Chapter 1
Intro
I used to believe people were predictable.
Give me five minutes with a couple and I could usually tell you everything: who would text first after a fight,
who feared commitment,
who confused attention with love,
and which relationship was one minor inconvenience away from collapsing in a Cheesecake Factory parking lot.
It wasn’t magic.
It was observation.
Pattern recognition.
And an unhealthy amount of experience watching emotionally unavailable men ruin perfectly good women.
Which, professionally speaking, turned out to be surprisingly profitable.
By twenty-five, I’d built an entire career helping people navigate modern dating: the mixed signals,
the dating apps,
the emotional confusion,
the men who said things like “I’m not ready for a relationship” while actively sitting inside one. I was good at it too.
Scarily good.
Until Liam Bennett walked into my life looking like a luxury watch advertisement and proceeded to destroy every professional instinct I had.
Not immediately, of course.
At first, I thought he was just another client:
successful, charming,
slightly emotionally unavailable,
and deeply unaware of how attractive he was.
The kind of man women usually fall for quickly and regret shortly afterward.
I should’ve known better the moment he smiled at me in an airport and my nervous system briefly forgot how to function.
But unfortunately for me, poor decisions have always arrived looking confident and well-dressed.
And Liam Bennett?
Liam Bennett looked like trouble in a tailored coat.
Chapter One
The Husband Factory
By twenty-five, I had accidentally become extremely good at turning emotionally unstable men into husbands.
Unfortunately… Never for me.
For other women.
Women with soft beige sweaters and expensive skincare routines. Women who somehow ended up with the healed versions of men who once Venmo-requested me for gas money after
emotionally devastating me.
I was beginning to suspect God had assigned me a very specific community service role. The Husband Factory.
Chicago rain hammered against the windows of my apartment while I stood barefoot in my kitchen at midnight eating stale popcorn over the sink like a Victorian widow.
The apartment smelled faintly like vanilla candles and garlic from the pasta I’d burned earlier while arguing with my ex-boyfriend Chase over speakerphone.
Well.
“Arguing” implied equal participation.
Mostly Chase had explained why liking bikini photos on Instagram was “part of personal branding” while I quietly reconsidered every decision I’d made since age nineteen.
“You’re too emotionally reactive,” he said. I stared at the ceiling.
This man once cried in a Buffalo Wild Wings parking lot because his crypto investments collapsed.
Reactive.
Interesting word choice.
“You know what?” I said calmly. “I think you might actually be insane.”
“You always do this.”
“No, Chase. YOU always do this. I just respond like a normal human being experiencing psychological warfare.”
Outside, headlights reflected across the wet streets below my building in streaks of white and gold. Somewhere down the block, a siren wailed through the city while my radiator hissed like it personally hated me.
Chase sighed dramatically into the phone.
“I just think you need to heal before you can really receive love.” I almost choked on popcorn.
Men really would destroy your nervous system and then recommend self-growth podcasts like they weren’t active participants in the problem.
“Did you seriously just weaponize therapy language against me?” “You’re proving my point.”
“Oh my God.”
I hung up before the conversation ended with me on a true crime documentary. My phone immediately buzzed.
CHASE:
I hope one day you find peace.
I blocked him so fast my ancestors probably felt it. Then I opened Instagram.
Which was my second mistake.
Because there, glowing on my screen like a personal attack from the universe, was a picture of my ex-boyfriend Brandon smiling beside his fiancée in matching Christmas pajamas.
Fiancée. Brandon.
The same Brandon who once got his car repossessed during our relationship because he spent his rent money on a dirt bike.
Now he was standing in front of a fireplace holding a woman named Paige while captioning the photo:
“Crazy how life changes when you meet the right person.”
I stared at it in silence. Then I laughed.
Not happy laughter.
The kind of laughter people do moments before emotionally unraveling in a Target parking lot. Because when I met Brandon at twenty-two, that man owned:
·one towel,
·two forks,
·and absolutely no emotional regulation.
He thought refinancing debt meant getting a second credit card. He used Axe body spray like a biological weapon.
And somehow, after dating me for eleven chaotic months, he emerged from our relationship emotionally evolved enough to marry a woman who looked like she alphabetized spices
recreationally.
This was not an isolated incident. This was a pattern.
An aggressively disrespectful pattern.
Every man I dated eventually transformed into someone another woman would describe as: “the sweetest guy ever.”
