She doesn't have a Facebook page, never has. She dropped out of touch with my brothers and the people we knew back in high school. At family get-togethers, my mother has gleaned from hers that she's still single, much to Mrs. Carrington's disappointment.

  Once more, my finger hovers over the call button. I can't bring myself to do it. I don't want to ruin her night, inspire more anger, or keep her from sleeping.

  Instead, I lay there in bed, sad, alone, and awake.

  Chapter 11

  Blogs and Sausages

  I've never taken the walk of shame before, but thankfully, my first jaunt from a man's apartment with messy hair, smudged makeup, and clothes askew is short. Nineteen steps door to door to be precise and it's not even midnight.

  Katya is a notoriously sound sleeper. In college, the dorm had to evacuate because of a fire alarm. If I hadn't woken her, saving her life, she would have slept right through it. I didn't really save her life because it turned out not to be a fire. Some idiot on the fifth floor thought it would be funny to see all of the girls in their pajamas at three a.m.

  Nonetheless, I turn the doorknob like a cat burglar, creep across the old wooden floor—the creaks are loudest in the hallway—and into my room without incident. Not only do I not want to wake her, I need some time to process what just happened before I give her the play-by-play she's sure to demand.

  I sink onto my bed and toss my bag and heels in the corner by the closet. I glimpse myself in the mirror and a smile spreads across my lips, lighting up my dark eyes. I just had sex with Spencer. I don't even know his last name. Well, technically I do, it's Davis, because his mailbox is next to ours and it's labeled, but in the course of general conversation, names, birthdates, background details weren't exchanged, which if you're me, is pretty darn scandalous. Groundbreaking. Earth shattering. It feels kind of badass. My smile turns into a Kat-like smirk and I feel just a little bit powerful.

  My dress puddles on the floor and I replace it with a sweatshirt and leggings. I instantly feel more like myself and less like an empowered woman in charge of her domain. I sigh. But when I knot my hair on top of my head, that spark still shines behind my eyes. Nope, I've still got it, sweats and all.

  I'm too wired to sleep so I don't bother trying. I try to find a book to read to settle my mind, but recounting my recent reality is far more intriguing. Hungry kissing, fingers trailing skin, discarded underwear. I imagine Spencer has a collection because the way he carelessly threw my clothes around makes me wonder how many women leave fully dressed.

  How many women? I swallow. How many has he been with? I've seen two and we only moved in last weekend. That makes me the third, at least, this week. I push the gathering crowd of women from my mind, assured by the fact that we used protection, and return to the blissful moments of our bodies moving together. There was oral. There were fingers. There was a noteworthy member of the male anatomy involved that I've rarely seen the likes of in real life. I close my eyes, recalling the feeling. The bursting of light through the darkness feeling. The explosion. The deep calm afterward.

  And Carrick's face, appearing at that precise moment. I could analyze the significance, but one of my best skills not noted on my resume is avoidance, so I push him from my mind, returning to Spencer's lips on mine, his strong jawline, his capable hands… The recent memory creates an exciting tingling below my belly. A smile pushes its way onto my face as I recount those blissful moments—then Carrick shows up again. I feel the spark when his lips grazed mine. The buzz of his touch during the yoga class on my hand. Can't a girl revel in her sexiness for a minute without the ghosts of the past? An attractive ghost, but a nuisance nonetheless. I list the reasons why my head won't cooperate:

  Sensory overload.

  Exhaustion.

  Too much wine.

  A date for the first time in years!

  These are all reasonable explanations why my brain is a bit confused, right? The solution: sleep. I tuck under my covers, close my eyes, and once more return to Spencer's king sized bed, cool and crisp in my memory. The dappled nighttime glow of the city casted him in shadow and light. His strong arms wrapped confidently around me, his pelvis pressed against mine, and…

  Fucking Carrick.

  No, not fucking fucking. Fucking Carrick ruins it again. His chiseled jawline, the perfect balance of rugged and polished good looks. That fucking sly smile. I groan in frustration. If only I could erase his face from the whiteboard of my mind. If I could delete everything that happened. A wave goodbye—see you never. But to do that would require the use of my lips and my hand and it's like he marked me with his touch.

