Society would like you to think there are only a few key things you need to live well: love, family, purpose, shit like that. Or, if you like your advice more mercenary, you just need enough money or power to be able to do whatever the hell you want. 

As someone who'd lived his adult life without most of that, my secret to good living was a hell of a lot simpler: have great reflexes.

They served me well as I ducked out of the door frame right before the flying loafer could bean me. Not that such a flimsy shoe would do anything resembling damage, but I knew from experience that once someone started using footwear as projectiles, they were no longer inclined to rational thought. Any moment now Tucker might decide his shelf of dusty old high school trophies ought finally be put to some use.

“You cheating bastard!” he yelled, and another streak of brown suede chased its twin into the hallway. Not an escalation, at least.

“I did not cheat on you,” I grumbled, though it was entirely a perfunctory effort at that point. I really didn’t cheat on him (I wouldn’t cheat on anyone), because Tucker and I were not and never had been dating. Ever. Never, ever, ever. 

He saw it differently, I now knew. 

Tucker started out as an acquaintance from school days. I hadn’t even known he was living in Madena when I arrived in the city, but eventually we'd crossed paths. He was living with his college sweetheart when I’d found myself needing a place to crash, and he’d offered up their spare room. Then a month into our arrangement they broke up (dramatically). I didn’t know her well enough to get her side of the story, but according to Tucker she’d left him in order to “fuck every other man in the city.” 

A possibly hypocritical version of events, seeing as how it had only taken a week and a couple vodka sodas before good old Tuck had dragged me into his bed. 

Up until this morning, the arrangement had been working just fine. He got some rebound release, and I’d been upgraded from sofa bed to proper mattress. But even I knew that a few weeks of intermittent fucking did not boyfriends make. 

I had in fact been pretty clear with him since the moment we’d reconnected that I don’t do relationships, and that I wasn’t looking to be anyone’s boyfriend. That word hadn’t been used by either of us until today, when screamed at me like a curse. Trying to convince me I’d done something wrong by not coming home last night. 

I hadn’t. It was my own damn choice to be able to go out after my shift and have a little fun. Going back to the hotel room of the tourist who’d spent my entire shift flirting with me was my business. Tucker didn’t get a say over what I did with my body, any more than my bar manager did (it’s not like I clocked out early or forgot to send a text saying I wouldn't be home). 

My being right hadn’t stopped either of them from being pissed. At least I assumed my boss was, given the tenseness of his “you’ve been warned about sleeping with the customers— don’t come back” message this morning. 

So, ex-boss.

It was a little disheartening to become jobless on the same morning I’d realized it was time to move out, but I’d manage. Five years on my own, and I’d always been able to figure it out. There was always another gig. Always another couch. And while I'd sworn off relationships, it was usually too damn easy to find temporary company.

My current situation had run its course. Tucker had spent the better part of the morning ranting at me— long enough for me to have already packed up most of my belongings. My trusty duffel bags waited by the front door, ready to set out on our next adventure. 

Unfortunately, Tucker did still have my favorite hoodie. I’d left it in his laundry basket a few days prior, so I was pretty sure he hadn’t realized his leverage. If I could bide my time and wait his temper out, an opportunity would surely present itself. I didn't exactly have extra cash to buy a new one, and even if I did the place I'd bought it was thousands of miles (and a whole other life) away.

Once upon a time I would’ve just slipped out and asked a mutual friend to conduct the rescue mission, but I’d had a bit of a falling out with the only local candidate. For different, but again not my fault, reasons. Her brother came onto me, and the conclusion of our fling, months ago, had been totally amicable. I had in no way “corrupted” her “innocent baby brother” (who's twenty four, for the record, and nowhere near as inexperienced as Big Sis might have thought). 

Actually though, that could be the solution to a different problem– maybe Antony would let me crash at his place a few days? His apartment had a decent couch, or I wasn’t totally opposed to revisiting his bed. The physical chemistry had never been quite right between us, but there was something to be said for exuberance, and Ant had that in spades…

Wait, did he have so much more energy because he really was too young for me? Three (and a half) years wasn’t a big age gap in your twenties, right?

Whatever, a crash pad was what I needed, not an existential crisis. I pulled my phone out to message him. Within seconds there was a ring, and for one horror-struck moment I thought he was calling me to return a text. When I read the caller ID however, the headache that had been this entire day faded directly to the background. 

“Hello, stranger,” I purred. The throaty laugh I received in return was literal music. 

“Stranger, seriously? Like I’m the one who can’t stick to a zip code? Hello, Harper, you absolute dork.”

Rose Kelley is unequivocally the best best friend a boy could ask for. Sardonic and loving in equal measure, she’d been the stalwart in my life since just about the minute we met in our freshman dorm common room. I'd seen her standing on a table directing our fellow frosh in a downright unhinged version of Simon Says (aka “Rose Requires”), and it had been platonic love at first sight. 

We even managed to survive life as post-collegiate roommates, a test that would’ve ripped a lesser bond apart. Instead, life in our shabby little forest house in the middle of nowhere brought us closer than ever. Sure, I’d wound up moving out earlier than planned, but it hadn’t been Rose to chase me away. 

Technically no one had chased me. That had sort of been the problem. 

A problem of years ago however, no longer worth dwelling on (like I didn't have enough drama happening in real time). I slipped into the hall bathroom, out of range of Tucker’s tantrum. The last thing his anger needed was the knowledge that I’d fully stopped listening. 

“Now, ma’am, you know full well I’ve been enjoying life in Madena for eight— no, nine?— months now. I’m basically a local.” I dodged her jibe about zip codes, since Madena was a huge city and I’d probably been a temporary resident of at least a few by now. To say nothing of all the other cities I’d spent time in. 

Rose snorted, and I got it. She was a new homeowner, having bought the very house we lived in right after college, so we had pretty different definitions of what it meant to be a local. Or, maybe not different definitions. Different desire for it. 

“Fine.” Her tone said otherwise. “So if I send you mail at Tucker’s house, you’ll definitely get it?”

I wondered if she could feel me wince through the phone. I tried to keep my voice as light as possible (emotionally and literally). 

“Mail? Like paper mail? What year is it, exactly?” I teased. Rose huffed like she needed to personally support the entire postal service.

“Yes, paper mail. It’s still wildly popular for certain types of communication, you know.”

“Sure, like bills and catalogs,” I argued, assuming more than knowing this was true. I hadn’t actually held down an address long enough for either to find me. 

On the other end of the line Rose hesitated. Rose and I had the type of effortless banter that rarely allowed for gaps, so my nerves prickled almost instantly. I had paid all my rent back in the day, hadn’t I? Even if I not, Rose wouldn’t’ve waited five years to call me out on it (plus, like… she’d just text). 

“People use the mail for other things,” she finally said, her words way too measured. “Such as… brides who want to invite their best friend to their wedding.”

In that moment, even Tucker’s tantrum faded all the way out. I wasn’t worried about where I was going to sleep tonight, or how I would pay my bills. My entire world narrowed down to that one word, the two syllables echoing louder and louder in my brain: wedding. 

“Harper?” Rose prompted slowly, after who knew how long. “Harp, that’s what I called to tell you. I’m getting married.”

“What the fuck?”