#cut to a couple of year forward: Jason's name is actually on the guest list much to his surprise

[purpleangiie]

[Damian got hurt badly during a battle, Jon visited him at the Manor and fell sleep on a chair next to Damian's bed, his head resting on the bed and Damian's hand on his.]

Dick: "Aw, look how cute they are!"

Jason, sarcastic: "Adorable."

Steph: "A perfect case of puppy love!"

Tim: "Yeah, who would've guessed that?"

Dick: "Hey, do you remember your teenage crush?"

Jason: "Which one?"

Tim: "Ugh, don't make me remember it."

Steph: "Such fun times!"

Dick, grinning proudly: "I ended up marrying mine!"

Jason: "Yeah well, I could have too if I didn’t di–"

*Everyone sighs*

Tim: "Please, just save it." *to Dick* "You think they'll end up getting married?"

Dick: *shrugs with a smile*

Steph: *nods confidently*

Jason, scoffing: "You really think the brat will get married?"

Damian, who was awake the entire time, just resting with his eyes closed: "I certainly will, Todd. And I guarantee your name won't be on the guest list."

[hollyharper]

If you’ve read my earlier family reunion one shot, You can imagine what’s coming. But this time, it’s the Wayne’s and a few unexpected guest! I few conversation ideas I borrowed from @steadybakeryathleteroad. If you haven’t read his batfam conversations, you have to.

The suggestion had been Dick’s, but it was Selina’s work that made everything fall into place. Kara had agreed to watch over Blùdhaven, and the Titans promised to hold their own. Dinah was basically begging to help in any way. She ended up on guard duty in Tokyo for the weekend. No one seemed to mind the three days inconvenience. In a way, they all seemed hype about the idea. Selina bit her tongue as she glanced down at the guest list. Deep down she knew Bruce wouldn’t be happy, but it was Thanksgiving, a percent time for a family reunion. She was family. With a sigh she dropped the paper into the waste bin. It would be good for them all to come home, and she wanted to meet them. It wouldn't be like she was truly part of the family, until she met all of Bruce’s protégés and ‘children’. The words caused her to tremble. Even if it was the closest words, she couldn’t call them his kids. Bruce was only in his mid thirties, the idea of a twenty four year old ‘child’ was nothing but freaky. Fourteen year old Damien, she could handle. At least the idea of his parentage, no one could handle him, especially not her. For their shared love for Bruce both managed not murder each other, at least when he was there. Selina gave the hall a quick once over.

“It’s repulsive.” There was the reason she couldn’t stand Damien, his rude unruliness.

“I like it.” Holly’s soft voice trailed after him.

“It’s permissible.” He grumpily alters.

Another thing that drove Selina crazy, how he still did everything to please Holly. Always the rebel, Damien wasn’t in the button down shirt that had been agreed upon, but a black turtleneck and dark gray trousers. Holly wore a short pale pink dress with lace sleeves. Her hair was loosely braided, with half falling out, clearly Damien’s work. Selina but her tongue. As much as she wanted this year’s Thanksgiving to be perfect, the messy look fitted Holly. Selina tucked loose strands back into Holly’s braid, and left it at that. Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

“What do you think?” Selina asked, not even turning around.

“You did good.” Bruce rested a hand on her shoulder just as she finished with Holly. “Is Flatline coming?” He asked.

Damien nodded. “Yes.”

Holly turned her head to hide her scowl. While two had never officially dated, It had been obvious how they cared for each other. When Damien came back with a girlfriend, Holly was anything but happy. Flatline had quickly picked up on it and made a point to rub it in whenever possible. Putting the two in the same room was worse than Barbara and Koriand'r. In the middle of tension, the doorbell rang. Selina sighed and expertly guided Holly away. Bruce gave a silent thank you, and went to greet the first guest.

Flatline dress up impressively. While she stuck to her classic punk, her knee length dress was stunning. A small smile crossed Damien's expression. He gave no complaint, but greeted her affectionately. As they crossed into the main room, arms casually around each other, Flatline sent Holly a challenging glare. Holly gripped the tray tightly. Without a sound, she walked past. The second to step in, was Barbara. As usual, she wore a bright green dress, with her hair in a delicately curled ponytail. She gave the teen girls an observant look, and crossed to Holly.

“Who braided your hair?”

Holly didn’t even look up. “Damien.” She refused to use his nickname now.

“He did pretty good.” Still Holly refused to respond. “You just have to let it go.” Barbara placed a hand on the younger girl’s shoulder. “They’ll be others. Most boys aren’t worth crying over. And the one who is won’t make you cry.”