  I rally. Me, Navy Catherine Carrington, just did the deed with my hot neighbor, who—though my experience is minimal—was by all accounts a sex god. I need to celebrate this accomplishment and not think of stupid Carrick a minute longer.

  I open the box of high school memories and dig around for my yearbooks. I find the one from junior year, when Carrick graduated and flip to the Ks. With a permanent marker, I black out a few of his teeth, give him an eyepatch, draw some stink lines, and add some warts to the end of his nose. Then for good measure, I circle his photo and then draw a line through it.

  "That's better," I huff and toss the book back toward the box, but it glances off the side. As I reconfigure the contents, the wire end of The Boyfriend Book stabs my finger.

  "Figures."

  Memories of Claire pinch the corners of my eyes. She went a little boy crazy and dragged me along for the ride. I flip open to the first page. She was head over heels for this kid Mike. He needed to floss. Then it was Adam. He fell asleep during Mrs. Smythe's health lecture and started drooling. After that, she moved onto Noah and he broke it off when a senior asked him to the prom. Turned out to be a joke. Claire's boyfriend is dead too.

  I wipe my eyes. I didn't have my first kiss until eighth grade and that was with my best friend's brother during an ill-advised game of truth or dare. Yes, Carrick was my first kiss. My first of many things. Maybe I should go a little boy crazy and really take up Kat's dare.

  In a rush of exhausted frustration and determination, I open my laptop. The Boyfriend Book Blog. Yes, I'll recount the experience of date number one, etching it in digital ink with the hope that it will delete Carrick's presence.

  After a tutorial and a few false starts, I create a blog.

  Worthy of a scene from one of my favorite novels, I recount how Spencer rolled me over in one swift motion, how he licked and lapped, and how I recommend yoga for optimal flexibility in advance of an experience like the one I had with him because there's no way my leg would have gone overhead otherwise. This brings me back to the couple's class and Carrick on his mat next to me.

  "Go," I say. "Get lost."

  Something silky soft brushes my ankle followed by a meow. "Not you, Mew," I say, picking up the cat and scratching behind his ears. "I was talking to this stupid guy I've had a crush on since I was old enough to know what a crush was. You know what? He turned out to be not so great. I've heard him belch. I've watched him scratch his junk, pig out on nachos, talk with his mouth full. I've seen him sick, sad, tired. I practically grew up with him. I've seen enough to know that he's an asshole. Mew, never, ever date an asshole."

  When I realize I'm talking to the cat, I turn back to the computer. Then I make a list. I'm a world-class, A+ list maker. But mine aren't ordinary, bullet point lists; they're detailed with pros, cons, intricacies that assist in decision making, doing, and getting results. Sometimes they involve a Venn diagram. I should probably make one to find a replacement for my current employment situation. (Note to self.)

  I open The Boyfriend Book and copy down a system Claire made to assess our crushes. I type up the ABCs: appearance, behavior, and connection. It turns into more of a summary, not entirely unlike the dating profiles Kat showed me earlier.

  #1 The Hottie in 7G (name changed for privacy)

  Appearance: fit, tan, chiseled features, brown hair, and a drool-inducing physique usually covered up in a three-piece suit and tie befitting his investment banker status, damn near perfect.

  Behavior: charming, confident, respectful, engaging conversationalist.

  Connection: in the bedroom, most definitely, but he's most likely a player, which obviously won't work for me long term. It's been observed by professionals in the field that I am a swan not a peacock/hen.

  I go a little deeper into the date, scanning my mind for details the way Claire obsessed over her crushes. When Spencer was in downward dog at yoga, I noticed he had incredibly tight hamstrings. He also had a stress-inducing habit of holding a bite of food on his fork while talking—he was in limbo-land with the bit of mashed potato balancing on the tines of the fork. I couldn't help but worry it was going to fall into his water glass.

  I write these down in a notes section of the summary. If I'm going to fully involve myself in Kat's dare—going on several dates leading up to potentially spending Valentine's Day with one of these guys—, I need a system to keep track of each of them. Lucky for me, I co-created one back in junior high school.

