I laugh as we clear our plates and head for the door. “Have you now?”

  “Do I need to remind you of Hazel?”

  No. He doesn’t.

  I can picture perfectly the day I saved his ass.

  6

  OLIVER

  Two years ago

  This was getting to be a problem—the morning ambush.

  Warily, I walked to the window, pulled back the blinds, and peered down to the street. Cars, cabs, and buses rushed along the avenue, and I held onto the fervent hope that I might be able to leave my own building unscathed.

  Then I caught a glimpse of red.

  Fucking hell.

  Hazel was there, lying in wait.

  With tea.

  I didn’t even like tea.

  Who decided that all Englishmen liked tea and scones, lived in castles, and followed football?

  Well, scones were delicious.

  I pulled back from the window, grabbed my phone, and called in a favor.

  “She’s here again,” I whispered, even though whispering was unnecessary. But it felt necessary. “Are you nearby? You’re probably on a run, right?”

  On the other end of the call, Summer breathed out hard. “Just finished five miles. I’m on the east side of the park. I can be there in ten. Want me to pretend I’m your girlfriend?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m on it,” she said, knowing the situation well and knowing the solution too.

  “You’re a superhero.”

  “I am. It’s true.”

  I grabbed a tie and slipped it around my neck, knotted it, and pulled on my suit jacket. I had to get to work without my ex pouncing on me and asking me to get back together with her. Never mind that she was hardly an ex. She was a woman I’d dated for a mere two weeks. After I ended it on account of a massive lack of sparks—and not at all because she wanted to attend a cheese-making class, even though I hate trendy thing-making classes—she decided to try to woo me back by waiting outside my building with tea from my favorite coffee shop.

  She’d done this four days in a row. Today was the fifth.

  Returning to the window, I watched the street below. On the dot, Summer walked into view, holding a paper cup. She spotted Hazel and, with a smile, headed over to the redhead, exchanged a few words, then continued into the lobby.

  Hazel cast a glance upward, but she’d never been inside my building, so she didn’t know which floor was mine.

  Her shoulders sagged, and she walked away.

  I punched the air as my doorbell rang.

  Summer looked quite pleased with herself, and quite pleasant in her running shorts and purple sneakers, her blonde hair high in a ponytail. Her cheeks were red, her skin flushed from running. Would other activities bring that same pink glow to her face?

  To the exposed flesh above her sports bra?

  To . . .

  Quickly, I dismissed the freight train of dirty thoughts, because I had to.

  Also, because . . . coffee.

  She thrust a cup into my hand. “Coffee. Just the way you like it.” She took a beat, pausing before delivering our oft-said punchline, “Without tea.”

  “Superhero indeed,” I said, taking the drink then motioning with my free hand for her to tell me what went down.

  Squaring her shoulders, she flicked an unseen piece of lint off her Lycra top. “Call me Super Friend. Able to deflect clingy exes in a single bound. As soon as I saw her, I walked over, said a cheery good morning, then eyed her two cups of tea with friendly concern.”

  “And?”

  “And then I said, ‘By the way, if that’s for Oliver, he doesn’t care for tea. Go figure. But that’s my boyfriend for you.’”

  I beamed as she continued. “Then I trotted inside, said hi to the doorman, and left her to tuck her tail between her legs. She did tuck her tail, right?”

  “Totally tucked. Saw it when I peeked out the window.”

  Summer blew on her fingernails. “Yay, me.”

  “Thank you for your excellent service,” I said.

  “It was easy. No doubt you’ll need me again for the next crazy ex-girlfriend.”

  We left my building a minute later, finding Hazel across the street waiting for the bus.

  When she spotted me walking next to Summer, I immediately grabbed Summer’s hand, threaded our fingers tightly together, and dropped a quick kiss onto her cheek.

  Her breath hitched, and she whispered a surprised oh. A sexy-sounding oh. One that had the freight train starting to chug out of the station again.

  But there were exes to deflect.

  “She’s across the street,” I said in her ear.

  “Oh.” Summer straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. “Well, in that case.” She tugged me closer, looping her arm possessively around my waist, let out a throaty laugh, then returned the kiss.

  She dusted her lips across my jaw, sending an arrow of heat straight up my spine. Then she whispered in my ear, “Peas and carrots, peas and carrots, peas and carrots.”

  Good thing she’d mentioned the veggies, because I’d been borderline aroused.

  But I hated peas, so that took care of that.

  7

  SUMMER

  Present day

  For a second, I remember that whisper of a kiss.

  Tender, gentle. The slide of his lips against my cheek.

  The soft whoosh in my belly.

  So fleeting, and then it was gone, and Hazel boarded the bus.

  “Never to be heard from again,” I say, finishing the story.

  “Thanks to Super Friend,” Oliver says as we reach the crosswalk, slowing to a stop at the light.

  I tap my chest, imagining my Super Friend insignia is stitched on top of my shirt. “I’m awesome at saving your ass.”

  He squeezes my shoulder. “You are. Especially from exes who want to take macchiato-making classes.”

  “I thought it was cheese-making that turned you off?”

  “Oh, no doubt the macchiato was coming next.”

