When my phone stays silent, I constantly check to make sure it’s not on mute.

Do you ever have that happen?

It fucking sucks.

I pick up my phone and look at it, throwing it down into the passenger side of my car when I find the screen blank, no notifications because I am a loser with no personal life.

Ugh!

I hit the grocery store, tossing fruit and vegetables and whatever other healthy shit I can find into my cart, wheeling around each corner as if I’m being timed on a game show.

Smiling curtly at a woman who coyly grins my way, eyeing me up and down like meat in the deli.

Sorry ma’am, not interested.

Why aren’t I, though? I’m single.

The one person I’m interested in doesn’t give a shit about seeing me, and I haven’t been laid in…since…

Well—the wedding.

True Wallace was the last time I’ve had sex, and if I said it wasn’t the best sex, I’d be lying. And it was better than good because I felt something.

I don’t always have sex on the first date, but when I do, I do.

Ha.

One hundred and seventeen dollars poorer (because eating healthy is fucking expensive), I heft the bags out to my car in one trip, determined to carry them out on one arm, without a cart, pumping the bags like iron.

Roar!

As soon as I start the engine of my SUV, my phone chimes—but this time I let it sit, in no mood for more disappointment, mind wandering as I back out of my parking space, passing by the coffee shop I want to hit on my way home, hanging a left at the stop sign.

“Your mom actually made you take dancing lessons?” True asks after the slow song ends and a fast one begins. We exit the dance floor, my hand at the small of her back, eyes skimming her backside appreciatively.

She’s a beautiful woman.

“All of us had to take dancing lessons—no idea why. It’s not like I was ever going to be a contestant on Dancing with the Stars.”

“You could be, actually.”

She’s right—I could be, now that I’m famous. “No one is knocking down my door to be on television,” I insist—although, with one phone call, I could have my agent look into it. “Right now, the only person I want to be dancing with is you.”

True rolls her eyes. “That’s laying it on a bit thick, don’t you think?”

Probably. “I’m a little out of practice. Normally when I’m trying to date someone, I go to my sisters for advice, and—” I pretend to look around. “You don’t see any interfering Latinas nosing around, do you? I’m on my own. I can’t help what comes out of my mouth.”

“You have six sisters, I have only brothers—we’re both doomed.”

Before I order us another round, I find out if she’s hungry. “Should we go grazing at the buffet?” A long table of snacks and appetizers have been set out to keep food in the bellies of those of us who are drinking.

“I could eat.”

It’s music to my ears. A girl who likes food is a keeper, as my father always says.

I look down at True’s gently swaying hips, imagining myself between them while following her to the spread on the other side of the ballroom.

She plucks up strawberries, cantaloupe, and pineapple. A slice of a Danish. One beef slider. Cheese. Sausage. Three crackers.

“You’re going to regret only taking one slice of cheese,” I mention, knowing how addicting a cheese/sausage/cracker sandwich is.

“But I have all this other stuff…”

I shake my head. “Nope. You’re not going to want it. Cheese, sausage, and crackers only.” I load my plate up to demonstrate, choosing the meats and meatballs and a handful of nuts. “If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll share.”

She waits patiently while I pick a few other things—as if she’s obligated to wait. As if we’re in this together.

Heading back toward the bar, we set our plates on the counter when we get there, and I signal for another round of whatever we had before, plus two waters. “Want anything else? Soda? Iced tea?”

“No, the drink is perfect.” She begins picking at her plate, going for the cheese first.

Yup. I knew it.

Her first bite is dainty, hand under her mouth to catch falling crumbs, her pink tongue darting out to lick small bits of Ritz off her lips with a smile.

“Man I love these.” She chews. “I can’t keep any of these things in my house because I’ll eat them for dinner every night. Trust me, I’ve done it before. My roommates had to have an intervention for me last year.”

“I could see that, sure.” I pop a meatball into my mouth. “Another thing I’m addicted to is potato chips and French onion dip. Once, during a Christmas, my mother stationed my sister Ana in the kitchen to guard it from me.”