Bachelor Swap

the owner recently passed, and the family didn’t want her. They donated her to the shelter,” I tell her, referring to the Boston Cares Shelter. “We shouldn’t have any problems connecting her with a new home.”
BCS is a volunteer based, donation-funded animal shelter, connecting mistreated or unwanted pets with their forever homes. Most of them are cats and dogs, but we do have a large barn for other animals. I’m my four years of volunteering, I’ve seen goats, horses, a llama, cattle, and even a few donkeys. Sure, they’re unusual for a city like Boston, but Boston’s a growing, unique place, especially in the suburbs.
Amalee grins her red, glossy lips at me. “I can already see your wheels spinning. Need I remind you, you live in a condo?”
I scoff, but don’t dispute her statement. I do, in fact, live in a condo. The penthouse, actually. But it’s the fact she’s able to read me like a book. She knows me well enough to understand that if I had a place to keep Dolly, the horse, I’d take her in a heartbeat.
“You should just move, Kyla.”
Startled by her statement, all I can do is stare at my oldest friend.
She sets her fork down and leans in. “I’m being serious. You hate that condo and hate the city. You’re only still here because of your dad, whether you want to admit it or not.”
I open my mouth to reply, but nothing comes out. She’s not wrong. I’m not a huge fan of the city, and the condo looks more like a museum than a home. But what really got me was the part about my dad. My throat tightens, mostly because I know she’s right. I can’t leave my dad. Not now.
“Listen, Ky, I’m not trying to make you feel bad. I know your situation isn’t ideal, but I wish you’d just put yourself first every once in a while. It’s okay to want what you want and actually go after it.” A look of sadness crosses her exotic features as she picks her fork back up. “Anyway, let’s not spoil our lunch. Heaven knows when the next time our schedules will jibe again.”
I pick at my salad, but don’t really eat any of it. Instead, I push it around to give the appearance, something I perfected as a child. “How is work going?”
“Excellent. Busy, and I love it,” Amalee beams with pride from across the table. She’s a corporate lawyer, recently promoted to junior partner. She works her tail off seven days a week, eighteen hours a day, in hopes of someday having her name added to the marble sign in front of her firm’s building.
We chitchat through the rest of lunch before the one subject I’ve been waiting for finally comes up. Just as the waiter removes our plates, she asks, “So, how are things with Matthew?” She waggles her eyebrows suggestively, earning her an eye-roll in return.
“Fine.”
“Fine? New relationships are never supposed to be fine, Kyla.”
I shrug and glance around. “He’s very busy.”
My friend doesn’t reply right away, but I feel her eyes on me, observing and judging. “A man who owns his own company is busy, yes. When was the last time you went out?”
I stop and think back. “Two weeks ago?”
Amalee just blinks at me. “Seriously? You guys have only been seeing each other for what, two months? And you haven’t seen him in two weeks?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. I know it sounds bad, and I guess, in reality, it is. At first, Matthew was attentive. He pursued me hard, stopping by the animal shelter and sending me random thinking of you gifts. But the moment we actually started seeing each other, he became distant. We do the typical dinners out at fancy restaurants, but there is no intimate contact. No hand-holding and the kisses are rare and chaste. Nothing I’d expect dating a man like Matthew Wilder would be.
“The sex must be pretty damn good for you to date someone who puts that sour look on your face.” Something must cross my features, because her mouth drops open and she gapes at me in shock. “Seriously?”
I smooth out my used napkin on the table in front of me and avoid eye contact. “We haven’t gotten to that part in our relationship yet.”
“After two months? Is he saving himself for marriage?”
That comment gives me pause. I already know the answer to her question. Matthew Wilder has a reputation, in the boardroom and in the bedroom. I’ve heard many comments over the years from other socialites, all vying for a chance at being invited back to his place. Heck, many have already been and their stories are legendary in small circles.
What I don’t understand is why he chased me so hard and then nothing. And I admit, I was a hard sell. I didn’t make it easy. I wasn’t interested in being another notch on his bedpost. At thirty years old, my goal is more about long term and settling down than a quick romp in the sack. Yet, once I actually agreed to his insistent requests for a date, it was nothing like I imagined.
“I don’t think so,” I finally confirm. Leaning forward to keep nosy neighbors around our table from overhearing, I add, “I just don’t think we’re clicking, Amalee. I can appreciate his desire and drive for work, but it’s like I’m not even an afterthought when he gets home at night. The times I’ve texted him, he rarely replies, and when he does, it’s polite, yet curt.”
“So what are you thinking?”
Sighing, I try to verbalize what I’ve been contemplating for a few days now. “I think I’m going to go over there and see what’s up. If he gives me the brush-off, I’m going to end it with him.”
“Wow, I’m so proud of you. Kyla Morgan breaking up with the great Matthew Wilder. It’s poetic, actually. Do you think he’s ever been the one to be broken up with?”
I scoff,