Forever Alone Rachel East

In which much is introduced and revealed, including why I think my singledom is my fault, all the couples I’ve ever shipped, my great-grandma’s hot take on erotic novels, and the age-old question of whether my stands are too high.
 
Excerpt: “If it’s a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife, then it’s also a universal truth that a single woman in the same damn position can’t find a husband to save her life.
 
I hate to start out with a complaint, but there you have it. I’ve been single—well and truly, somewhat egregiously—for over 8 years. And while I’m not in possession of a fortune akin to Jane Austen’s Mr. Darcy, to quote an artist for our times, “If I were a man, I’d be the man.” That’s Taylor Swift.”
 
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In which my teenage dreams swell to the highest heights and burst spectacularly, I learn to date boys I’m not into, and I mistake depression for love.
Excerpt: “It’s a humid night in the dead of summer. I’m in the front passenger seat of a black jeep, music blasting and cruising with the windows down, warm air whipping through my hair. Is there anything quite like being 17—tan legs, jean miniskirt, dirty blonde hair, freckles—rolling around town, nowhere to be, with a boy who makes your heart ache?
 
Except this boy, Luke, is not my boyfriend. My actual boyfriend, Patrick, is on vacation with his family. I’ve managed to persuade myself that I do not, in fact, have feelings for this boy anymore. We’re friends. We’ve always been friends. That’s how he sees me. It’s better this way. But my heart … it’s way happier perched in that jeep than it should be, for a girl allegedly content with someone else.”
 
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In which I get the puppy from hell, quit my job, lose friends, run out of money, get back together with an ex, and clearly succeed spectacularly at adulthood.

Excerpt: “The day after I broke up with Stephen I found myself at a weird, almost certainly haunted old hotel in DC with six middle-aged women, there to celebrate my mom’s birthday. The Mansion on O street is kitschy to say the least – it’s part rummage sale, part Alice in Wonderland. There are secret passageways and rooms hidden behind mirrors, and stacks upon stacks of books and knickknacks. Almost everything in sight is for sale.

It’s a place you could easily see yourself disappearing; as if behind a secret curtain there’s a portal to another dimension. Maybe you step beyond the veil for a few minutes, only to walk back through to find a year has gone by in the real world. I wasn’t opposed to the idea.”
 
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In which I question the existence of God, flirt aggressively with a boy dressed as Jesus, get stalked by Sting, and develop remarkably witch-like powers.

Excerpt: “I grew up going to the Methodist church in our town. My mom first enrolled me in preschool there, and then eventually my parents started taking my little brother and I to church and Sunday school every weekend.
 
What stands out about it isn’t God, but much more earthly things—the basement with its comforting, musty old coffee smell; the closets in the entryway that were built in the 1800s, where I was convinced a secret passageway might open if you pressed the right panel; singing Silent Night on Christmas Eve, the nave lit by nothing but candlelight; the grape juice and communion wafers that dissolved instantly in my mouth. And of course, the boys. Well, one boy in particular—Nathan.”
 
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In which I encounter a hot Scottish man on a train, zero in on a future mother-in-law, break up with the Universe, and finally drag myself to therapy.

Excerpt: “The weather was exactly what you’d expect when Kristen, my mom, and I stepped outside the airport in Scotland—a little cold, a little windy, and very wet. And the drive into Edinburgh didn’t disappoint, either. The magnificence of Edinburgh Castle atop its imposing volcanic rock was enough to leave me a bit dumbstruck for a few minutes. Ancient castles perched above a city don’t exist in America. There was something about a sight like that that made it easier to believe that something magical may indeed be afoot for me.”
 
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In which I get called out so hard I break out in cold sweats, offend people at a wedding, surprise myself by getting a job, and rant like my life depends on it.

Excerpt: “I’m so fed up with how we speak to single women. Either we’re getting shamed for being single—and encouraged to lower our standards before all is lost; because clearly being single is worse than ending up in an unsatisfying relationship for the rest of your life—or we’re getting shamed for wanting a relationship. And you know what? Often that shame comes from other single people. People who, either because they don’t care about partnership as much as me, or because they’ve gaslit themselves into believing it isn’t a need (to protect themselves from disappointment) take a self-righteous pride in having “ascended beyond” that desire, and you’re less than for not being able to, or not wanting to.”
 
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