Page 1 of Sweeter Than Fiction
Chapter One
Abby
“Look, sweetheart, if you’re not careful, you’re going to end up alone. You’re going to die with your knitting needles in hand and surrounded by your cats.”
I roll my eyes at my best friend, Jenson. Pointing my finger at him, I reply, “Uhm, don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic? I have more than just my cats and my knitting.”
“You do realize that the last line you said makes you sound like an old spinster, right?”
“Jenson, I’m thirty-three. I’m not in college anymore.”
“Exactly. You’re only thirty-three. Don’t you think you should get out and have some fun?”
“I’m out with you now. Doesn’t that count?”
He sighs. “One, we are at the bar right next to your apartment building. I’m not sure if that counts as going out. And two, it took me over an hour to convince you to leave at all.”
“Man, I finally come out with you, and you’re still busting my balls.”
I love Jenson, but he’s the exact opposite of me. He’s the greatest gay bestie a girl could ask for. He’s outgoing and fun and always the life of the party. Meanwhile, I’d rather avoid the party altogether. He’s the perfect yin to my yang.
Unfortunately, that also means that he occasionally forces me out of my comfort zone.
“When was the last time you went on a date?” He asks.
There he goes again.
“What’s the point? It never goes anywhere.”
“Haven’t you ever heard of the law of averages?”
“Huh?”
“Well, if you only go on one date a year, chances are, it’s not going to end in holy matrimony. But if you dated more, the chances of that would go way up.”
“Who says I’m desperate for holy matrimony?”
“Even if it’s not that, you could at least have someone who could give you some toe-curling orgasms.”
“What do I need a man for? I have a vibrator and smutty books. I have plenty of orgasms, and they’re better than any a man has ever given me.”
He wiggles his eyebrows at me. “You just haven’t found the right guy.”
Maybe he’s right, but chances are, I’m not going to meet the right guy any time soon. I hate dating. I’m weird and awkward. I always say too much or too little or just the wrong thing entirely. Men aren’t overly turned on by my knitting or my cats.
My romance books and my vibrator never judge me.
“Did you have me come out tonight just to give me shit?” I question.
“I’m sorry,” he replies. “I just worry about you.”
“Why? I’m fine.”
“You barely even leave the house anymore.”
He has a point, but honestly, there’s just not really a need for it. I work from home, and I live in a city where I can have anything I want delivered any time I want. I take full advantage of that fact.
“I like my apartment,” I defend. “I have it exactly the way that I want it. Why would I want to leave? There are too many people outside.”
