My name is Ellie Pages, and I lie about my age. I tell people I’m thirty-six, when actually I’m thirty-one. Everyone says I look good for my age. I also like even numbers—it’s just a preference, not a quirk or illness, as I’ve tried to explain to my sanity-sucking best friend, Ed. And I never look for trouble; the sidelines suit me fine. So it’s completely unfair when sometimes things around me start to change and I have a hard time keeping my world still.

I met Ed four years ago. “Can I have a pretzel?” asked the rumpled but shower-clean guy at the bar I was pretending not to be working at.
The way I raised my eyes without lifting my head should have told him everything I wanted to without having to speak: They’re free, stupid. Help yourself. I’m pretending not to work here.
Nope, this guy just smiled instead. “Three, actually.” Then, as if an explanation was necessary, he added, “It’s my lucky number.”
I said, “Really? Or did you just make that up?” I couldn’t have been any less interested. Uh-oh, I thought. He’s trying to make eye contact.
“I’m married,” I said.
“I’m Ed. Ed Wicket.” He grinned.
I thought I’d heard “wicked.” What was he, some kind of goth poseur? A man-witch wannabe? They’re the worst.
Well, I wasn’t exactly married. I had just gotten divorced, so it had just been me and my off-white cat, Screwy, for a little while now. (Screwy is shunned by other cats. For no curable reason, he walks sideways. Really.) And Ed wasn’t exactly wicked, bad, or otherwise evil. He looked okay—longish dark hair, an easy grin, sleepy eyes (if that’s your type)—he was just … I don’t know, weird. The only thing missing was the FREE TO GOOD HOME sign.
Not that I’m a beauty queen, but I’ve learned to live with what God handed out (dull brown curls), Mom passed down (big blue eyes), and a father—maybe the mailman?—delivered (a spotting of freckles).

Now, four years later, I still groan every time the phone rings:
“Miss Ellie—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“It’s me—”
“Ed, I know,” I said.
“Psychic today, are we?”
“Yes,” I lied. (Ed’s the only one I know who calls me Miss Ellie.)
“Beth and I are going out. You wanna come?”
Too weird. “Beth, your mom?”
“Um, no. Beth, my girlfriend. Remember? You introduced us?”
“Sounds like fun. Three’s a—what do they call it?—a crowd, that’s it. What is it with you and threes?” I said.
“Well, uh,” said Ed, “I bumped into your ex—”
“My ex-what?” I held my breath.
“Ex … husband? Short dude, mean disposition—”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know him.”
“Well, I bumped into him—more like off of him. Holds his ground, built pretty solid—”
“Ed!” I was starting to get the shakes.
“Okay, jeez, here it is. He wants to double-date, Miss Ellie.”
I said, “You’re not his type, Mister Ed.”
Silence.
“That hurt,” said Ed. “Well?”
I was starting to go limp. “I’m busy—have to take my cat to the vet.” (Someday.)
“Screwy?” Ed laughed.
I hate when anybody laughs at my cat. “I hate when you laugh at my cat.”
“That cat doesn’t need a vet. That cat needs to be dropped off at the circus!”
“You and Beth have fun.”
“Ellie, wait! What should I tell Glenn?”
“Sorry, can’t hear you. Screwy’s coughing up another hairball. Big one, too! If he chokes, he’s up to his eighth life. Gotta go.” Click!