If he says what I think he’s going to say, the line that has crawled out of so many of my dates’ mouths over the years, I’m going to vomit. Or hurl this drink at him. Maybe even both. Because God knows, I can’t survive another Joe or Sven or Oliver situation. I’m through. I’m done. Goodbye.

Somehow I manage to maintain a friendly smile as Tony continues babbling on animatedly across the table from me. We’re at the Marooned Pirate, my favorite bar—other than mine, of course—where we’ve chatted about everything from Tony’s job as a pizza delivery guy to his great-aunt’s struggles with foot fungus. I’ve managed to keep it together by wildly tossing back at least three margaritas and by internally taking notes on every single odd statement from this man, knowing Jodie will get a real kick out of the conversation.

“But anyway, like I was saying, after the whole relationship with Brad, I just realized that…”

Here it comes. The line I’ve heard too many times to count. At this point, I can see it coming from a mile away.

“I’m really not looking for anything serious, you know? Just some fun, some good sex, and all that. I mean, what are the twenties and thirties for, anyway?”

I take another swig of my fourth margarita, deciding vomiting or tossing my drink at him would be both childish and a waste of my pride.

In truth, it’s not like Tony’s my type anyway. It’s not like I got that pang in my chest telling me that this very tanned, very talkative man is the one I’m looking for. There haven’t been any sappy montages playing in my head of white-picket fences, golden retrievers, and two children running in the front yard, all to sappy music.

Then again, after all these years of dating only to have about a dozen disastrous relationships under my belt, I’m pretty sure the pang in my chest is no longer functioning. Every bone in my body has just about given up, and the only montage in my head looks sort of like a lonely horror film. I feel a bit like that scorned woman in Great Expectations, sadly watching a clock in a dusty old room.

Ocean City, Maryland, isn’t the easiest place to live if you’re looking for love. Correction. Ocean City, Maryland, isn’t the easiest place to live if you’re looking for the kind of love that’s not the one-night-stand or “just wild fun” variety.

The tourists are here simply looking for some one-night-stand fun. The rest of the regulars are either workaholics—and, arguably, I could probably fit into that category—or the ones who have sworn off serious relationships. After all, with all these new possibilities floating in every summer, who wants to settle down? Isn’t monogamy overrated?

Maybe they’re right. Maybe it’s me who has the problem. Or maybe I should blame my parents for setting the bar so high and for showing me that marriage is a beautiful idea, that settling down with one person can be fulfilling.

Or maybe it’s just all the margaritas are making it hard to think.

“Oh, hey, that’s my coworker over there. Do you mind if I go talk for a minute?” Tony asks, and I practically leap with joy. I’ve been trying to come up with an escape plan now for about a half hour.

“Not at all,” I reply, flashing him a grin to reassure him.

As soon as he’s across the room and a safe distance away, distracted, I’m out of my seat and crossing the dance floor of the Marooned Pirate, beelining for the exit as I pluck my cell phone from my pocket.

I dial her number.

“Lysander, don’t tell me you’ve quit the date already,” Jodie whines as she answers the phone.

“Hello to you, too,” I reply. “And yeah, I’m starting to worry that maybe we’re not actually as good friends as I thought. I mean, really? Tony?”

“He’s cute, right?”

“He’s cute. But the overly tanned jock type isn’t exactly my type.”

“Yeah, but your type is either boring or assholish. I thought maybe you needed to mix it up.”

“Well, we just spent a half hour talking about pizza toppings and toe fungus, in that order. Oh, and about how he’s not looking for anything serious.”

Texan Hearts

(book 3)

books2read.com/texan-hearts

A high school English teacher, an author, and a fan of anything pink and/or glittery, Lindsay’s the English teacher cliché; she love cats, reading, Shakespeare, and Poe.