  The most important part of Claire's assessments was the star rating. For a first date, followed by amazing sex, I'd say it was five stars, but if I'm looking for the perfect date, then it's only right to count a few detractors: he's a well-dressed player and we're neighbors, which complicates things. Also, I'm almost the opposite of the women I've seen leaving his place: leggy, exotic, with long silky hair, and egos for days.

  I tap out four and a half asterisks next to his name. I tilt my head, feeling the overall aesthetic is lacking, especially when compared to Claire's perfect five-pointed stars in The Boyfriend Book.

  I fool around on Photoshop, creating navy blue stars. The blog should have a proper banner at the top. I get carried away creating one for the Boyfriend Book Blog in soft navy blue and gold, with a touch of pink to underscore the Valentine's Day component.

  I write up a brief explanation of Kat's dare for me to date the first five—no four—guys I saw the day after we moved into our apartment. I emphasize the dating dry spell and how this was a clean slate.

  In a questionable brainwave, mostly because of the late hour, I invite readers to vote for the best guy, like my own little version of the Bachelorette. I'm loyal to the Bachelor, and won't deny watching every season, but I've never missed an episode of the Bachelorette either.

  I scrape together a bio: college graduate, assistant at a PR firm, living with her best friend and a cat. Not exactly living the New York City dream.

  I lean back in my chair. I don't know what my dream was. Is. Could be. There's always so much well-meaning encouragement to follow your dreams, but however vivid they once were or whatever they are now, it's like I can't remember them in the morning.

  *

  I wake just after dawn to the beeping of something that isn't my alarm clock. The first thing I see is my sleeping computer screen, and when I peel my cheek from the keyboard, it lights up to the Boyfriend Book Blog page revealing how I spent several sex-drunk hours.

  "I'm your morning wake up call," Kat says. The beeping she's making with her mouth turns into a whistle as Kat tilts her head in question at the website on the screen. "This is not a dog adoption website. Navy Carrington, what have you been up to? I saw the word cock and it wasn't followed by Spaniel. I take it you had a good night."

  She reaches over my shoulder and before I can stop her, she unplugs my computer from the power supply, picks it up, and rushes from my room, calling, "This is better than the morning news."

  "Come back," I say weakly. But the damage is done. What the heck was I thinking? I wasn't thinking. Or rather, I was thinking, but about men and sex and dating and this is exactly why I don't do it. It takes up too much headspace, makes me do stupid things, and stay up way too late.

  Never mind the castoff ruins of my heart.

  I inhale, smooth my hair, and go to the kitchen. Kat's perched at the center island with a green juice in hand and the computer in front of her. There's a second juice in front of the other stool. I take a sip and gag.

  "Spirulina. It's really good for you, especially your liver," Kat says pointedly. "You smell like you hit the wine bottle hard."

  "I need eggs, greasy eggs." I billow my sweatshirt and take a discrete sniff. "And a shower. Yeah, there was wine last night."

  "How about we go for breakfast and you tell me all about it."

  "I think you just read everything because I'm an idiot and published it on the internet!" I cup my hands over my face.

  Kat clicks something on the screen and says, "Me and ninety-two people. Not bad for a first blog that's only been live for a few hours. Probably voyeurs, lonely housewives, girls who're single."

  "Like me."

  "No, Navy, you're back in the game!" She cheers.

  I snarl.

  "Come on, some sausage will put a smile on those lips. Oh wait, it already did. Ba dum dum." She moves her hands like she's banging a drum and then laughs.

  "Fine, but I can't be late for work. Mr. Douche—"

  Kat's laughter is loud enough to wake the entire building.

  I will not think about Carrick, Kennely. I will not think about Carrick Kennely. "I mean Mr. Bouche was pissed yesterday."

  "Mr. Bouche? Douche? That is genius and by genius I mean hilarious."

  "You can thank Carrick, not that I want to."

  She shoots laser eyes at me. "What don't I know?"