Holly simply nodded and wiped at her eyes. Selina smiled at the sight. Barbara was better with kids than her. Something about the young woman was welcoming. From the corner, Damien’s laugh echoed, even through a straight face. Flatline leaned closer to him and said something else that resulted in another laugh. That only seemed to worsen Holly’s mood.

Cassandra Had flown in the night before, and now descended the stairs, in time to see Barbara whisk Holly away. Cass quickly followed out the side door. Jason, Tim and Dick joined the remaining group not long later. Stephen trailed behind them, completely neglected.

“Is that it?” Bruce asked, after greeting the four.

“Two more.” Selina whispered, half afraid to admit what she had done.

He nodded and bit his tongue.

“Come.” Damien commanded.

“Where?” Flatline asked, just to annoy him.

He pointed to the three retired Robins. She stalked over without him.

“Hi, Flat.” Dick greeted.

She scowled. Dick was the only one of the older siblings she had met. While she kind of liked him, the nicknames were detested.

“Jay, Tim, This is Dami’s girlfriend, Flatline.”

Both stared at her.

“Did you say ‘Damien’s Girlfriend’?” Jason said, still staring. “Really?”

“How did you meet?” Tim asked.

Damien and Flatline exchanged a look. Both stayed silent. When it was clear that Damien wasn’t going to tell, Flatline spoke up. “He was being arrogant, and cute.” At that Damien acully blushed slightly. “And I had to kill him.”

“Kiss him?” Tim amdened.

“That too.”

Jason and Tim started to stare again.

“Welcome to the dead son club.” Jason slapped Damiens shoulder as he passed.

“He died and came back.” Tim explained.

“Hmm.” She didn’t sound impressed. “Damien died twice.”

“What?” Tim exclaimed as she walked away. “Twice?”

Damien nodded. The side door was flung open, as Barbara and Cass paraded Holly in. They had put her into a black halter dress Selina had never seen before. Her hair was now twisted into an elaborate bun. Pink eye shadow mirrored the cherry blossoms in her hair, and the ones painted on her skirt. She smiled for the first time that evening. Damien stopped to stare as she entered. Annoyed, Flatline grabbed his arm and dragged him away. Dick’s eyes were glued to Barbara.

“Do you want to help with the turkey?” Tim asked.

“Mmmhmm.” Dick responded, clearly unintuitive.

Tim dragged him away, while Jason argued with Damien. Dami finally consented, on the compromise, that Flatline could come too. Finally, all five stood around the turkey pin.

“Who wants to shoot it?” Jason asked.

“SHOOT IT?” Damien exclaimed. “Don’t shoot it.”

“It’s dinner.” Dick calmly replied.

“We can’t eat Tom!”

“Tom? You seriously named the turkey?” Jason lifted an eyebrow.

Flatline smothered a giggle.

“He’s mine.” Damien claimed every animal in the house was his.

“Dami.” Dick started gently. “You knew at the beginning that we were going to eat this turkey.”

“You can’t. I won’t let you.”

“Jason.” Tim and Dick asked simultaneously.

“He’s right.”

“What?”

Jason shrugged. “It’s not a fair fight. We should give the tur- Tom a gun too.”

Flatline’s jaw dropped along with Dick and Tim’s.

“You’re actually serious?” She threw her hands up. “I’m going inside.” With that, she stomped off.

Selina glanced around the hall. The five girls had clumped by the punch. Only one left. Helena had arrived after the boys went to help with the turkey. She had been absorbed into the gossip circle immediately. Heels clicked on the tile. Bruce gasped.

“Beloved.” Talia greeted.

She gave a cautious glacé toward Selina, then placed a quick kiss on Bruce’s cheek.

“Where’s Damien?”

Selina reserved the ‘We will talk about this later’ look.

“He’s outside.” Bruce answered. “He’ll be in soon.

It wasn’t five minutes later, that the boys all filed back inside. Jason had a deep cut on his shoulder. Dick’s left thigh was bleeding, and all but Damien were bruised and scratched.

“What happened?” Three of the girls flocked over.

Selina buried her head into Bruce’s shoulder, and muffled a sob. Holly and Flatline stepped forward at the same time, but then glared at each other.

“What happened?” Barbara asked, pressing a cloth to Dick’s injury.

“Let’s just say, we’re not having turkey.”

Damien had a very pleased expression. Talia fidgeted with the green of her emerald dress. His expression changed when he saw her.

“Mother?” In half a second, he had flung himself into her embrace.

