Page 1 of The One Where They Fall in Love

Prologue

Elle

“I’m just saying that if I die a tragic death, don’t go onDatelineand lie about me.”

Lucy stuffs another book on my already full shelf and it bangs against the wall with athud.

“You’re reading way too much into it, Luce,” I say, shaking my head at her.

“No,” Lucy stops me. “There is no way that literally every victim on these shows ‘made the room brighter when they walked through the door.’ I mean I don’t know them, butstatistically, there’s no way,” she rants.

“Okay, sure,” I reply, placating her. If I don’t stop her now, we’ll never finish unpacking. “If I ever have to go onDatelineand talk about you, which I really hope Idon’t, I’ll say you were a sassy bitch who never returned her shopping cart.”

“That’s all I’m asking!” Satisfied that she’s proven her point, she swivels around on the wood floor to grab another box of books. I roll my eyes at my best friend. Lucy’s helpingme move into my new studio apartment, and she’s been on this tirade aboutDatelinefor at least ten minutes.

Technically it isn’t mynewapartment anymore—I’ve lived here for almost two months, ever since Lucy moved in with her fiancé, but I haven’t had the chance to fully unpack all of my boxes that I drove—horribly—uptown in a rented U-Haul from the apartment Lucy and I used to share.

We spent most of the morning putting together a bookcase from Ikea, and we only mixed up the screws once. Lucy is now filling said bookshelf with the hundreds of books I own, and I think there’s a real chance the whole thing might come crashing down under the weight of it all. That would be just my luck.

“Can I suggest that you just stop watching crime shows? I don’t think it’s good for you,” I say, flopping down onto my bed. I look up to admire the pictures I hung above it. From this angle, they’re mostly straight.

“Liam likes them, which might be a bit of a red flag, but I’m trying to make an effort to like what he likes. Apparently, mature people in relationships do that.” She shrugs at the last statement, implying that she is not used to being said mature person in any relationship.

“Well, it’s good to know that he at least hassomered flags. It’s creepy how perfect he is.”

“Perfect? Where is he while we’re doing all of this manual labor?” Lucy scoffs.

“You’re the one that told me he has a business to run,” I state, using her own words against her. Lucy smiles. I know she misses him, but this is the first weekend we’ve had alone together since she met Liam, and I am not going to let it be derailed by boy-talk.

“Ugh, my fiancé issodreamy,” I say in a high-pitched voice. “I miss himsoooooomuch when I’m away from him.” I laugh as she throws a pillow at me.

A loud bang shakes the floor above us and both Lucy and I jump. My eyes roll to the ceiling, half expecting it to fall down on me. This building is at least a hundred years old, and my apartment is in the basement. I’m not fully confident in its structural soundness.

Lucy looks concerned. “I think the girl upstairs is moving out,” I say, turning my attention to another box of pictures. “I’ve seen her carrying boxes down the stairs a couple times.”

“Have you ever spoken to her?” Lucy asks, walking into the minuscule kitchen to get a drink. No girls weekend is complete without pre-mixed margaritas. I make grabby-hands at her and she pours me one, too.

“No, I don’t think she’s home much. I rarely hear any noise coming from up there.”

Lucy makes a face that readsyikes. “You’re so screwed for the next neighbor then. They’ll probably be the loudest person you’ve ever met.”

“Thanks for speaking that into existence, Luce,” I huff, glaring at her. Lucy shrugs, downs her drink, and rips the tape off the next box.

One

Elle

This cannot be said enough: Living in New York City in your twenties is nothing likeFriendsmakes it out to be.

Really, nothing about being in your twenties is howFriendsmade it out to be. I’m thirty years old, and I have not had an all-consuming romance like Ross and Rachel. I haven’t found my Chandler. I don’t have a close-knit group of friends who would drop everything if they heard my apartment was on fire. Or who would go to see a terrible play just because I’m in it. I don’t have a two-bedroom apartment and a roommate who I can share clothes with. I don’t even have a one-bedroom apartment. Heck, even when Ihada roommate,wedidn’t even have a one-bedroom apartment.

Man, I’m feeling cynical tonight.

I blame the episode ofFriendsthat was on TV when I got home from work. It was “The One Where No One is Ready.” Ross makes a speech at the museum, and the whole gang has to dress up to go support him. Chandler stealsJoey’s underwear, Joey wears all of Chandler’s clothes and does lunges, Phoebe has “the hummus.” It’s a classic. Damn, I’d kill for that kind of support— renting a tux just to watch another friend make a boring speech, someone doing the little things just to make my day better.

I reach across the bed for my phone, thinking about Lucy. My best friend and former roommate moved away to live her happily ever after with a hunky mountain man she met upstate. I miss Lucy, but I’m happy for her. Or at least, Iwantto be happy for her. Given that I’ll be her maid of honor in three months, I should really work on my “happy for you” face. But, how does Rachel put it? I’m about 80 percent happy and 20 percent jealous.

I want to call Lucy. I want to tell her that at my annual review last week, I was promoted to editor.