Happily Never After

“WOW, YOU LOOK like you’re going to an awards show,” Rose said, clapping her hands together and smiling as I walked into the living room.

“Thanks,” I said, feeling good as I clasped the diamond stud in my right ear. It was a revolutionary experience, dressing up for myself, and I was a little bit smitten with it. It didn’t matter if Max liked the way I looked, or if anyone at the wedding had an opinion on whether or not my boobs were too small or my ass was too big.

I liked the black dress, and that was the only thing I cared about.

Hell, I wasn’t even nervous as I waited for my date. Wild, right?

“Who is taking you to the wedding again?” Larry asked, even though he was wearing his Beats, so I knew he wouldn’t hear me.

“Julian,” Rose answered with an eye roll. “I already told you that.”

“Which one is he?” Larry yelled, even though I’d literally had zero men come to the apartment since the breakup.

“Rhett Butler,” Rose said at the same time I said, “The guy from last weekend.”

“Sexy asshole,” Larry said, and I wasn’t sure what he meant, why he’d decided that, or who exactly he was telling it to.

I put on my other earring and was sliding into my pumps when Max buzzed from the lobby. I’d planned on telling him I was on my way, to spare him another interaction with my roommates, but Rose beat me to the speaker and said, “Come on up.”

Which, actually, I thought as I rubbed Karen’s and Joanne’s fluffy little heads and waited, was a good idea, because I could get her to take a picture of us.

Not like it was an actual date, but if I happened to have a photo of Max and me dressed up together and happened to show it to Edie—well, that wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world for my career, right?

When the knock came, I pulled open the door.

And proceeded to almost swallow my tongue.

Because Max Parks in a black tuxedo was entirely too much.

He was stunningly attractive, his tux perfectly tailored to show off that he definitely might be shredded underneath it all. That there was a wide, hard chest under that shirt and jacket. But he looked sophisticated and elegant, too, like . . . well, like he should be walking the red carpet at an awards show (thank you, Rose). This vision that he was, combined with my knowledge of how unbelievably good he was at kissing, kind of made him the sexiest man alive.

His eyes ran all over me—hair, face, dress, shoes—like he was taking inventory, and it took everything in my power not to squirm. But I cleared my throat and reminded myself that I didn’t care what he thought about my appearance.

I was in love with the one-shoulder black cocktail dress, and that was all that mattered.

“Hi,” I said, almost as a question because he was still just staring at me.

“I don’t want to sound like an asshole misogynist, Soph,” he said, his eyes still everywhere on me, “but I don’t think I’ve ever seen a woman look this gorgeous in real life.”

“How would that make you sound like an asshole misogynist?” I felt breathless from his compliment, even though I knew I shouldn’t give a shit about his opinion. It was just . . . well, it was nice.

“Because it could be taken as a degradation of all women other than you, though that’s entirely not how I meant it.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding, before realizing I’d said nothing about his appearance.

“You look like a movie star,” I blurted.

“Clark—”

“Not Clark Gable, Rose,” I interrupted, exchanging an amused look with Max as I said to her, “he doesn’t have the ears for it.”

“What’s wrong with my ears?” he asked, feigning insecurity as he scrunched his eyebrows and touched his earlobes.

“They’re too small,” Larry yelled, still not removing his headphones.

“Hey, Rose,” I said, reaching for the phone that I’d conveniently placed beside my clutch on the entry table. “Would you mind taking a picture of us?”

“Sure,” she said, and I could feel Max giving me a look. I knew this was a bizarre request—it wasn’t senior prom and we weren’t invited guests at the wedding we were crashing, for God’s sake—but hopefully he’d go along with it.

I turned around and stood beside him—wow, has he always been this tall?—and ran a hand over my hair as he reached out to scratch Karen’s and Joanne’s heads.

“Say cheese,” Rose said, holding my phone up to her eye.

“Cheeeese,” I said, and just as she took the picture, I wrapped both my arms around Max’s right bicep and leaned my head on his arm.

And smiled a big-ass smile.

“What are you doing?” Max asked, barely moving his lips as Rose took multiple shots.

“What,” I said, pretending I didn’t know what he was talking about as I posed for the camera.

“Why do you want a picture like this?” he said, looking down at me.

“Of us dressed up?” I asked, blinking slowly like I was a wide-eyed dumbass.

“You know what I mean, Steinbeck.”

“Well, uh . . .” I tried to think of a reason why I’d want a picture of us like this.

“You obviously can’t think of a lie,” Max said, looking amused as we broke apart and I took back the phone from Rose. “So I’m going to assume you’re obsessed with me and wish to start a scrapbook.”

I rolled my eyes and snorted. “Absolutely not.”

I grabbed my bag, and as we exited the apartment and walked down the hall toward the elevator, Max said, “So if it’s not an obsession . . . ?”

“Ugh, fine,” I sighed, pushing the down button when we reached the bank of elevator cars. “I wanted to get a picture with you to convince my boss I’m not a shitshow.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “How would that convince her, exactly?”

“Well,” I said, stepping into the elevator when the doors opened. “She’s worried about my work-life balance, and she basically said everyone in the office thinks I’m hung up on Stuart just because I’m ‘mean’ to him.”

“The air quotes make it hard to believe she’s wrong, for the record,” he said, pushing the button for the lobby. “Although it surprises me that you’d care what people think.”

“Oh, I don’t,” I said. “But she does. And she’s the one who controls my potential promotion.”

“Ah. I see,” he said, putting his hands in his pant pockets.

“I thought if I could just post something on social media that makes it look like I have a personal life—and I won’t tag you, I promise—maybe that would help my antisocial image.”

Instead of commenting, he just looked at me. Not at me, exactly, but in my direction with his eyes narrowed, like wheels were turning in his head. The elevator dinged and the doors opened, and it wasn’t until we stepped out that he said, “You can tag me.”

“I don’t have to—”

“Tag me,” he interrupted, looking like he’d made some kind of decision. “And we should take a few more photos while we’re at it.”