“I can’t believe he said no.”

Both Charlie and Zoe roll their eyes, two nights after Marshall’s rejection. We’re seated at a high-top table at our favorite bar, and not even my favorite Pinot Grigio can soothe the sting of his firm “no.”

“I can’t believe he said no,” I repeat, motioning to a passing cocktail waitress for another round. “How could he even do that? How do you go from asking someone to dance one night to shutting them down the very next day?”

“Easy,” Charls says, surprising me. She snags my wine glass and downs what’s left. “Sorry, not sorry,” she tells me, pointing the glass at me when my mouth falls open. “We’ve been listening to you repeat the same phrase for thirty minutes now. I can’t take it anymore.”

I turn to Zoe, the bride-to-be. Instead of glowing radiantly like every bride should, she’s feigning sleep, one hand holding up her head. Clapping my hands together, Zoe puts on a good, performative jolt like I’ve startled her awake.

“What?” she says, glancing around. “What did I miss?”

Charlie snickers, and I resist the urge to kick her in the shin. “Oh, nothing. Our beloved Gwen is still talking about Hunt.”

“About how he turned her down?” Zoe replies, reaching for Charlie’s glass of wine. In other words, my glass of wine.

“Yup.”

“Oh, huh, guess I didn’t miss much then.”

“Is this pick-on-Gwen night or something?” Smiling politely at the cocktail server as she drops off our second round of much-needed booze, I turn back to my friends. “Why don’t you two have my side on this?”

Charlie and Zoe exchange a look, and it’s one that I can’t read. After a sip of her fresh Manhattan, Charlie props her elbows on the table and stares me down. “Do you want this easy or hard?”

I give an awkward laugh, knowing both of my friends aren’t the sort to beat around the bush. “Is this where I make a bad sex joke? That’s what she said, and all that?”

Zoe scrubs a hand over her mouth like she’s fighting off a smile but doesn’t want to encourage me. “No,” she says, lips still twitching, “this is where we tell you that we love you. You know we do. But this is all your fault.”

Charlie nods her curly blond head in agreement. “Totally your fault. What did you expect when you’ve strung the poor guy along for ten years now?”

“It hasn’t been . . .” Knowing that neither one of them is going to care about the fact that I haven’t even known Marshall for ten years, I add, “Correction. I’ve never strung him along. Not once.”

“Lies.” Charlie points at my wine. “Take a sip.”

“Is this a new drinking game we’re playing?”

“It is tonight.” Charlie pushes the wine glass toward me with one finger to the base. “Now, how about that time three months ago when you made sure to order his favorite kind of wings when we were having dinner at Zoe’s?”

They’ve got to be kidding me. Since when does an order from the local chicken-wing joint equate to relationship-anything? Clearly, the two of them are absolutely, irrefutably bonkers. Which, to be honest, isn’t shocking.

Charlie thrives off being the life of the party, as much as she pretends to be the quiet wallflower decorating the furniture. She’s hilarious, friendly, and snarky enough that most people are caught off-guard when she opens her mouth and trash-talks with the same caliber as a professional hockey player.

Zoe’s not much better. Sure, she can be quiet in group settings—unless she’s got a drink or two in her—but she’s just as much of a snark-master as our girl Charls.

So, it’s with a bit of trepidation that I murmur, “It was wings, you guys. Fried chicken, of all things. I didn’t offer him my left kidney.”

“Would you?” asks Zoe, lifting her brows. “Because Hunt would do that for you.”

“Give me his kidney?” I shake my head. “Wouldn’t happen.”

“You sure?”

“Well . . . yeah.” Am I sure? I certainly think that I am. Yes, Marshall hasn’t made an effort to conceal his attraction to me over the years. But attraction isn’t nearly the same thing as caring about someone.

“Drink time!” Charlie shouts, giving me The Look. The one where she’s both triumphant and tipsy, and I’m pretty sure she’s swaying in her seat. “You need a plan,” she adds, most definitely swaying now. She tries to pass it off like she’s dancing to the beat, but while hip-hop blasts from the bar’s speakers, Charls looks like she’s wrapped up in a slow-jam number from prom night.

She’s even got her arms wrapped around her belly.

