Do you ever wish life was more like your favorite romantic comedy—full of hot, charming guys with great hair, upbeat music montages, and a guaranteed happily-ever-after?

No crappy, mediocre dates. No painful periods (or, you know, messy bodily functions of any kind). No stress over making rent on your tiny shoebox of an apartment.

And definitely no men who seem like they’re totally into you but then ghost harder than Casper, with zero warning at all.

“Hey!” I protest, as my phone gets swiped out of my hand.

My best friend, Zoey, rolls her eyes until they practically disappear into her head. “This is Chick Flick Club, not ‘Watch Gemma check her phone every ten seconds’ club.”

I glance at the TV, where our movie is already paused. Right on Jude Law’s pretty-boy face. No coincidence that the movie’s stopped right there—our other friend Eve’s lust for Jude Law is the stuff of legend.

Tonight, the legend is The Holiday, because even though the holidays are months away, rom-coms and happily-ever-afters are never out of season for us. We’ll happily watch Valentine’s Day in August, or Love Actually in May. We once watched Groundhog Day on the Fourth of July.

What can I say? We know how to party hard.

I reach for the remote but Eve holds it back. Her blonde hair is up in a ponytail, and she’s dressed in a cute sundress covered with tiny poodles—a nod to her #2 passion in life, her furry friends down at the animal shelter. “Who are you waiting to call?” she asks, then brightens. “Is it a guy?”

“It was,” I sigh. “He suggested last night, but never followed up, and now he’s not replying to any of my texts.”

“Which guy?” she asks, frowning. “Austin?”

Zoe smirks. “I think you mean Orlando.”

“Boise!” They laugh.

“Dakota,” I grin, despite myself. “His name is Dakota.”

Zoey grabs a handful of her patented popcorn blend. Or if it isn’t patented, it should be. That stuff is so addictive, I don’t let her leave leftovers in the house. But that’s a hazard of being BFFs with an amazing chef. “So what happened?” she asks.

“I don’t know!” I shrug helplessly. “The app matched us up, we got drinks, we went on three dates and had a really fun time, and now ... nothing.”

“I’m sorry, Gems.” Eve squeezes me sympathetically.

I try not to feel rejected. “I thought he liked me. We got along well enough. I thought maybe ... it could really be something.”

“Awww.”

“Hmmm.” Zoey doesn’t sound so sympathetic.

I turn. “What?”

“Nothing, just ... three dates? And you didn’t fuck him?”

“Our third date was mini golf!” I protest. “I wasn’t exactly going to bang him in the middle of the windmill challenge.”

“But after?” Zoey prods. “No, ‘Want to come up for coffee?’ No, ‘Wow, I have this bookshelf that needs moving.’ No, ‘Wanna fuck?’ ”

“I don’t move that fast!” I protest, giggling. “We’re not all voracious sex queens.”

“Why, thank you.” Zoey mimics a royal wave. I laugh.

“Seriously, what’s with this arbitrary third date thing, anyway?” I argue. “Maybe I need more time to warm up to a guy.”

“So there were no sparks?” Eve frowns.

“There was ... spark potential?” I decide.

But even an old-fashioned romantic like Eve has zero time for that. “Then she’s right. If you weren’t feeling it enough, you must have known something was up. So, why do you care if he ghosted you?”

“I don’t know . . .” I pause. “Just because I wasn’t sold on him, doesn’t mean I didn’t want him to fall madly in love with me!”

They both look at me and burst out laughing.

“OK, that sounds pretty weird,” I laugh along. “But seriously, I’m never going to get laid again! I’m done with the apps and online things. I’m tired of meeting the great-on-paper guys who end up being mediocre.”

“Or married,” Zoey agrees.

“Or have a secret fetish for girls dressed up in bear costumes,” Eve adds.

“That’s right!” Zoey snorts. “I’d forgotten about Phil the Furry!”

“I wish I could!” Eve shudders. “You know, he keeps texting me, asking for pictures of all the shelter dogs. I feel like he’s asking me to send him porn!”

“Eww!”

