“Who wouldn’t want you?” Erin counters.
“And besides, I’m twenty-seven. Shouldn’t I be, I don’t know, forty or something before I think about a Trophy Husband?”
“Why should age be a barrier? A Trophy Husband is just that – a catch. A pretty young thing. That’s what we’re going to get you, and you have what it takes to land a trophy husband whether you’re twenty-seven or thirty-seven. You don’t have to be Hugh Hefner’s age, McKenna.”
“Thank god for that, but I haven’t dated, haven’t been involved, and haven’t a clue about men in the modern age. Hayden’s daughter is trying to set me up with the Fedex guy! Because that’s like the only chance I have and I’ll probably bungle that one somehow.” I look up at the crew. Their sympathetic eyes stare right back at me. “This is silly. I can’t do this. I’m not cut out for this.”
Erin slaps her palm on the table. “You are one hundred percent cut out for this. Men do this all the time and there’s no reason a woman can’t. They are always scoring younger chicks. Constantly. Besides, you have everything you need to snag a Trophy Husband. You sold your business for a ton of cash, you’re loaded at twenty-seven, so why the hell not?”
“But,” I say, starting to protest more, to tell them all I really want is a date with one good guy.
“No buts,” Erin says firmly. “You have been in a funk for a year. Totally understandable, and no one expected otherwise. But this is your chance, McKenna. This is your light at the end the tunnel. Your way out of the sadness.” Erin sounds so earnest as she reaches across the table and clutches my hand. “This is the perfect way to get back in the dating saddle again. By making it fun. By turning the tables. By having a crazy good time with a hot young guy.”
“I know guys, but still. I just want –”
Hayden chimes in. “What do you want, McKenna?”
“I want,” I start to say, and there it goes again. The hitch in my throat. The stinging in my eyes. The start of that horrible shaking feeling in my chest that says another round of tears are going to take over. I am so tired of this. I am so exhausted from the way my stupid emotions have controlled me. I don’t want to be this person anymore. “I want to move on.”
“Then do it,” Erin says and bangs a fist on the table. This is a way to move on that’s fun. You are single and you are hot and you deserve to have a grand old time on the dating circuit.”
I scoff. “I am not hot.”
“Have you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?” Hayden asks. “You’re a babe, McKenna. You’re tall and you’re thin and you have good boobs.”
Erin jumps in. “And you have that blond hair and your crazy, wild greenish-blue eyes.”
“My hair isn’t even natural! Guys, stop it, please!” I insist, covering my face with my hands, embarrassed by their compliments.
I hear heels clacking across the floor. Then I feel a hand on my shoulder.
“You are McKenna Bell.” It’s Julia. She’s one year younger and has always been my biggest champion. “You are going to do this. Not only is this exactly how you’re going to get over that d-bag, but this is bigger than you. This is bigger than all of us. You are Title IXing when it comes to the sport of dating. Remember in high school? You were the one who lobbied the school district for girls to play baseball, not just softball. And you didn’t even play softball. You’ve never even played sports. You’re the ultimate girlie-girl. But you did it because you have always been the biggest champion of Title IX.”
In twelfth grade I petitioned the high school to let girls play baseball. I wanted to show that girls could handle the hardball, they could take the heat. It took nine months of campaigning, researching, petitioning and being the squeaky wheel. The school decided girls could play baseball in June of my senior year. Sure, I never caught a screaming fast baseball in a well-worn catcher’s mitt, and probably never could. But that didn’t matter. The girls who came after me did, and girls at Sherman Oaks High School still play baseball today. I know because I’m one of the biggest donors to the girls baseball program at my alma mater. They’ve won three championships in the last ten years. They rock.
“This is no different,” Julia continues. “This Trophy Husband quest. It’s about leveling the playing field when it comes to the sport of dating younger and hotter. This is your turn at the plate, and you’re damn well going to take it.”
“I am?”
“You are.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am so sure I’m beyond sure.”
I take a deep breath and nod. I can do this. I’ll treat it like a sport, a game, a project because those are things I can handle. Dating for a cause is far more manageable than dating for me. There’s no safety net there. Here, I have a built-in shield. Maybe dating for sport is precisely how I should get back in the game.
The game of love.
“So no more guys your age. No more older guys,” Julia says.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Todd was too old for you anyway. He was, what, five years older?”
“Six,” I mutter. Todd’s thirty-three.
“And guys older than you are now officially verboten. Got that?”
I nod dutifully at my sister.
“Raise your right hand,” Julia instructs.