We should probably get ready to call it a night. I’m not feeling all that sober myself. I blame Marshall for this—because in the span of five minutes, he managed to undo everything. I have my role in our relationship; he has his. When I hook up with guys—which hasn’t happened in months—they’re always older, separated from their wives, and way too busy with their careers to think about me for longer than it takes for us to do the deed. I don’t do younger guys or men with a penchant for long-term crushes. That’s not my style; it’s never been my style.

But then Marshall walked away, closing a door I’d ignored for so long, and . . . maybe I’m feeling a sense of regret for missing out on what could have been. Maybe I secretly liked the chase, and now that he has no plans to keep up the game, I’m desperate for any sort of connection with him.

Maybe you just don’t want him to walk away.

I bring my wine glass to my lips for a swallow of the cold, irrefutable truth—that I didn’t mind ignoring Marshall’s advances when I always assumed he’d be there.

And now he’s not.

Like my friends so eloquently told me, I have no one to blame but myself.

“I need to woo him.”

The song switches over the loudspeaker as I speak, and my slurred words come out an octave louder than is socially acceptable. Heads swivel in our direction, curious glances painting everyone’s expressions as they sip their cool brews and watch the spectacle unfold.

Cringing, I draw my shoulders down and bury my face into my hands. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe I just said that.”

Zoe pats me on the shoulder like I’m a good dog. “Glad you’re finally admitting what we’ve known all along. You’ve screwed up, bad.”

“Wooing is a great plan,” Charlie jumps in, tapping the top of my head so that I’ll meet her gaze, “as long as you do it correctly. And if you’re serious.”

“Why wouldn’t I be serious?”

Her head cocks to the side. “Um, maybe because you’ve had countless of opportunities to take him up on any of his offers to go out with him, and you’ve turned him down just as many times. I don’t think it’s out of the realm of possibility to consider that you’re just interested because he’s no longer pining after you?”

“I don’t think he ever pined after me,” I mutter, nevertheless feeling the sting of her words. I can’t help but wonder if they’re true. Anything’s possible and I’m definitely wasted right now. But . . . there’s also the fact that the last two days have been alcohol-free, and I still haven’t been able to rid myself of the hollow feeling which gripped my soul the minute Marshall dismissed me.

“He pined after you,” Zoe confirms with a nod and a toss of her long, dark hair. “Pining was definitely involved. Fact is, Gwen, here’s a little tough love. You’re perfectly comfortable living the single life. I mean, I’m actually rather convinced that you enjoy it. When you do date, it’s always casual and rarely lasts longer than a week or two.”

While the words ring true, they also ring loud, as though I’m witnessing more of my sins being paraded out in front of me.

Bitchy Gwen James. Icy Gwen James. Horrible Gwen James.

I know my faults, every last one of them.

Clearing my throat, I say, “That’s what I do, Zo, you know this. No-attached sex means there aren’t any hurt feelings when we go our separate ways. I don’t think I’m cut out for the ever-after sort of thing.”

“Then what are you doing sulking about a lost opportunity with Hunt? If you don’t want to date or get into anything more permanent, what’s the point?”

I don’t know.

I don’t know.

I think of my mother, who I plan to visit tomorrow. She’s been divorced multiple times, and yet she still jumps into new relationships with complete abandon. In a way, I almost envy her for that. Because in that respect, the apple might as well have landed in another continent.

I trust men to—excuse my language—fuck my body. Hell, I even trust them to make sure I orgasm. But I don’t trust men to choose me over someone else. And, if I’m being honest with myself, perhaps that’s always been my issue with Marshall.

I choose men who don’t want me for the long haul. They walk away faster than I can blink and I do the same.

Marshall . . . Marshall wouldn’t end things so heartlessly, not with me. But when he does leave—they always do—I don’t think I could recover from that. Not really. Not in the same way that my mother can rant and rage for a few weeks before finding a new man to marry.

There’s a seedling of doubt cracking my armor, a quiet question of what if? What if Marshall didn’t abandon me? It helps that my best friends are happily in relationships, too, although I know Charls and Zoe would never, ever consider hooking up with a guy I wanted to date.

They’re not like that.

Marshall isn’t like that.

“I think I’m an idiot,” I announce.

“Agreed.” This from Zoe. “Question is, what are you going to do about it?”

“Go after what I want.”

It’s time to woo Marshall Hunt.