“Like it or not, she’s family.” Selina whispered.

“I know.”

The reunion of mother and son quickly turned into an inspection. Damien seemed happy, even as he moved through rehearsed drills.

“You’re stronger.” Talia smiled approvingly.

Damien dragged her to everyone in turn, she recognized Jason and Cassandra, and warmly greeted all the others. She was skeptical of Flatline, but after hearing how the two meet, the girl appeared to have her approval.

The alternative to turkey turning out to be chicken. It wasn’t too bad of a substitute.

“This is really good.” Stephine said, her mouth half full.

“It would be better if we had turkey.” Tim shot Damien a glare.

“No one touches Tom.” Dami growled back.

Talia silently sighed and bit her lip. The table was thrown into an argument that resulted in Damien and Holly being sent to bed earlier. Thankfully, the adults managed to carry out a more calm evening afterward. Untill, Cass and Jason started bickering. That started another chain reaction. Tim and Steph started arguing, and soon Barbara was in on it too. Inevitably, everyone either calmed down or left. By the time everything had calmed back down, Selina, Bruce, and Talia were all that remained.

“This is for Damien. It was his grandfather’s.” Talia handed Bruce the package, then without a goodbye, left.

The young couple stared at each other for a moment.

“That was, eventful.” Selina whispered, slumping against the couch.

It’ll be better next year.”

“Next year!” She called up after him. “NEXT YEAR!!!!”

[illbefinealonereads]

Blog tour day! Allow me to tell you more about Husband Material by Emily Belden, as well as share an excerpt from the book.

Husband Material : A Novel Emily Belden On Sale Date: December 30, 2019 9781525805981, 1525805983 Trade Paperback $15.99 USD, $19.99 CAD Fiction / Romance / Romantic Comedy 304 pages

Told in Emily Belden's signature edgy voice, a novel about a young widow's discovery of her late husband's secret and her journey toward hope and second-chance love.

Twenty-nine-year-old Charlotte Rosen has a secret: she’s a widow. Ever since the fateful day that leveled her world, Charlotte has worked hard to move forward. Great job at a hot social media analytics company? Check. Roommate with no knowledge of her past? Check. Adorable dog? Check. All the while, she’s faithfully data-crunched her way through life, calculating the probability of risk—so she can avoid it.

Yet Charlotte’s algorithms could never have predicted that her late husband’s ashes would land squarely on her doorstep five years later. Stunned but determined, Charlotte sets out to find meaning in this sudden twist of fate, even if that includes facing her perfectly coiffed, and perfectly difficult, ex-mother-in-law—and her husband’s best friend, who seems to become a fixture at her side whether she likes it or not.

But soon a shocking secret surfaces, forcing Charlotte to answer questions she never knew to ask and to consider the possibility of forgiveness. And when a chance at new love arises, she’ll have to decide once and for all whether to follow the numbers or trust her heart.

Advance Praise for Husband Material

“Tackling thorny questions of widowhood and dating after trauma, Belden's second novel is witty, full of heart, and blindingly au courant. Packed with pop-culture references, it will appeal to fans of Sophie Kinsella, Rosie Walsh, and Plum Sykes. Belden writes twists and turns to keep readers hooked.” —Booklist

“Charming.” —Publishers Weekly

“Sensitive, thoughtful, and touching.” —Library Journal

“In this touching, witty, and timely book, Emily Belden deftly explores the complexities of human relationships in our increasingly tech-obsessed world. By turns heartbreaking and laugh-out-loud funny, Husband Material beautifully demonstrates that you can't reduce love to a bunch of 1s and 0s.”

—Kristin Rockaway, author of How To Hack a Heartbreak

Buy Links: Harlequin Amazon Barnes & Noble Indie Bound Kobo Google Books

Author Bio: EMILY BELDEN is a journalist, social media marketer, and storyteller. She is the author of the novel Hot Mess and Eightysixed: A Memoir about Unforgettable Men, Mistakes, and Meals. She lives in Chicago. Visit her website at www.emilybelden.com or follow her on Twitter and Instagram, @emilybelden

Genre: Romance, Chick-Lit

Rating: 4/5 stars

Review: This was a very fun read for me. Belden writes in a style that I really enjoy, it feels fresh and light. Though the book tackled some heavy subjects, none of it was felt in the writing. The plot was paced well, and the way it progressed felt natural. The idea behind the book was beautifully executed. The characters were well developed and set up in a way that kept the book dynamic and entertaining. Though the characters aren’t relatable, straying from most books in the romance genre, Husband Material didn’t need to rely on that to make the book as enjoyable as it was. All it needed was the wit that Belden incorporated in it, and that was enough for me.

