Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75424 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
I, on the other hand, don’t have a cool bone in my body and still dress like I’m in elementary school.
Or, according to my ex-boyfriend, like a reject from a clown college.
Vince was always begging me to put on something tight and slinky, or at least something other than paint-splattered overalls. But I spend all day working on my own art or helping my students with their projects. By the time I’m done with work and school, I’m usually too tired to get dressed up in skintight Lycra, even if I wanted to…which I don’t.
I’m perfectly happy the way I am. And if Vince had been the right man for me, he would have been happy with me, too.
But he wasn’t. So, I’m single again.
And that’s fine. Better than fine.
I don’t mind being single. Or I wouldn’t mind it as much, if Vince hadn’t delivered a killer parting shot on his way out of my life…
“It’s not just the clothes, Evie,” he’d said as he did a shitty job of “letting me down easy” over funnel cakes at a festival in the East Village last summer. “It’s your whole…vibe.” His dark eyes filled with pity as he added in a softer voice, “You have zero sex appeal, baby. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I thought I should be honest with you about that before we go our separate ways. You know, in case you want to try to get therapy or something.”
He turned to leave, then swung back around, leaning in to add in a stage whisper I’m sure half the people watching me fall apart on a park bench heard loud and clear, “And you really should try to get someone to have sex with you before you’re any older. You’re at an age where it’s getting a little weird that you’re still a virgin, you know?”
Yes, I do know. And it is getting weird, but only because other people are making it that way!
I’m twenty-three, not thirty-three, and I was a late bloomer. My sophomore year, I was still the size of a flat-chested twelve-year-old. I didn’t develop until my final semester of high school and by then the few guys I thought were interesting were too busy prepping to leave our tiny New Jersey town to notice my modest blossoming. (I’m still only a B cup and can wear most of my overalls from middle school.)
In college I was too excited to finally be spending all day every day studying and making art to stress about boys. Growing up, I’d learned to hide my obsession with drawing and painting as best I could. My mother was an artist—that was allegedly why she left us, because she wanted to study in Europe like painters did in the 1920s.
Anytime Dad saw me working at my easel in the backyard or mixing papier-mâché materials in the kitchen, it would put him in a bad mood for hours. I’d usually end up getting in trouble for something I couldn’t even remember doing not long after.
So, art became my secret love, one I was only free to openly adore once I left home.
That newfound freedom was so all-consuming I didn’t notice I’d forgotten to date until all my girlfriends in the freshman dorm started spending Saturday nights with their boyfriends. Seeing them snuggled up on the couches in our rec room, watching scary movies and making out in between bites of popcorn made me feel left out all over again, the way I had back when Harlow and my high school friends giggled over prom dress choices and whether or not to get on birth control before the big night.
I made finding a guy of my own more of a priority, but every time I found a cutie to take to art openings or dance parties on the town square in our little Virginia college town, I would eventually end up in the friend zone. Without fail, within two to three months, the man in question would tell me what a wonderful person he thought I was, beg for the chance to stay friends, and then express his desire to date someone he was more attracted to.
They didn’t say the last part most of the time, but despite what people think about art majors, I’m not stupid.
I was more than capable of reading between the lines.
But then Vince, an art history major, and I started dating the end of my senior year. He was the first boyfriend to last a full six months and the first who seemed to enjoy kissing me as much as I enjoyed kissing him. And he was moving to the city after graduation, too, so we wouldn’t have to deal with the stress of a long-distance relationship!
Everything seemed to be going pretty well until that steamy August night when he dumped me like a hot potato.