Chapter Four
Terms & Conditions
The next morning Isla wakes to a mixture of fifteen missed calls and a flood of texts from Iris and Arie.
Most are from her overenthusiastic mother, wanting details about last night's date. The other is from her best friend, reminding her she’s responsible for dinner tonight.
Iris is very much the over protective, hippie helicopter mother Isla has learned to be patient with.
Mostly.
She winces when she clears her throat. The pressure in her head is suggesting three ibuprofen and an electrolyte mix the moment she attempts to leave her bed.
Bed?
She remembered closing her eyes on the couch.
“Hey, Mom,” Isla mumbles, shifting her hand to her forehead as if that might relieve the immense tension building behind her eyes.
Damn her for drinking again when she got back to the apartment last night.
Iris tuts, “Don’t give me that ‘hey, Mom’ bull. How was the date?”
See?
No bounds.
Isla groans into the phone. “He’s gay.”
A sharp intake of breath. “No!”
“Yup.”
“Did he tell you this, or are you just assuming?”
“Ma,” Isla complains. Squeezing her eyes shut. “He confessed right after he saw my vagina.”
“Ah, well —” Iris pauses. “That’ll do it, huh?”
This might be the only time Iris has ever been speechless.
Isla relishes the silence for one blissful second longer before changing the subject and asking what her mom has planned at the bookstore today.
Isla’s parents opened Down The Rabbit Hole a year into their marriage. A quaint, eclectic bookshop filled with used and new editions of timeless stories, it quickly became one of Isla’s favorite places to escape and get work done. It also killed two birds with one stone as she was able to get some one-on-one time with Iris, who spent most of her time and energy keeping the place up and running.
While other kids spent their afternoons at dance practice, soccer fields, or sneaking around behind bleachers, Isla spent hers tucked between overstuffed shelves alphabetizing paperback, ringing up customers, and pretending she wasn’t eavesdropping on middle-aged women debating which fictional man was more swoon worthy.
Then, somewhere between college essays, late-night romance binges, and fixing the typo-ridden newsletters her mother refused to proofread, they became something else.
A skill.
A calling.
A way to make rent.
By her senior year of college, Isla was editing papers for classmates who waited until midnight to discover commas existed. After graduation, she picked up freelance work whenever she could find it—indie authors, small press, bloggers, and business owners who thought spellcheck actually did its job.
Eventually, editing became the one thing in her life that made sense.
Stories had structure. Character had arc. Even the messiest manuscript could be fixed with enough patience, coffee, and a willingness to cut what no longer served the plot.
If only men came with track changes.
All of the stories she read were about love and life and sex.
So much sex.
She never understood how it actually worked until she was older. She envisioned the scenes involving men on top of women, both of them half-asleep because they were doing it all night long.
Exhausting, she used to think.
Until it was her time to start making out with boys and letting them feel down her pants.
Then she realized, oh.
That’s where it goes.
“We have an indie author setting up for a book signing tomorrow night,” Iris says, her voice brightening, “Do you think you’re going to join us, sweetie?”
Iris sounds hopeful, and Isla hates to burst her bubble.
As much as Isla would love to see her mom today, she is swamped with clients for the first time in weeks and hasn’t had time to even pick up this month’s read.
“I can’t, Mom.” Isla stretches, then catches sight of the time. “Oh, shit. I have to get ready. I’ll call you this week, and we can make some plans for brunch. My treat?”
Iris sighs, “You know this is the third one you’ve missed. Those old bats might want to kick you out of the club.”
She makes it sound as if Down The Rabbit Hole’s book club was a members-only society with secret handshakes and a blood oath.
There are currently eleven members that attend at most, and ninety percent of them utilize hearing aids.
And most likely some form of Depends.
“I think they’ll survive.” Isla teases.
“Love ya, kiddo.” Iris finishes before hanging up.
Mothers.
Intrusive as fuck.
It isn’t long before Isla is showered and dressed for the day ahead. It’s almost nine when she walks into the corner coffee shop where she likes to have her first cup of joe of the day.
Antoinette’s.
A French-inspired bakery filled with every pastry she’s ever dreamed of.
