Page 3 of The Quit List

Was Keith with the hot bod but the crap name actually a bald, beer-gutted catfish?

Oh, way worse.

Worse than the time I swallowed that suppository?

I snort with laughter at the now-hilarious memory of Aubrey calling me in a panic after she bought some constipation medication at the pharmacy, swallowed two, then realized that the pills weren’t intended for oral use.

I left work early to take her to the emergency room, where we were laughed at by the on-call doctor, who told us to go home and expect a rough night. Poor Aubs spent the next twelve hours on the bathroom floor, puking her guts out. Horrible at the time, but forever-fodder for the maid of honor speech I will one day give at her wedding.

Because all’s well that ends well, and that on-call doctor ended up asking her out. The two of them are now engaged to be married.

Lucky for her, I’ve become good at maid-of-honor duties. I was maid of honor at my older sister Mindy’s wedding two years ago, and for my cousin Daniella this past spring. Aubrey’s wedding is the trifecta.

I’m practically Super Maid Of Honor at this point.

Or as my great-uncle Percival put it at Dani’s reception: “Soon to be an old spinster if I don’t lock a man down.”

Which was charming. And not altogether inaccurate. Before I embarked on this slew of what have turned out to be very bad dates, I had pretty much zero dating experience to speak of.

Put it this way… this man was the human equivalent of a suppository.

What a waste of a pretty face.

Assuming no second date then?

I’d rather get kicked in the ribs by a horse again.

I wish I didn’t mean this literally.

I put my phone down on the table and place my head in my hands, being careful not to smudge my eye makeup. Just because tonight’s date was yet another evening down the drain doesn’t mean that my mascara has to suffer.

Quit while you’re ahead…

It’s something I probably should have done years ago.

2

JAX

It’s happening. It’s actually happening.

“You’re sure about this, Morris?” I say into the phone as I pace the sidewalk outside the Full Moon Bar & Bistro. It’s chilly this evening, but I’m pretty sure that the goosebumps prickling my bare arms aren’t due to the spring breeze, but more so what Morris just told me.

“Sure I’m sure.” My mentor laughs jovially. “As of right now, you are officially a certified wilderness guide.”

I stop pacing for a moment, clench and unclench my fist. My heart is galloping in my chest.

“You can start leading backcountry excursions as soon as you’d like,” he continues. “Congratulations, Jax.”

I’m not, by nature, a super smiley person, but the smile currently on my lips might split my face in two. Morris is the man in charge of the intensive course I’ve been taking through the Wilderness Guides of America. The guy might be in his late sixties, but he’s fit as a fiddle and showing no signs of slowing down while leading people through their outdoor guide training.

The guide of guides, if you will.

And let me tell you, the training was no easy feat.

The past few months have been a grueling combination of classroom learning, mock excursions of increasing difficulty, first responder training, and exams. All meticulously done around my full-time shift work at the bar.

I’m relieved to hear that I’ve passed the intensive course with flying colors. I’ve never passed anything with flying colors before—but I worked damn hard to get here, and my hard work has apparently paid off.