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we’re undressed and insist that we should be naked as much as possible, because it’s that fine of a sight. Instead, they wait. Wait until we hate ourselves enough that those weaknesses define us. Then they poke the fat bear with a stick.
    Dusty relaxes after he notes I haven’t offered a snappy comeback. His hand disappears from my hip and he pushes a fifty-dollar bill across the bar top.
    â€œLet me buy you a drink, Lace. No fighting.”
    Oh God. Absolutely not. The last time Dusty bought me a drink at Lonigan’s it did not end well. On a dark evening five months ago, I was feeling mope-tastically lonely, unmoved by any of my typical empowered girl talk about self-reliance, and that night Dusty was the best version of himself. Cocky. Engaging. Convincing. One glass of white zinfandel and my rational brain fuzzed and bloomed into oblivion until I was convinced that one night between two people who formally broke up over three years ago wouldn’t really matter.
    I was wrong. It mattered.
    It mattered because in the morning Dusty acted like it didn’t. Utter frosty detachment when he chooses is the man’s greatest strength, and seeing it in his eyes works to my frailty. Every. Single. Time.
    The first time we dated it was because I was a sophomore, he was a junior, and he had a Dodge diesel with stacks and decided I was worth taking for a ride in it. The teenage Dusty was fun in the way a kegger is fun—when you’re fifteen. Loud, boisterous, exciting, and good at making you forget why having another drink isn’t a smart idea. Unfortunately, the aftereffects of both can be eerily similar. Usually you’re left wondering where your bra is, while praying for a magic wand that rustles up do-overs.
    The second time we dated it was because he was back from Kansas State with a degree in criminal justice and I liked the way that sounded. Seeing him at Deaton’s Café again seemed like fate and a future presenting itself. He felt like home.
    From a distance, on paper, in theory, we should have been perfect together. The cheerleader and the quarterback. Nearly matching shades of blond hair and blue eyes between us. Me, perched in the passenger seat of his redneck wet dream of a truck, wearing a flirty dress with cowgirl boots and flipping my hair around. But sometimes things that look good on paper fall flat when you try to stand them up and see how they withstand real life.
    We broke up for good a few years ago because I realized I was unhappy way more often than I was happy. It might have been easier if there were a more dramatic reason than that—he cheated, I cheated, or something else worthy of a soap opera story line—but instead, it was just the end. Plus, over time, the fun Dusty from my teen years has taken on a bitter edge, the result of always wanting more than what he already has.
    I may have also completed a women’s magazine quiz entitled “Is It Over?” only to find that my results were a near perfect score. “Perfect” meaning my score fell squarely into the “Don’t Bother with CPR Because This One’s DOA” category on the answer page. That helped put things in perspective.
    I cover Dusty’s hand with mine and then pat it, gently, because I’m not in the mood to fight with him, either.
    â€œNo way, Deputy. Keep your fifty for the next blonde through the door.”
    At that moment, like a stage cue to a melodrama starring me as the ditzy woman who will likely end up tied to railroad tracks at some point, the door to Lonigan’s opens and in walks Jake. Turns out my other high school ex-boyfriend happens to be the next blond through the door. Oh, life and all its zingy little sucker punches. If I weren’t struggling to take my next breath, I’d probably be knocking back the Randa-rita that Garrett just set on the bar and slamming down my empty while demanding another. But I’d put the entire fifty