Quinn, the barista behind the counter, notices Isla walking in and she starts on the espresso drink right away. There aren’t many things Isla is particular about. However, coffee is one of the most important particularities she is a stickler for.
Do not offer her shitty coffee.
When her name is called, she makes her way to the end of the counter to grab her glorious hot beverage and morning snack.
Because whoever said a croissant is breakfast with nothing in between its layers is a damn liar.
On her short walk back to the apartment, Arie’s words from last night's intervention ring in her ears.
Isla understands what her best friend is saying.
She knows how selective Arie has always been about who she lets into her life.
Honestly, Isla considers it an honor that Arie had no choice but to start loving her by the end of their freshman year of college.
Arie might complain that it was the longest year of her life, but she hasn’t gotten rid of Isla since.
So that's something.
But for Arie to not want to find love?
To feel love?
Be loved?
Give love?
That’s all Isla ever wanted to do.
And she supposes she tries with every man who enters her life, but what is so wrong with trying?
Growing up, she watched her mom and dad dance in the kitchen. Make out with each other. Never care about PDA or who might think it was gross to get tongued down in the middle of the grocery store.
But that was love.
They endured the hard times. Stuck with each other through thick and thin.
Her mom was on the verge of leaving once, only to realize her dad was more important than her anger. She knew he needed help. Iris nursed Mitch back to health so many times over their thirty years together that when the cancer diagnosis came, it was a no brainer.
Mom had this.
Iris felt, somewhere deep down, that she would be able to cure Mitch’s cancer too.
Only Mitch’s cancer was a lot further than any of them anticipated.
So when he fell ill only three weeks later and died a week after that, no one was ready.
Least of all Iris.
Isla is still dealing.
So when she starts to think about excluding dating and finding things to occupy her time while she tries to let love find her, the entire routine sounds terrible.
Although Arie is extremely successful running her father’s media empire in the city, Isla wonders if her best friend actually enjoys not dating.
Keeping to herself.
Being selective with her presence.
Protecting her peace like it’s a priceless heirloom no one else is allowed to touch.
Arie doesn’t have drama in her life.
She doesn’t have stories about men who accidentally shart in bed post-fellatio.
That’s a story Isla isn’t sure she’s even ready to fully admit to yet.
“Do you think I should text him how much he owes me for my sheets?” Isla had asked Arie the next morning when she noticed the accident.
Arie shook her head furiously. “Delete that literal shit-stain from your contacts.”
Instead of counting on Isla to do the deed, she swiped the phone out of Isla's hand, found his contact, opened it, and had never hit a red button so quickly in her life.
“There. Deleted.”
Isla shutters at the memory of that asshole.
Arie might’ve deleted Shitstain Steve from her phone, but she didn’t know he was in Isla’s DMs.
And there was no way Isla wasn’t going to try to recoup the money from the Egyptian cotton sheets she purchased only two days before.
She never got the money back.
But Isla did allow Steve to go down on her in the back seat of his SUV a few days later when he promised her the money back for the sheets.
The only thing she got back was the orgasm she missed on their first date.
Then she left him begging for another favor she had absolutely no intention of returning.
Maybe Isla should think about giving up on dating.
Sex.
Men altogether.
Okay, so maybe Shitstain Steve was never going to be the happy ending of a love story.
But not for nothing, he was a good kisser.
And that usually indicates one thing.
He definitely proved his point that night in his SUV.
Still, her conscience was sitting heavy on her shoulder.
Along with Arie’s voice in her head.
Just stop dating.
The words echo in Isla’s mind.
The thought of stopping dating altogether feels foreign. Like a world she doesn’t know. A version of herself she wouldn’t recognize.
How is she supposed to just… stop?
It’s all she’s ever known.
And now that her life feels as if it’s on the brink of a romantic collapse, and she very dramatically decided lesbianism might be in her future, maybe it is time she takes a step back.
Delete all the dating apps.
No more swiping right more than left.
No more dealing with lackluster texts.
No more plans that never happen because being ghosted is an extremely humiliating experience.
And sitting at a table alone for forty-five minutes, polishing off a bottle of champagne to herself is not a memory she wanted to keep.
She huffs out loud.
It’s time to do something about this.
Isla pulls out her phone and Googles:
What exactly are the rules to celibacy?
Enter.
It’s time.