My laughter fades. “So what are we supposed to do?” I ask, lying back on the couch. “How are we supposed to find someone we actually have chemistry with, in person?”

“Go old school?” Zoey suggests.

“How?” Eve wonders. “Everyone in this town walks around staring at their phone all day. There was a cute guy in line by me at the coffee shop the other day. I kept trying to catch his eye, but he was just swiping on Tinder the whole time!”

“Maybe we should try something active,” I suggest, thinking hard. “Rock climbing?”

“You’re pretty much guaranteed to meet cut guys rock climbing,” Zoey says. “But it’s hard work. Sweaty hard work.”

I remember what a mess I look like after working out. “OK, so maybe not rock climbing but something outdoorsy. Maybe ... surfing ... ?”

“Shark attacks,” Eve says immediately.

“Hiking?”

Zoey smirks. “You’re not exactly the outdoorsy type, Gemma. Remember that camping disaster a few years back?”

Eve laughs.

“Not funny!” I cry. “Getting trapped in that outhouse was the worst! I was stuck in there for like, an hour.”

“You don’t have to hike the mountains to get outdoorsy,” Zoey suggests with a mischievous look. “You could always go trap Bigfoot.”

“Umm, nope.”

Bigfoot, aka my neighbor, Zach, the hairy man-whore across the hall. He moved in a few months ago, and ever since, he’s paraded woman after woman to his lair.

Zoe is still smirking. “You could do worse. Men like that generally know what they’re doing. Lots of practice and all.” She waggles her eyebrows.

“Please,” I groan. “Not if he was the last man on earth. And I use the term ‘man’ loosely. That guy makes Bigfoot look like he’s been manscaped. And when he’s not ‘entertaining’ all his lady friends? The guy sits around playing video games all day! I don’t need a Bigfoot and I definitely don’t need one who doesn’t have a job. I’m broke enough on my own, thank you very much.”

“You could just get a dog,” Eve suggests. “You can’t get better loyalty and friendship than that.”

“That’s not all there is in life, Evie,” I say gently.

“You’re right.” Eve leans over and refills my wine glass. “That’s why God invented grapes.”

“And vibrators,” Zoey quips.

We all laugh.

“Start the movie, Evie,” Zoey decides. “If we can’t have real boyfriends, we may as well live vicariously through movies. I mean, seriously, take Jude Law here.” She points her glass at the screen. “Horrible in real life, but I’d break a few laws to bang the shit out of him.”

“Your puns are seriously awful,” Eve giggles. “Not like you take time away from work for dating. Something tells me the only thing you’ve banged lately is your toes against the counter on your food truck.”

“Wait.” Zoey gives her a sideways look. “Do you have a secret camera in my kitchen?”

“Why?” she teases back, “So I can catch you singing along to your Avril Lavigne mixtape from high school?”

“Avril was an underrated songwriter.” Zoey sticks her tongue out.

“Sure thing, skaterboy.”

She tosses a pillow at Eve—which hits me in the face. “Hey!” I protest. “Weapons down.”

“OK, OK.” Eve lifts the remote. “And be quiet. I don’t want any interruptions to Jude’s sexy British accent this time.”

“Never mind his accent,” Zoey adds. “There are like, ten other things he should be doing with that mouth.”

It’s late by the time we finish the movie, and the girls head home. I change into my pjs and then settle back on the couch again with my laptop, prepping for work tomorrow.

After hustling together a bunch of part-time freelance gigs and internships after fashion school, I finally landed a full-time job (with benefits!) at Styled, a new fashion start-up. We’re virtual stylists, so people upload photos of themselves and their wardrobe, and we conjure up a makeover, complete with online shopping recommendations, hair and makeup tips, and more. Most of our work is done online, but I have a client coming in for full makeover. Carol has been a stay-at-home mom for nearly fifteen years, but now she’s about to get back out there, working in tech, and needs an upgrade from yoga pants and Skechers to interview outfits.