  I nod sagely. “Good thing you cut it off. So, can you just admit you have douchey exes too?”

  He shakes his head. “Get it right, woman. Men have crazy exes. Women have douchey exes.”

  “But your rule of thumb is that all exes are awful?”

  “That’s why they’re exes, right?”

  “I’m not sure I agree. Yes, we joke about my number of douchey exes. But were they truly all jackwads? What if they’re only exes because they weren’t right at the time?”

  He shakes his head, adamant, as the light changes and we cross the street walking down Madison. “That presupposes there is only one right person for everyone, and there is nothing sadder in the world than assuming there’s only one person for you.”

  “Right,” I say with an exaggerated nod. “That’s the saddest thing in the whole world.”

  He levels a chiding gaze at me. “Obviously, it’s not the saddest. I’m simply saying it’s damn sad when it comes to relationships.”

  “And I’m simply saying that no matter how fun it is to refer to a parade of exes as Douchey Ex Number One, Two, and Three, perhaps none of them were the right person. And there’s nothing wrong with that. You have to kiss a lot of frogs. I think we can learn from every ex.” I snap my fingers. “I should write about that for that contest.”

  “What contest?”

  Grabbing the sheet of paper from my purse, I unfold it and show it to him as we walk. “The Dating Pool is hosting an essay contest. Lessons learned from the past. I could write about lessons learned from my exes.”

  He smiles wryly, quickly scanning the page. “That’s so very you. You can find the positive in every negative experience.”

  “Is that such a bad thing? To find the silver lining?” I tuck the paper back into my purse.

  “No, it’s not a bad thing. It’s a Summer thing. And that does sound like a good idea for you to write about,” he concedes. “You’d probably make it hilarious.” He mimes typing a letter. “Dear Dating Pool, I learned how to cook an omelet from Timmy the Dickhead Cook, how to sing an aria from Rupert the Awful Opera Singer, and how to pilot a private jet from Kip the Cocky Playboy Captain I dated.”

  Aghast, I swat him. “I never dated those men.”

  “I know, but that’s the sort of thing you’d say. You can make a sweater out of any tangled skein of yarn. You’re an inherently positive person. That’s why you’re in the field you’re in.”

  “And you? You’re a negative person?”

  “I’m a realist,” he says. “And the realist in me says that if we were meant to get on so well with our exes, they wouldn’t become exes, and so if they are exes, they are crazy douches.” He raises his arm in the air, like an orator declaring victory. “Or frogs, and neither is terribly appealing. Both men and women can be douches or frogs.”

  “That’s the difference between you and me. I played with frogs when I was a kid, and no, that’s not a euphemism.”

  “You played with frogs?”

  “Yes. And I put one in Logan’s bed too.”

  His mouth twitches in a that’s too good grin. “Well done. How did he take it?”

  “Screamed like a boy,” I say, proud of my frog fearlessness. “Also, it was a tiny frog. Like, maybe an inch big.”

  “Things no one says about me,” Oliver whispers.

  I shoot him the side-eye he deserves. “It’s a wonder any woman has lasted with you for any period of time.”

  He wriggles his brows. “Oh, sweetheart, they last because I can last. All night long.”

  “I take it back. You are a pig,” I say.

  “Guilty as charged.”

  As we stop at the next crosswalk, I reach into my purse and grab the bag of cookies. “All right, frog prince, this is my small way of saying thank you.”

  He takes one. “Aww. This is a thanks for me letting you check out my package earlier?”

  “You ass.”

  “Ah, it’s for the time I let you check out my arse. I see,” he says, biting into the cookie.

  “Double ass,” I say, but I’m laughing.

  He chews and somehow looks sexy while eating, crumbs and all. “Admit it—I’m the sexiest of your ex-boyfriends.”

  “You’re not a real ex,” I point out as we turn the corner then head into Central Park.

  “I know. That’s what makes me the sexiest.”

  “Cockiest maybe.”

  “Like I said, the sexiest.” We wander along the mall, almost by instinct. He knows this promenade, with its towering elms and green canopy, is one of my favorite parts of the park, which is my favorite place in the city.

  “More like most infuriating,” I say, as we slide back into our rhythm.

  The rhythm that reminds me to squash any inappropriate tingles.

  This rhythm is worth so much more than testing a theory would be.

  We continue debating exes along the Literary Walk.

  He hooks his thumb at a statue of Shakespeare. “He thinks exes are rubbish.”

  “He killed most of his heroes and heroines,” I point out. “Hello, tragedy?”

  “Like I said, rubbish.”

  As we pass stone replicas of Sir Walter Scott and Robert Burns, the great debate rages on, until he walks me all the way home, where he gives me a hug outside my building and says goodbye.

  Later that night, as I read in detail the magazine page Stella gave me, our debate gives me a brilliant idea.

  A brilliant idea that might solve a big, hairy problem.

  8

  SUMMER

  I wave the magazine page at Maggie. “I should do this, right?”

  “Darn straight you should do it.” My grandmother, also my roommate, affirms my decision as she slices off the top of another strawberry with precision, and slides the red fruit to the edge of the cutting board.

