Alistair has been my best friend since elementary school. We’re as close to brother and sister but cooler. I even introduced him to the love of his life.
I glare at the screen, complaining, “Your husband is an idiot.”
“You two put me in a tight spot,” she says. “Since I want to go out with him tonight and have crazy hot sex later. So, I have to be nice to him. But I don’t want to lie to you.”
“I’m right here, ladies,” he protests and bends down. “Do you want me to take her, babe?”
Once Alistair and Simone are out of sight, I ask, “You’re finally going out?”
“Yeah, his mom is coming to take care of Simone for the evening,” she says.
“We should celebrate,” I say.
“Come over, and we can go out—my geek can babysit—and you can finally meet Simone in person.”
“Boston is too far away,” I say, letting out a nostalgic sigh.
“How are things with you?” she inquires.
“Same old same old.” I give her a slight shrug, rising from the floor. “Give me a second, let me get dessert.”
I grab a piece of the chocolate Bundt cake I prepared yesterday and top it with a scoop of vanilla ice cream and some whipped cream. Laura stares at my plate, her mouth slightly open.
“Are you still practicing yoga?”
“And Pilates,” I add. “Jiu Jitsu is off the plate, but I might try barre, it looks—interesting.” I scrunch my nose.
“Look at you, working on that hot body,” she says with a singing tone, fixing her tangled blonde hair.
Taking a bite of cake, I say, “I’d be hot if I laid off the sweets.”
“Are you still seeing your therapist?”
Oh God, the problem of having a best friend is that she’s on my case all the time.
“I Skype with her every week,” I say with a grunt.
“Have you made any friends lately?”
“Yes, Simone. We’re trying to get to know each other. You might want to teach her a word or two.”
“Ha! You have to try harder,” she observes.
“I’m nice to others, that counts, doesn’t it?”
“Not necessarily, you’re nice to everyone. If I recall, that was your goal for last year—to make a new friend. So far you haven’t done shit.”
“This might be the year I finally make a friend in real-life.”
“If I ask about boyfriends…” her glance moves away from the screen.
Damn it, she’s on a roll today. I laugh uncontrollably.
“Tinder is a fucked-up place. You can’t find a date, let alone a boyfriend,” I say and show her my phone. “There’s not one eligible bachelor. I keep swiping left at every prospect.”
“Have you tried real-life dating?”
I gasp, touching my breastbone lightly. Then, compose myself and ask innocently, “Is that a new app or a website?”
“Try harder,” Laura insists.
“I could set up a classified ad, something like…” I say, “give me a second.”
Quickly, I run to my office for an office pad and a pen.
“Female, late twenties, looking for a tall, dark, handsome guy with a sense of humor,” I say, scribbling squiggly lines on the yellow paper. “He must have good taste in music, movies—and be a Netflix connoisseur. Honest, faithful, and full of integrity. Gentleman need only apply.”
“Don’t forget dependable,” she inputs.
“Kind,” I add.
“Fatherly,” she says. Laura watches her husband walk around the living room cradling their adorable baby.
Could I get one of those babies to go?
Then, I add, “He’d have to have one of those tiny creatures for me to know if he’s father material.”
“Not necessarily,” she adds.
“A sense of humor?” I question because I’m not sure if that’s necessary.
She nods and says, “You’re too witty to be with a serious guy. You need someone who will humor you. He has to be smart and support your career which is all-consuming.”
“Respectful is a must,” I add.
“Confident.”
Biting my pen, I wonder if there’s a word for…Caliente in bed. “Passionate?”
“You want a miracle, not a man,” Alistair yells from wherever he is.
“I’d make do with just a few of those qualities,” I say, finally writing some of them down. “Smart, a gentleman, dependable, with a sense of humor, hot would be nice but not necessary.”
“Supportive,” Laura offers her two cents.
“Yes, let’s add that to the list. Integrity and honesty. A good family man,” I say. I don’t have a physical description of the perfect guy, but I do have a few qualities that are a must.
“He has to deal with your demanding personality,” Alastair brings up a delicate subject.
“I’m not demanding,” I protest.
“You expect a lot from others, sweetheart. Which is fair since you give a hundred percent all the time, but when someone fails you, you write them off,” he concludes sounding just like my therapist.
“I’ve never been in a relationship long enough to write them off, Alastair,” I remind him. At this point I’m just giving him ammunition to mock me.
“There’s that too,” he says, no mockery or pity in his voice.
“Are we psychoanalyzing me? I already have someone handling my crazy, thank you very much.”
“My woman is concerned about you. You’re too far away and isolated,” he explains. His face is filled with concern. He’s just as worried as Laura. How can I make them understand that I’m happy?
