their one and only world tour, she went off to veterinary school when my dad went to law school. The entire band is all boring and parental now.

I make a mental note to send a message to Dr. Rivers to ask her to talk to my boss about taking on a new vet. This guy Dr. Rivers brought on... Christopher Lockwood, DVM...is an interesting character. The picture is grainy, so maybe he isn’t as dorky as he appears. But, wow, look at those glasses. Thick, black frames...Clark Kent would be jealous.

“What about Devon? I bet he’d be your date,” Megan asks, not ending the call as I’d hoped.

“Have you suffered a blow to your head recently, Megan? Devon and I broke up.” For many, many good reasons. He has the requisite quads, but he also has the tendency to hit things that anger him. Walls mostly, but since he had me pinned up against the wall the last time he punched a hole in it, I’m not counting out the possibility that his violence is limited to inanimate objects.

He was always kind of an asshole, but he got a lot worse when he inherited money.

“Well, he’s still friends with Brad. I’m sure you guys could get along for one day. Besides, maybe you could patch things up. Wouldn’t that be romantic? Getting back together at my wedding. I mean, Leo’s wedding?”

“No!” I don’t mean to yell, but hell-to-the-no.

Devon is not in my get-your-life-together-Stella plan. I am more than six months into the Year of Stella and the return of Devon would be a serious step backward. Also, I never told Megan about the hitting thing. She knows we argued, but she never saw my apartment. Nash, my landlord and friend, fixed the wall without a word, and then I heard that he and my brother had a little chat with Devon in which Devon peed his pants.

“Devon was horrible for me.” Devon is horrible for the entire female population.

“Well, there is something to be said for bad boys.”

“Bad boys, yes. Mean boys, no. Besides, what do you know about bad boys? Brad is like saltine cracker boring.”

“I don’t even know what that means, but Brad is not boring. And I just don’t want you to end up alone.”

What Megan doesn’t want is for me to embarrass her. But she’ll never get her wish because no matter how I try not to be, I have always been an embarrassment to Megan. I tend to “draw attention” which is code speak for “spectacle.”

For most of my life, I wanted to be like Megan. Hell, I wanted tobeMegan. Megan is classy. Poised. Stylish. She manages to live her life without a hair out of place, a broken nail, or a bead of sweat.

I am the opposite of her in every way. I can’t contain myself the way Meg does, to my sister’s utter chagrin. And the harder I try to be “normal” the more I stick out and embarrass us both. She’s better at enumerating all my misdeeds, but her list probably starts with the time I tried to steal her high school boyfriend, my first crush, with a love note from a “secret admirer” on the back of my spelling test. Not only was my identity no longer a secret, but I misspelled “flower” by adding a “u.”

Also high on her list—the time I sneezed and farted at the same time at Grandma’s funeral during the moment of silence. I was sixteen.

She also probably has some things to say about the way Santa Claus terrified me well into my teens...okay, I’ll be honest. Santa Claus still terrifies me. But I no longer kick him in the shin at the mall and run away.

She also never likes the perfume I wear, my clothes, my hair, the things I did to her Barbie and Ken dolls, and the way I sometimes break into song for no reason. She thinks all my beliefs in the metaphysical are woo-woo cult things. And, of course, my taste in men is always a contention.

“What you need to do is find a boyfriend. You know if you just—”

“Don’t start, Megan.” I’m so tired of conversations that start with “if you just.”

“I want you to be happy. Snagging a man isn’t brain surgery, you know. You’re a great girl. If you just—”

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