Clients like this are my favorite. Sure, the high-fashion stuff can be fun, but I love jobs that are about helping a client be the best that they can be. Starting from scratch and seeing the massive transformation gives me a kick every time—not just the changes on the outside, but the effect on clients’ confidence and self-esteem, too.

I’ve been prepping samples and storyboards for Carol for a couple of weeks, all online, but tomorrow is when it all comes together, so I make sure I’m prepared: mentally putting the outfits in order. Figuring out which shoes go with which suit. My mind whirs away with all the clothing combinations.

Until I suddenly feel I’ve been dropped into a nightclub, complete with high-energy dance beats and bass that could shake the rafters. If I had rafters, and not just peeling popcorn ceilings.

What the hell?

Following the music, I head across the hall to Zach’s door. I knock. Louder. “Zach!” I holler, beating on the door. “For God’s sake, would you please turn down the—”

The music shuts off, and the door swings open, in time for my yell to echo at full volume.

“—MUSIC!!”

“No need to yell,” Bigfoot says evenly. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of jeans he must have just pulled on, because only the bottom couple of buttons are done up ...

And he’s definitely going commando.

A squeak escapes me and my eyes dart back up to his face. I flush.

“So, Emma,” he drawls, crossing his arms over his hairy (yet maddeningly well-defined) pecs. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

I ignore that he called me Emma—and punched up the word pleasure—and raise my eyebrows. “Can you please keep it down? It’s almost midnight.”

“Aww, am I interrupting your beauty sleep?”

“Come on.” I try to stay calm. “Some of us have to work in the morning.”

“Sucks to be you.”

I cross my arms, getting annoyed now. “Look, all I’m asking is a little neighborly consideration. Play whatever you like, just keep it regular level. Unless you’re killing someone in there and need it to drown out the screams,” I add.

He smirks. “Well, they’re not screams of pain ...” He glances back into the apartment, and I realize he must have a girl there.

Typical Bigfoot.

“Bigfoot?” he asks, and I realize I was muttering out loud. Then he looks down at his bare feet before shrugging. “Well ... You know what they say about big feet ...” He waggles his eyebrows, and I throw up my hands with a frustrated “Mneugh!”

“Zach?” I hear a female voice, and then the screaming girl in question comes sauntering to the door. She’s cute, dark-haired and petite, wearing an oversized Harvard sweatshirt over ... clearly, nothing else. “Oh, hi.” She smiles prettily at me.

Zach puts his arm around the woman and pulls her into his side. I am one thousand percent sure he’s making a point. “Shonda, this is my neighbor, Emma. She just came over to tell me how much she’s enjoying the music.”

“Gemma,” I correct with an exasperated sigh. He knows my name. He just loves getting a rise out of me. “And it’s not like I want to be a buzzkill, but other people live in this building, too.”

Bigfoot shrugs. “The Kowalskis are out of town, Pete and Kev are at a club, and Cecily works nights.” He gives me a sad-clown face. “It’s the three of us, princess. But if you want to come join the party ...” He holds the door wider.

Wait, is he seriously inviting me to a threesome right now?

Ugh!

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” I say sarcastically. “Maybe another time.”

“Sure thing, sweetheart.”

“It was nice meeting you,” Shonda pipes up. “And I’m sorry, we’ll keep the music down.”

“Thank you!” At least one person here has a heart.

I turn on my heel and stalk back across the hall. Zach’s voice follows me. “A pleasure, as always, Emma.”

I flip him the bird over my shoulder.

He chuckles.

I slam my door, feeling like I won that one. Until twenty minutes later, when the music starts up again.

“You’ve got to be kidding me!” I yell at the wall.

Although, maybe the music is better than hearing his name yelled out in the throes of passion. For a hairy, rude asshole, the man gets way too many girls. Either he’s right about those big feet, or … I have no idea. Hypnosis?

Either way, I’m going to have to figure out some way to deal with him before I wind up a stumbling zombie. Blackmail, or bribery, or sneaking in while he’s gone to disconnect his surround-sound speakers. Nobody would blame me for a little light sabotage, right? Sleep-deprivation is against the Geneva Convention?

I pull my pillow over my head and try to get to sleep.