Excerpt:

Well, that’s a first.

And I’m not talking about the fact that I brought a date to a wedding I’m pretty sure didn’t warrant me a plus-one. I’m talking about grabbing a wedding card that just so happened to say “Congrats, Mr. & Mr.” on my way to cele­brate the nuptials of the most iconic heterosexual couple since George and Amal. This—and a king-sized KitKat bar from the checkout lane—is what I get for rushing through the greet­ing card aisle in Target while my Uber driver waited in the loading zone with his f lashers on.

It’s Monica and Danny’s big day. She’s my coworker, whose gorgeous face is constantly lining the glossy pages of Luxe LA magazine. Not only because she’s one of the leading ladies at Forbes’s new favorite company, The Influencer Firm, but because this socialite-turned-CEO is now married to Dan­iel Jones—head coach of the LA Galaxy, Los Angeles’s pro­fessional soccer team. If you’re thinking he must look like a derivative of an American David Beckham, you’re basicallythere. Let’s just hope their sense of humor is as good as their looks when they see the card I accidentally picked out.

Before I place it on the gift table, I stuff the envelope with a crisp hundred-dollar bill fresh from the ATM. Side note: I think wedding registries are bullshit. Everybody wants an ice cream maker until you have one and never use it, which is why I spring for cold, hard cash instead. I grab a black Sharpie marker from the guest book table, pop the cap off, and attempt to squeeze in a nondescript s after the second “Mr.,” hoping my makeshift, hand-drawn serif font letter doesn’t stick out like a sore thumb. I blow on the fresh ink, then hold the pseudo Pinterest-fail an arm’s length away. That’ll do, I think to myself.

I lift a glass of red wine from a caterer’s tray as if we cho­reographed the move and check the time on my Apple Watch, which arguably isn’t the most fashionable accessory when dressing for a chic summer wedding. But aside from the fact that it doesn’t quite match my strapless pale yellow cocktail dress, it serves a much greater purpose for me. It keeps my data front and center, right where I want it, not on my phone buried somewhere deep in my purse. Bonus: the band, smack-dab on the middle of my wrist, also covers a tattoo I’ve been meaning to have lasered off.

Other than telling me the time, 7:30 p.m., it also serves up my most recent Tinder notifications. I’ve gotten four new matches since this morning, which isn’t bad for a) a Saturday, since most people do their Tindering while zoning out at work or bored in bed at night; and b) a pushing-thirty New York native whose most recent relationship was the love-hate one with a stubborn last ten pounds. That’s me, by the way. Charlotte Rosen.

Though present and accounted for now, the battle of Tide pen vs. toothpaste stain went on for longer than I intended back at my apartment, causing me to arrive about half an hour late to the cocktail hour. Which means I for sure missed Monica and Dan’s ceremony in its entirety. I, of all people, know that’srude. I’m someone who is hypersensitive to people’s arrival ten­dencies (well, to all measurable tendencies, to be honest; more on that later). But I’m sort of glad I missed the I Dos, as there is still something about witnessing the exchange of vows that makes me a little squeamish. I got married five years ago and, well, I’m not married anymore—let’s put it that way.

The good news is that with time, I can feel it’s definitely getting easier to come to things like this. To believe that the couple really will stay together through it all. To believe that there is such a thing as “the one”—even if it may actually be “the other” that I’m looking for this next go-round.

Late as I may be to the wedding party, there are some perks to my delayed arrival. Namely, the line at the bar has died down enough for me to trade up this mediocre red wine for a decent gin and tonic. Another perk? Several fresh platters of bacon-wrapped dates have just descended like UFOs onto the main floor of the venue, which happens to be a barn from the 1800s. Except this is Los Angeles, and there are no barns from the 1800s. So instead, every creaky floorboard, every corroded piece of siding, and every decrepit roof shingle has been sourced from deep in the countryside of southwest Iowa to create the sense that guests are surrounded by rolling fields, fragrant orchard blossoms, and fruiting trees. The reality being that just outside the wooden walls of the coveted, three-year-long-wait-list Oak Mill Barn stands honking, gridlocked traf­fic on the 405 and an accompanying smog alert.

As I continue to wait for my impromptu wedding date, Chad, to come back from the bathroom, I robotically swipe left on the first three guys who pop up on Bumble, another dating app I’m on, then finally decide to message a guy who looks like a bright-eyed Jason Bateman (you know, pre-Ozark) and is a stockbroker, according to his profile. We end up matching and he asks me for drinks. I vaguely accept. Wel­come to dating in LA.