I am happy, aren’t I?
“Look, I appreciate you guys, but in all honesty, I’m doing fine,” I correct him. “I’m not lonely, just alone by choice. There’s a difference.”
“You should visit,” Laura suggests. “You can stay as long as you want. I’ll set up an office just for you.”
“I’m not saying no.”
“But you’re not saying yes either,” she concludes with a sad face.
“Exactly.”
Am I a bad person for not wanting to go back home? It’s kind of impossible to think about using my vacation time to go to a place where I feel asphyxiated by memories and obligations. Before she gives me one of her lectures, I check the time and say, “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“Go out and enjoy the day,” she says.
“Don’t worry, it’s in my organizer and my journal. Go out and make this day your bitch.”
“We love you,” Laura says.
“I love you back.”
* * *
From: AlistairlovesLaura
To: Bossypants
Friday, April 15th, 4:23 p.m.
Just be you, sweetheart. Maybe not the old you, since you’ve been suffocating that girl for years, but try to become a grown-up version of her. The one who disappears every Sunday, drinks straight from the bottle, feeds the homeless, puts her right sock on first, and never uses the word can’t. Normal isn’t part of your vocabulary.
You are you.
Be proud of your fuck ups, your mistakes, and your best intentions. Accept every little bit of yourself and don’t ever apologize—for any of it.
Remember your innerweirdo.
I get your mantra, let grief nourish your courage. But you’ve been nourishing it for too long, and losing your essence; that which makes you one of the most incredible people I know.
Stop beating yourself up and move on from the past.
Live your own life.
You hate straight roads. Be proud of those curves that make you who you are. Don’t look for perfection in yourself or in a man. I want you happy again,
Al
P. S. Simone would like to meet her auntie, please come to visit soon. Lau misses you more than she wants to admit.
I smile and clear my tears, hating how well he knew the old me and how much I miss her too.
Chapter Ni
ne
Friday, April 15th, 7:43 p.m.
Adulting is hard. Life doesn’t come with an instruction manual. Parents complain about not getting a handbook so they can easily know how to handle their newborn. How can they be asking for help on how to raise a child? Did they forget they’re still trying to figure out how to live their own lives?
Leaving your childhood home, becoming an adult, being directionless, and still getting over your past. Those are the things that need a real manual.
Once upon a time, I swore I knew who I was and where I was going. I used to feed on the deliciousness of the unpredictability served up by life. It’s not that I no longer believe in the beauty of surprise, of life-changing moments. They exist, and when I witness them, I rejoice in their beauty from far away. I just don’t think I’ll ever experience them personally. I haven’t lost hope entirely, but I stopped expecting them to happen to me.
So, I live alone, go wherever I want, and have dinner for one without giving a fuck about those who stare at me for being on my own.
Tonight, after dining at the new ramen place on First and Niagara, I walk to the bookstore down by Third and Fillmore. The owner always has a table ready for me where I can work or pretend to work while I browse the new collections.
“I thought you had to work,” Kara, the new assistant manager, says when I slide the ladder from the biography section over to fiction.
“Yeah, but according to your Instagram account,” I say, pulling out my phone and showing her the picture with boxes of used books she received today. “You got in a lot of pretties.”
“Indeed, I’m trying to refrain from buying any of the new romances we got in.”
“What’s stopping you?” I ask. Nothing can stop me from adding to my collection.
“Money,” she says,
I’m tempted to offer her a job, but I resist.
“Ah, doesn’t that stop us all.” I look around. “Are they already on the shelves?”
She nods giving me an excited smile. She reminds me of my grandma and the time we visited her during Easter. She hid eggs all around her garden and enjoyed watching us searching for them.
“The store is your playground.”
“Sure, leave me alone with these beauties and my credit card,” I say, climbing up the ladder so I can start from the top. “I’ll blame you for the bill when it arrives next month.”
My heart skips a beat as I see a book by one of my favorite authors. I adjust my glasses and grab it.
“Hello, beautiful,” I greet it, clutching it to my chest.
It’s a copy of Tender Is the Night by Fitzgerald. It’s a well-preserved first edition, which should be in a glass case—at my house and not here. As I climb down the ladder, I bump into a hard, tall object. More like—a man.
“Careful,” he yells with a deep voice.
I stumble, nearly falling down, but fortunately, I grab onto his shoulders at the same time he wraps his arms around me. Our faces are pretty close together, our mouths only inches apart. I get a whiff of woodsy notes, amber, mixed with a hint of laundry detergent.
I take a good look at him. He’s handsome.
