Page 31 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
She’d never trust me again.
She wouldn’t look at me the same way.
And I’m not sure I could stand to lose that when I’ve lost so much already.
Chapter nine
Tequila & Curtain Confessions
Marlow
That one night in Las Vegas
This is stupid. Right? Of course it is.
No woman who graduated top of her class at North Kensington, spent a year backpacking Europe, and can recite every line ofThe West Wingin order would voluntarily enter something called apodand expect to walk out with a soul mate.
An STD? Maybe.
A hangover? Most definitely.
But a soul mate?
“So… are you dating anyone?” the first guy asks.
I blink. “I’m sorry?”
Ilook around at the setup—dim lighting, plush seating, and a weirdly cozy scent that smells like warm vanilla and that one night I spent in an Amsterdam hostel.Don’t tell my dad.
It’s meant to feel intimate, romantic even, but the pod gives more “emotional detention” than “love connection.” It reminds me of those sad, windowless metal trailers schools used when they ran out of space—smelled like anxiety and Lysol, lit with an artificial glow that made everyone look vaguely ill.
It’s cramped. Claustrophobic. The air feels too still, too heavy. And the “curtain” separating me from the stranger on the other side is barely thicker than a hotel shower liner. I can hear everything—every breath, every shift, every creaky lean—and I suddenly feel like I’ve signed up for a glorified hostage situation. Only instead of ransom demands, I’m being promisedtrue loveif I can emotionally connect with a stranger through this adult-size pillow fort.
But hey—at least I have tequila.
I glance at the bottle I insisted on bringing in. My emotional support beverage. The producers thought it was cute. I thought it was the only way I’d survive this circus without committing a felony in front of witnesses.
Let the trauma bonding begin.
“Like, are you single right now?” My date clarifies.
I take a long, slow sip from my bottle. “I’m sitting in a pod. Talking to strangers through a curtain. What doyouthink?”
He laughs, like I’m flirting. I am not.
“I mean I feel like, if I meet the right person in here, my girl at home would have to understand, you know?”
He sounds like he mixes his cocaine with his creatine.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“The heart wants what the heart wants.”
I grab the bottle and take a much larger gulp.
By the time guy number two starts talking about how his ex is still his best friend, and guy number three asks me how I feel about polyamory “in theory,” I start plotting my escape route.
I distinctly remember the guy out front saying I onlyhadtomeetthree of the men.