I’ve conducted some research that has shown that after the age of thirty, it becomes exponentially harder to find your fu­ture husband. What number constitutes exponentially? I’m not sure yet, but I’m working on narrowing in on that because generalities don’t really cut it for me. Thinking through things logically like this centers me, calms me, and resets me—no matter what life throws my way. All that’s to say, I’m officially in my last good year of dating (and my last year of not having to include a night serum in my skin care regimen), and I’m determined not to wind up with my dog, my roommate, and a few low-maintenance houseplants as my sole life partners.

“Sorry that took so long,” says Chad, returning from the men’s room twenty minutes after leaving. “Did you know the bathroom at this place is an actual outhouse? Thank god it was leg day at the gym—I had to squat over the pot. My quads are burning nice now.”

Confession. I didn’t just bring a date to the wedding, I brought a blind date.

No worries, though. Monica knows how serious I am about the path to Mr. Right and supports the fact that I go on my fair share of dates to get me there quicker. Plus, he isn’t a total stranger; she knows him—or, she met him, rather. He attended her work event last week at the LA County Museum of Art and is supposedly this cute, single real estate something or other. Of course he tried to hit on her and, unlike most beau­tiful people in Los Angeles, Monica actually copped to being in a committed relationship with Danny. (Who doesn’t like to brag they’re marrying Mr. Galaxy himself?) So she did the next best thing and gave him her single coworker’s Instagram handle and told him to slide into my DMs. It’s a bold move on her part, but I appreciate her quick thinking and commit­ment to my cause, Operation: Reclassify My Marital Status.

Since Chad first messaged me a week ago, I’ve done my homework on him. And I’m not talking about just your basic cyber stalking. I’m talking about procuring and sifting through real, bona fide data. It’s essentially a version of what I’m paid to do for a living—track down all the “influencers,” people with a lot of fans and followers on the internet, and match them to events we plan for our clients so they can post on so­cial media and boost our clients’ profiles.

Some may think my side-project software, the one that com­putes how much of a match I am with someone, is a bit…much, but I don’t see it that way at all. I’m on the hunt for a man who is a true match for me—one who won’t just up and leave in the blink of an eye. I left things up to fate once and look how that turned out. I’ll be damned if I do it that way again.

While I studied up on Chad, I conducted a hefty “image search,” yielding about a hundred photos of him that have been uploaded across a variety of social platforms over the years. In real life, I’m pleased to say he checks out. Chad is over six feet tall, tanned, and toned, with coiffed Zac Efron hair that’s on the verge of being described as “a bit extra.” From the shoul­ders up, he’s an emoji. A walking, talking emoji. But as I step back and admire him in his expertly tailored suit, he looks like a contestant on The Bachelor. In retrospect, Chad is just the right amount of good-looking to complement my physical appearance, which can be described as a made-for-TV version of an otherwise good-looking actress.

“Something to drink, sir?” one of the caterers asks Chad.

“Yes. A spicy margarita. Unless… Wait. Do you make the margarita mix yourselves? Or is it, like, that sugary store-bought crap?”

Eek. I had forgotten my discovery that Chad is a bit of a…wellness guru. I guess so is everyone in LA, but I can’t help but be taken aback when I hear that there are people who actually care about the scientific makeup of margarita mix.

“Fuck it. Too many calories either way,” Chad announces before giving the waitress a chance to answer his question. “I’ll just take a whiskey.”

“Splash of Coke?”

“God, no. So many empty calories.”

With his drink order in, Chad rolls his neck around and pops bones I never knew existed. Then, one by one, the joints in his fingers. The sound makes me a bit queasy but I’m try­ing to focus on the positive, like his beautiful hazel eyes and the fact that cherry tomatoes and mini mozzarella balls with an injection of balsamic vinegar are the latest and greatest munchie to hit the floor.

Chad turns to me with a smile, his palm connecting with the small of my back. “Should we find our seats? What table are we at?”

Good question, I think to myself. I’m at table six. Chad is…on a fold-up chair we will have to ask a caterer to squeeze between me and Monica’s great-aunt Sally? I kind of forgot to mention to him that I didn’t really get an official okay to bring him tonight.

“Table six,” I say pleasantly with a smile.

“Six is my lucky number. Well, that, and nine, if you know what I mean,” Chad says with a wink accompanied by an ac­tual thumbs-up.

