And so… here I am: twenty-nine years old and officially retired from the game.
A spinster.
I feel like that must be some sort of record.
In lieu of a cash prize, I will accept a lifetime supply of cabernet sauvignon. Please send the goods to 29 Merriweather Street, Somerville, MA. (Blue Victorian. You can’t miss it — it’s the prettiest house on the block. Maybe the prettiest house in the Greater Boston area.)
I wasn’t always such a misanthrope. Not that I was ever what you’d call a hopeless romantic, either. I guess I’ve always been somewhere in the middle, balancing on a tightrope of cynicism and wishful thinking.
The way I see it, when it comes to love people generally fall into one of two categories — they’re either scared to be alone or they’re scared to be rejected. All those stomach-butterflies and sweaty palms and soul connections boil down to a single, burning question.
What are you more afraid of — abandonment or commitment? Loneliness or love? Never putting yourself out there? Or potentially being blown off when you actually do?
Me? I’m in the first category.
Scared to be alone.
At least, I used to be, when I first met Paul. Now, after a decade of being ignored by the person who was supposed to love me most, I’ve been alone so often, it feels far scarier to even consider letting someone in again.
My self-imposed seclusion is a shield. A safety net.
Superman and his Fortress of Solitude ain’t got nothing on me.
Conor was a jerk, earlier… but he wasn’t entirely off base about my need for control. Idolike order and organization. I like routine. I like perfection — or, at least, the appearance of it. There’s a certain comfort in living my life by a set of strictly-monitored rules, in making decisions and sticking to them like clockwork.
Perfect Shelby Hunt, in her perfect house, with her perfect life.
And if I know one thing, it’s that falling in love — crazy, dramatic, complicated love — is the exactoppositeof control. It’s a spiral into chaos. A messy tangle of emotion and irrational thinking. Pure pandemonium with a side of heartbreak.
Which is just about the last thing I need in my meticulously-managed little world.
So I guess… maybe somewhere along the way, I switched categories. Maybe being alone isn’t the scariest thing in the world, anymore. Because the idea of loving anyone again… of putting myself out there, only to get my heart shattered a second time…
That’sthe most terrifying thing I can imagine.
* * *
I joltawake when a hand claps itself over my mouth.
Panic floods my barely-awake brain. My eyes snap open and I begin to thrash against the hands holding me down, a violent scream bursting from my throat before I can stop it.
Nooooo!
It’s Righty!
Or Lefty!
Probably both!
They’ve got me!
I’m dead!
So freaking dead!
“Shhh! Shhh, Shelby! It’s me. Chill!”
I go still as I register the voice. It’s suspiciously familiar — and suspiciously lacking the faint Russian accent I was expecting to hear. The room is pitch black, but after a few seconds I manage to focus on the face hovering scant inches from mine.