Not during our relationship, obviously. During our relationships they were:
·emotionally unavailable,
·financially irresponsible,
·and spiritually aligned with gas station energy drinks. But afterward?
Therapy. Boundaries.
Communication skills.
Marriage.
It happened so consistently that even my best friend Ava started calling me “Build-A-Husband.”
At first as a joke.
Then with genuine concern. Which honestly hurt more. My phone rang.
Speaking of emotional terrorism. “Ava,” I answered.
“Did you see Brandon’s engagement photos?”
“You mean the ones where he looks like he pays taxes on purpose?” “That’s the one.”
I collapsed dramatically onto my couch, surrounded by unfolded laundry and poor romantic decisions.
“I’m tired.”
“You say that like you work in a coal mine instead of emotionally rehabilitating grown men.” “Ava, I am serious. I think I might actually be cursed.”
Outside, thunder rolled low across the skyline.
Very dramatic.
Very supportive atmosphere. Ava snorted.
“You’re not cursed. You just date fixer-uppers.” “No. It’s worse than that.”
I looked again at Brandon smiling beside his beautiful emotionally stable fiancée. Something tightened painfully in my chest.
“Every single man I love becomes the perfect partner…” I said quietly. “Just never for me.” There was silence on the line for a moment.
Then Ava sighed softly. “Oof.”
“Thank you for that emotional support.”
“No, because when you say it out loud like that, it sounds deeply concerning.”
Exactly.
That was the problem.
Because somewhere between the heartbreaks and the disasters and the emotionally unavailable men with suspiciously good jawlines…
I had started noticing patterns. Tiny things.
The way certain men softened around certain women. The way energy shifted.
The way I could almost feel who someone belonged with before they knew themselves. And disturbingly enough…
I was almost always right.
Chapter Two Terminal B
O’Hare Airport smelled like burnt coffee, expensive perfume, and collective human suffering.
Rain streaked across the massive terminal windows while exhausted travelers dragged suitcases across polished floors under harsh fluorescent lights. Somewhere nearby, a baby screamed with the intensity of a tiny tax auditor.
Honestly?
Relatable.
I sat alone near Gate B12 wearing black leggings, an oversized cream sweater, and the emotional exhaustion of a woman who’d spent seven months dating a man who referred to himself as an “alpha mindset entrepreneur.”
Chase had dumped me twelve hours earlier through a podcast recommendation. Not a phone call.
Not even a text paragraph. A podcast link.
“The Top Ten Signs You’re Blocking Your Own Happiness.” Sent at 1:14 a.m.
Men truly found innovative ways to disappoint.
I took a long sip of overpriced airport wine and stared blankly at my phone while Ava yelled through my AirPods.
“I’m just saying maybe this is the universe redirecting you.” “The universe could redirect me less aggressively.”
“You didn’t even like him.” “I liked his potential.”
“Riley, his apartment had LED lights around the ceiling.”
“People can grow.”
“That man owned three necklaces.” I rubbed my forehead.
Behind me, boarding announcements echoed through the crowded terminal while someone nearby aggressively opened a bag of pretzels.
“I swear to God,” I muttered, “I think I’m spiritually employed as a transitional woman.” Ava laughed.
“No seriously,” I continued. “I help men become emotionally available and then they leave me for women named Claire who own matching bath towels.”
“Not the towels.”
“ALWAYS the towels.”
“Maybe your soulmate is coming.” “I don’t think I have one.”
The words slipped out quieter than I intended.
For a second, all I could hear was rain tapping against the windows. Then Ava softened.
“Riley…”
“No, seriously. I think maybe I’m just…” I swallowed. “The bridge.” That silence after saying something too honest?
Horrible.
I immediately regretted speaking. Then a male voice beside me said:
“You know, overhearing that sentence without context was deeply alarming.” I looked up.
And unfortunately for my nervous system… He was attractive.
Not influencer attractive. Not gym-selfie attractive.
Real attractive.
Dark hair slightly messy like he’d been running his hands through it all day. Navy wool coat. Gray sweater. Expensive watch. Light stubble. Tired eyes that somehow still looked warm.
And actual eye contact.
Which immediately made me suspicious.
He held a coffee cup in one hand and the corner of a paperback book tucked beneath his arm. A book.
Dear God.
“I’m so sorry,” I said automatically.
“No, don’t apologize,” he said, sitting in the chair across from me. “I’m invested now. What exactly is a transitional woman?”
Ava gasped dramatically through my earbuds. “Oh my God,” she whispered. “Is he hot?” Unfortunately.
