more men. As in, you’re not allowed to set me up, introduce me to guys, or in other ways work against my resolution.”
“I see. And are you—in principle—swearing off men for good?”
“Well, no,” Hailey admitted. “I haven’t entirely lost my faith in half of the human race. Not yet.”
“Phew.”
“It’s me. I’ve been making so many mistakes when it comes to guys. So, I’m taking a year out.”
“A year?”
“Yep.”
“A whole year?”
“Yes.”
Ellen put down her pen and leaned forward. “Hailey, do you have any idea how long a year is?”
“Three hundred and sixty-five days. And don’t make me calculate the hours. I’m lousy at multiplication.”
“An entire year?”
“Yep. One year. No men. No dates. Nothing. I’m going to pretend the other sex doesn’t exist.”
Ellen tossed a finished sheet to the side and grabbed the next one. “And—assuming that there is a problem in the first place—how’s a year out going to solve anything? You’ll be in exactly the same situation after a year has passed.”
Hailey tried to get comfortable, but in a chair that size, it was close to impossible. Someone had scribbled a swearword in crayon on the desk, and she rubbed at it with a finger, although she could well echo the sentiment. Maybe third-graders got their hearts trampled on too. “No, I won’t. That’s the whole point. Think, Ellen. What do our lives revolve around?”
Ellen pushed her glasses up above her forehead, displaying the tiny wrinkles between her eyes as she pondered the question. “Do you mean practically or philosophically?”
“It’s not a trick question.”
“I don’t trust you. With you, everything’s a trick question.”
“It’s simple. What is the one thing we’re always thinking about, always talking about?”
“Is this one of your veiled ‘What’s the meaning of life?’ questions?”
“Guys! That’s what our life revolves around. Even most of our conversations revolve around guys.” Hailey banged her fist on the table in emphasis. “I am sick of spending my life sifting through men in search for an elusive—perhaps even mythological—nugget of gold.”
Ellen grinned, gesturing with a pencil. “Well, you’ve got to admit, sifting can be fun even if you don’t always strike gold.”
Hailey stared over Ellen’s shoulder at the chalk-board behind her. “Imagine—all those gold prospectors back then. Spending years, decades, their entire lives, hoping to strike a treasure, sacrificing everything else—home, family. All most of them ever got was disappointment, pain, sweat and tears. Even those few who thought they’d been lucky—so often it turned out to be fool’s gold.”
Ellen returned her attention to third-grade spelling problems. “It takes an IQ higher than mine to follow your analogies, Hailey, but I’m pretty sure you’re being depressing again.”
Hailey shook her head. “My point is, why are we doing this?”
Ellen got that annoying dreamy look on her face. “I know the answer to this one. Because true love is somewhere out there waiting for us—only it’s a bit hard to find.”
“No. True love is society’s myth. Don’t you see? We’re being sucked into a global lie.”
“I see.” Ellen sounded rather unconvinced. “Love is a worldwide conspiracy. Are aliens involved?”
“Whether true love exists or not, the truth is that the real reason we subject ourselves to this is because it’s expected of us. Because we’re considered inferior if we’re not part of a couple. We’re caving in to social pressure, and for what?”
Ellen opened her mouth, but Hailey barged on, not allowing her to interrupt. She was on a roll. She’d spent her entire miserable, lonely—even in a crowd—New Year’s Eve composing this manifesto in her head and Ellen would hear it whether she liked it or not. “Broken hearts, that’s what we get for trying! Lousy dates, broken hearts and plummeting self-esteem each time one of the many idiots in the world displays his true colors.” She leaned toward Ellen and the tiny table creaked alarmingly. “Don’t you see? We’re not doing this because we want to, but to fulfill the role society expects of us. It all comes back down to biology. Despite all our technological advances, modern man—modern woman—is still very much a slave of biology when it comes to happiness. When women aren’t mothers, they aren’t happy unless they are actively engaged in the pursuit of someone to father their child. It’s that simple.”
Ellen gave her a wry glance. “I knew it. You’ve been reading those feminist pseudoscience books again.”
“In a nutshell, my discovery is this…” She paused for dramatic emphasis. “There’s nothing wrong with being single.”
Ellen failed to look impressed. All she did was shrug. “As that seems to be our ongoing state, I should hope not.”
“But we feel there’s something wrong with it. It’s an instinctive feeling, almost like it’s a biological force programmed in our genes. And that’s exactly what it is. It is biological.”
“Good Lord, Hailey! You’re overcomplicating things. What’s wrong with wanting a partner in life? It’s just human.”
“Exactly. That’s my problem.”
“Your problem is being human? Well, welcome to the club.”
Hailey looked down and mumbled her next words. “You see, I’ve discovered something about myself, and I don’t like it.”
“What is it?”
Hailey took a deep breath before making her confession. “I’m a relationship addict.”
“Oh, God, more psychobabble.”
“I am!”
“Is that a terminal condition?”
Hailey glared at her friend. “Why do I always confide in you? Zero sympathy. Zero understanding. Worst of all, zero co-dependence. Aren’t you supposed to be my best friend?”
“Okay.” Ellen started piling stuff into her briefcase. “I’ll be good. Tell me about your relationship addiction.”
Hailey bit her lip. She probably sounded like she was being flippant about this, but the pain and humiliation of her self-discovery cut deep. “I am not happy unless I am in a relationship.”
“Come on! That’s not true!”
“It is! This is why I hurry into a relationship before I’m ready, before the guy is ready, before either one of