The waitress comes back with his whiskey neat, and he proposes we clink our glasses in a toast to meeting up as we make our way to the table. Still not over the lingering effects of his immature, pervysixty-nine joke, I reluctantly concede to do the cheers with the perpetual high-schooler.

“So, what did you think of Monica’s event?” I say to break the ice as we take our seats at the luckily empty round table.

“Well, I don’t really know what she does for a living, but she is fine as hell. I mean, that’s why I hit on her last week atthe LACMA. Sure, I saw the ring on her finger, but couldn’t resist saying hi to a goddess like her. My god, that woman is something else.”

I nod in agreement. Partly because, yes, Monica Hoang needs her own beauty column in Marie Claire, stat. And partly because I’m too shocked by his crass demeanor to really do or say anything else. Did I say Chad reminded me of a contes­tant on The Bachelor? I think I meant he reminds me of a guy who gets sent home on night one of The Bachelor.

“She said you’re a real estate…attorney, was it?” I awk­wardly segue. “What’s your favorite neighborhood in Los Angeles?”

It sounds like I’m interviewing him for a job, which in a way, I am. But had I known the conversation was going to be like forcefully wringing out a damp rag, just hoping to squeeze out something semidecent, I would have never invited him to join me at the wedding. In fact, I likely wouldn’t have gone through with a date, of any kind, at all. Conversation skills rank high on my list of preferred qualities in a mate. Looks like he’s the exception to the rule that attorneys are good lin­guists, because my app sure as shit didn’t predict this fail.

So how does my software work, then? Well, it’s all about compatibility. My algorithm is programmed to know what I like and what I’m looking for in the long term. So to see if a guy is a match, I comb through his online profiles, enter the facts I find out about him, and generate a report that indi­cates how likely he is to be my future husband or how likely we would be to get a divorce, for example. One of the most helpful stats is how likely we are to go on a second date. I’ve determined that anyone scoring above 70 percent means that chances are good we’d go out again. And, well, a second date is the first step to marriage. You get the point. Anyone below a 70, I ignore and move on. Chad pulled a 74, which is a solidC if you’re using a high school grading system. Not stellar, but certainly passable with room for improvement.

As it’s turning out, there’s a lot of room for improvement.

“Huh? I’m not in real estate,” he says with a confused look on his face.

“Oh, Monica said you were an attorney at Laird & Hutchin­son?”

“Well, yes, that’s the name of our firm. The Laird side is real estate. But they acquired Hutchinson a couple years ago, and that’s the side of the practice I work on.”

“What kind of law is Hutchinson?”

“We’re the ‘Life’s too short, get a divorce!’ guys. You’ve probably seen a few of our company’s billboards.”

Chad slides his business card my way, and as soon as I see the logo, I picture those billboards slathered all over the bus stop benches down Laurel Canyon Drive and feel physically ill. Not only because he’s in the business of making divorce seem cheeky, but also because I’m wondering what other things I might have missed or gotten wrong about Chad.

“Wait. So have you ever been divorced?” The question pops off my tongue involuntarily. As soon as the words come out, I remember he reserves the right to ask me the same question in return and immediately regret posing it. I’m not ready to explain the demise of my first marriage.

“Me? Nah. Never married.”

Luckily, a server reappears to take our dinner order. But let it be known that if Chad had asked, I would have explained that I didn’t give up on my life partner because I was frus­trated he failed to load a dishwasher in any sort of methodical way. I didn’t just get bored and say “screw it,” chalking the whole thing up as just a starter marriage (google it, this is a thing now). In fact, if anyone abruptly left anyone, he aban­doned me out of nowhere.

“Would you like the chicken and veggies or the short rib and scalloped potatoes?” the caterer asks me.

“Short rib and potatoes,” I say, a game-time decision made entirely by my growling stomach.

At that, Chad looks at me like I rolled into the Vatican wear­ing a tube top. “You sure about that, Char? There are so many hidden carbs in potatoes,” he whispers with a hint of disgust.

First off, Char is reserved for people with a little more ten­ure in my life, thankyouverymuch. And secondly—

“Yes, I’m sure. An extra scoop of potatoes if possible,” I say, loud enough for our waitress, who jots down the special instruction.

“Chicken for me. Extra veggies,” my 74 percent match re­quests.

There it is. His wellness obsession flaring up again. I’m racking my brain for what to say next to a guy who screams “dead end” to me.

 Excerpted from Husband Materialby Emily Belden, Copyright ©2019 by Emily Belden. Published by Graydon House Books.