  “I mean, this is tailor-made for me.”

  Another slice, another cut. She drops a handful of berries into the blender. “It’s as if it was written for you.” She holds up the knife to make her point. “Just for you.”

  I back away. “Mags, put the knife down.”

  “I have excellent vision and dexterity, you know.”

  “This isn’t about your vision or dexterity, you crazy old bat,” I say playfully. “It’s about you wielding a sharp knife.”

  “Impudent whippersnapper,” she mutters under her breath, but I smile at her teasing. She sets down the knife, drops the rest of the strawberries into the blender, then hits the crush button.

  As the machine pulverizes the fruit, she chatters above the noise. “In any case, you’ve always loved contests, and you’ve always excelled at them, so you should do it.”

  She hits end with the panache of a former professional cheerleader.

  Because that’s what she is. This seventy-five-year-old babe shook her pom-poms and backflipped her way from the Dallas Cowboys Cheerleaders to a forty-year career as a cheer coach and a trophy case full of well-deserved bling.

  “But you could also let me fund your gym,” she adds like she’s trying to entice me into her car with candy.

  “No way.” I shake my head and gesture to her rent-controlled two-bedroom Upper West Side palace. “You barely charge me rent. You’ve already made it possible for me to save a ton of money and live in one of the world’s most expensive cities on an activity manager’s salary. No way am I taking the cash from you.”

  “But the offer stands.”

  “And I appreciate it, but my answer is still no. I want to do this on my own.”

  “Always digging your heels in.” She rubs my back gently. “I know you don’t like to accept help. And I know it’s because you think your mom should have kept working instead of quitting her job to help your dad.”

  “Well,” I say, straightening my spine, “she gave up her own career managing a bookstore when his company took off. And she always reminds him.”

  I love my parents madly. They have a great marriage, and they raised me with love. But every now and then when I was growing up, my mom made little comments about how proud she was of the success his consulting company was having, in part because she quit her job to support him.

  I don’t ever want to be the person who quits.

  The one who has to remind the other that she did.

  Or the one who maybe wishes she hadn’t quit. Because I suspect that’s what’s behind her little asides.

  Maggie tilts her head with a skeptical look. “Always reminds him?”

  “It feels often to me,” I say, then I wave a hand breezily.

  She pours her concoction into two glasses and slides one to me, then whispers, “I have an extra thousand under the mattress. C’mon. Take it.”

  “Please tell me you don’t keep money under the mattress.”

  “Mattress. Bank. Same thing.”

  I shake my head. “Nope. You didn’t fund Logan’s business. You’re not funding mine. Besides, I’ll either win this contest or nab a loan.”

  She takes a long swig of her smoothie, and I do the same. Then I nearly spit it out as my tongue rebels against the taste. “This is the worst one ever. What did you put in it?”

  “Wheatgrass.”

  “You do know grass is what dogs eat when they need to barf?”

  She laughs. “Wheatgrass is very popular in healthy beverages.”

  “No. Just no. Wheatgrass is wrong. It’s grass, Mags. Grass.”

  She gives me a look like I deserve to be sent to my room for impudence. “It’s good for you. Keeps you healthy. And I need to replenish after my workout. By the way, I killed it at my bike-training session today. Mildred and Octavia had nothing on me. I left them in the dust in Central Park,” she says, then heads to the living room, where she grabs her phone and, judging from the beeping sounds, returns to her Words with Friends game.

  From the stool at the kitchen counter, I review The Dating Pool contest rules one more time.

  The theme is spot-on: letters to exes, with the proviso that you must have learned something from the past relationship. No slams, no digs, no skewering. Show us how you’re moving on.

  Dating Pool, I’ve got this. I’ve so got this.

  This is my jam. Learning. Takeaways. Putting a positive spin on nearly everything.

  I can bang out this letter, easy peasy.

  I have the perfect person to write about.

  Grabbing my tablet, I flip it open.

  Two hours later, my entry is polished and ready to go.

  9

  OLIVER

  One year ago

  There are things a man just needs to know how to do by the time he goes out on his own.

  How to tie a necktie, ideally without looking in the mirror. How to parallel park in one try. How to build a campfire—with and without matches. (Hint: magnifying glasses. Learn how to use them and you, too, can become Prometheus.)

  And how to answer a Mayday call from your female best friend.

  As it happened, Jason and I were hanging in his apartment one evening, working our way through the top ten skills any man must know.

  I strummed a chord on his acoustic guitar, working my way through “Love Me Do,” the song we’d dubbed easiest to learn to play on a guitar. (On the list of things a modern man should know: how to play at least one song on the guitar.)

  “Stop. Stop. It’s like a parrot mating with a trombone,” Jason said, clapping his hands over his ears.

  Naturally, I played louder. “You’re just jealous that I’m ahead of you. I’ve tackled six items, and it’s your bloody list.”

  An eye roll was his answer. “I would never be envious of someone who is total rubbish at item number four.”

  “Building a campfire?” I scoffed. We’d worked on that skill last weekend while camping an hour outside of the city. “Please. I excelled. Yours was more like a bonfire, Smokey Bear. You do know the point isn’t to set the whole forest alight?”