  I give her a two-minute recap of my rescue on the ice and the coffee talk in the hall.

  "I see dimples, Navy," Kat says, but I rush into the bathroom and take a shower.

  *

  The only way to leave the building, aside from the fire escape, is by walking past Spencer's door. "Am I going to have to tip toe every time I go down the hall?" I whisper, frozen on the threshold.

  "No. You are going to power walk like the powerful woman you are."

  I don't move.

  "Come on. Don't be embarrassed. Wait, you didn't fart did you?"

  I whack her. "No, of course not, Angi."

  "Did you remember how everything worked?"

  "Yes, and had I gotten confused, he would've—" Without finishing my sentence, I dash past his door and toward the elevator.

  "My kind of man," she purrs.

  We make it out of the building without incident, but I carefully consider the usage of the fire escape for future indoor/outdoor access. It's not that I'm embarrassed by my performance in bed, it was fine, I think. He didn’t seem to mind. I'm more concerned with what I should say. Do we acknowledge it? Will we flirt? Will we ignore each other as though he hasn't tasted my muffin and I haven't seen his sausage?

  Seated in the vinyl booth at the diner down the street, I spare no detail in the report of my hot date with Spencer, the Hottie in 7G, except one, Carrick.

  Chapter 12

  Sugar and Cookies

  Kat walks me to the subway station and my toes are already getting cold.

  "It's colder than an ice cream headache," Kat says. "And you, Navybean, are on fire. Lit up. That sex last night was a jump start."

  "I could argue that it was the amazing yoga class."

  "Yoga is pretty amazing, if I do say so. But so is Spencer," she trills.

  "I don't think he's Valentine's Day date material."

  "I can't believe you actually blogged it."

  "Late night mistake, it will be deleted."

  "No, please don't. Come on, this is fun." She links her arm in mine. "Isn't it fun? And you don't want to be alone forever."

  "You're starting to sound like my mother."

  "Ouch. Sorry. Dialing back the pressure. Let's just see where it goes, huh?"

  I shrug. I don't want to be alone forever. I have Kat and Mew for now, but there's no knowing when they'll move on, which means I'll have to move back in with my parents. I won't be alone then, but I'll still be lonely.

  "So, who's next? Ah, yes, the Man-bun-barista," Kat says with a persistent smile.

  "Remember, I lost his number," I hedge, trying to get out of it.

  "You wouldn't call anyway."

  "True."

  "We'll grab some coffee and set it up."

  I squirm uncomfortably. "I'd rather call. Or better yet, text."

  "Then I'll need to get his number again." She winks.

  "I have no doubt you will."

  She wrinkles her nose. "Just so you know, he's not my type."

  "He's so your type," I say. "They're all your type!"

  "But what's yours? That's what we need to figure out."

  An unwelcome face, kissed by the sun no matter the season, with full lips, a strong jaw, and the bright blue eyes shared by all of his siblings pops into mind. I glance around. "Um, New York Knick's hat, leather gloves, brown parka."

  "Navy, you're describing that guy over there." She points. The man I was describing turns around, revealing a bulging belly, straining the zipper on his coat. "And no. I will not let that be your type."

  I cringe.

  "I'm always looking out for you, kid."

  "Hey, I'm older than you."

  "By three months. I meant to tell you, I'm going to have to leave Mew to babysit you this weekend."

  "Where are you going?"

  "Weekend yoga retreat up in New England. Hey, if you want to get out of town, I could see if there's still space available."

  I shake my head. I have to save my pennies, for one thing and I won't mind having the apartment to myself for the weekend. Books won't do things like dare me to date guys.

  *

  I go up town to the library on Saturday afternoon and stock up on books as the first snowflakes of a winter storm descend. I usually buy my books from the indie shop, but want to avoid having to set up a date with the clerk. Plus, borrowing saves money and compels me to read more because I don't want overdue fines. By the time I make my way back to the apartment, the snow envelops the gray afternoon in a downy white blanket. I stop by the market and pick up chocolate chips, milk, butter, and cream cheese. A snowy night with a stack of new books definitely requires warm cookies and milk.