Trent: a developer with kind eyes and prematurely gray hair I went out with for three months at the beginning of last year. He was a regular pledge drive supporter, which was what made me swipe right. On our first date, he told me how badly he wanted a family. We spent every weekend together, and I got attached fast. We went to farmers’ markets and state parks and very serious plays. I liked how he held me in bed, how he buried his face into the nape of my neck and told me how much he liked waking up next to me. I assumed love was the next step after like, but when I blurted it out on our way to meet my mother for brunch one Sunday, he nearly veered off the road.

“I don’t know if I’m there yet,” he said.

We were listening to Wait Wait . . . Don’t Tell Me! and having our own contest, tallying up points based on getting the correct answers before the panelists did. I shut it off immediately, not wanting this experience to ruin the show for me.

We could still have a good time, he insisted. It wouldn’t make things weird, knowing I loved him and he didn’t. But he broke it off that night, after the most uncomfortable eggs Benedict of my life.

I’ve always been staunchly anti-brunch, and Trent confirmed that stance.

People say they want something serious, but as soon as it starts heading that way, they bolt. Either they’re lying, or they realize they don’t want something serious with me. Hence my hiatus. It doesn’t stop me from wanting to get married someday. It’s just that the “someday” sounded much further away when I was twenty-four versus twenty-nine.

“I’ve offered to clone TJ,” Ameena says with a shrug. “Not my fault the technology isn’t advanced enough yet.”

I add more red to my tree. It looks gravely wounded, yikes. I’ll have nightmares if I put this up in my house. “Honestly, my biggest worry, more than Dominic or the content, is my voice.”

“Shay,” Ameena says gently, because she knows my history with it. I even used to beg her to make important phone calls for me.

“Seriously, Ameena. Who wants Kristen Schaal when they could have, like, Emily Blunt?”

“I like a unique voice. Most of the old white NPR dudes sound the same to me. And I hate the sound of my voice, too. Voice mail is the worst.”

“It’s not just a voice mail. It would be an hour every week. And a podcast, too.”

“What would a mediocre white man do?” she asks.

Ameena and I started saying this years ago, after she had a seminar about diversity in the workplace. Ameena is Indian, and she relayed that women, especially women of color, are statistically less likely to ask for things men don’t think twice about. WWAMWMD, one of us will text the other when we need support.

“A mediocre white man would probably have a perfect radio voice,” I say. “Enough about me. What’s going on with that conservancy job?”

Ameena tries to look nonchalant. “They moved me forward. I have a second phone interview next week.”

I let out a squeal. “Congratulations!”

“Thank you,” she says, and then forces a laugh. “Still convinced they’re throwing me a bone here, but I have to admit, it was a nice ego boost.”

“And you really feel like leaving Seattle?”

“I like Seattle,” she says after a brief hesitation, “but I might be ready for a change.”

Ready for a change. Ameena might get that job, and my mother is getting remarried, and my show is disappearing at the end of next week. A change as dramatic as leaving PPR—I’m positive I’m not ready for that.

“Apparently my mom is, too.”

“How . . . are you feeling about that?”

It’s been twenty-four hours, and they’ve already set a date: July 14. It’ll be mostly family, though my mother’s family consists of me and by extension Ameena and TJ, while Phil has his kids and their spouses and their kids. I suppose they’ll be my family soon enough.

“That’s a great question,” I say. “It feels so sudden, I guess.”

“Maybe, but they’re in their late fifties. There’s no point in waiting.”

“You’ll be there with me, right? Even if”—my voice catches—“even if you have to come from Virginia?”

Ameena swipes my nose with the tip of her paintbrush. “Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.”

* * *

—

Home: lights on, podcast loud. I check each room, making sure I’m alone. It’s not that I’m worried someone broke in and is hiding behind a door, waiting to murder me, it’s just—well, there’s no harm in knowing for sure.

This is normal. Everyone who lives alone must do this.

Once I’ve determined my home is murderer-free, I settle into the rest of my evening: pajamas, laptop, couch. I have a home office, but I prefer the living room. The TV makes the room feel a bit less lonely, even when it’s not on. I’ll probably spend some time with my newest vibrator later, if only because the conversation with Ameena made me realize it’s been nearly a year since I’ve had sex. Going solo isn’t quite the same, but I have a routine. Lord knows I’ve had enough time to perfect one.

It’s when I unzip my laptop from my work bag that it hits me—by the end of next week, I may not have a job to overwork myself with.