Not just handsome. Five alarm, GQ model hot. He’s about a foot taller than my five foot three—and three quarters. Once I find my equilibrium, I take a better look at him. He’s the total definition of tall, dark, and dangerous. And he wears a pair of sexy jeans with a jacket, casual, yet elegant. He’s classy.
The man fills the entire bookstore with his presence.
“Are you okay?” his deep, sexy voice asks as he helps me find my footing.
Of course I am. I almost tripped on one of the most good-looking men on the planet.
Keep your cool!
Look at me, hot stranger, I’m the whole definition of poise and unmoved. Just don’t expect me to talk coherently because my mouth went dry.
Oh my God, are you real? Can I touch you? Is it legal to walk around with that handsome face and breathtaking grin?
I want to comb my fingers through his dark, messy hair. My breath catches as I stare at his intense dark brown eyes, almost as dark as my own. Fine features with sculpted cheekbones and that jaw. My hand itches to touch his rough jaw, dusted with a five o’clock shadow or better yet, run my lips over his tanned skin.
There’s something special about him that makes my head spin.
Hot-Guy’s gaze makes a sweep of my body, from head to toe and back. Do I have something in my teeth? Did I brush my hair before I left? I reach for a loose strand and try to remember if I even combed my hair today.
Yes, I did and even took my time to braid it, and I’m glad I reached for my lip gloss before leaving the ramen restaurant. Fuck, I forgot to put in my contacts. I look like a librarian. Hmm, we could pretend I’m punishing him for not bringing his books back on time. Or he can spank me for reading naughty books during working hours.
Snap out of it!
“You seem fine,” he says, meeting my gaze. “More than fine.”
“Fitzgerald?” he asks as he bends down to pick up the book I dropped and examines it.
“Not the Great Gatsby?”
I take a long breath and pull myself together, feeling about as articulate as a table.
You’re better than this. You make men shake in fear, not the other way around. You have one of the most feared CEOs behaving like a decent human after a few weeks of working with him.
I shake my head, taking back my book. “Have you read it?”
“Would you think less of me if I confess that I’ve only read the popular one?”
“You read it in high school,” I guess.
He nods. “Are you a teacher?”
Pressing my lips together, I shake my head. “Nope, it’s just an educated guess. I’m not judging you for not reading any of his other books. The school system makes us hate the classics, and once we have the freedom to read, we pick up everything but old authors—or stop reading.”
“Is this as good as the Gatsby?”
The Gatsby? He says it in such a way that I almost laugh but control myself.
“I’d say better, but that’s my humble opinion. Tender is The Night, is my favorite from Fitzgerald because it’s one of the most heartbreaking books. You should read it.”
He takes it back from me, his fingers grazing mine. His touch sends my pulse into overdrive, and I feel like the air is charged with electricity. I’m too aware of his presence, and the heat we create when our skin touches.
Shake it off, girl, he’s just a man.
I compose myself and check the first pages. “There’s no dedication. But that’s good, I wouldn’t want this to belong to anyone,” I confirm.
“What’s it about?” His brows furrow, once again taking the book and gently flipping the pages.
“A psychiatrist, his marriage and how it falls apart along with his life,” I explain since he looks genuinely interested.
“Uplifting.” His lips curl into a half smile, as if he’s enjoying our conversation but he isn’t sure this plot would grab his attention.
“It’s not uplifting,” I say honestly and continue explaining with excitement, relishing the conversation. It’s been a long time since I last discussed this book.
“I love it because of the way the author makes me feel every emotion. Fitzgerald’s passion for writing is admirable, he takes my heart from the first chapter and does as he pleases with it until the end. But in this book, every word is filled with his own soul, I swear.”
Finally, lifting my gaze and looking back at him, I realize how closely he watches me. I squirm under his gaze, that travels from my face farther down.
“Is that your favorite book?” he inquires.
I square my shoulders, lifting my chin. “Not my favorite of all time.”
“Which one is your favorite?” he questions.
We have a code red. Man flirting with me at a bookstore. This is not a dream, I repeat, this is not a dream.
Abort!
> Leave now!
Glancing at my stuff, I wonder if it would be best to pack up and leave. Then, I remember this is a great time to interact with a stranger. A so-good-looking-I-want-to-kiss-him, stranger. I walk around the bookstore and stop right in front of the children’s section and pull out The Little Prince.
“This would be my most favorite, followed by Charlotte’s Web, and then the Harry Potter Series. It’s hard to choose just one though.”
“I take it you like books.”
“Love them,” I correct him as I open the book and see a dedication. “Taylor, may your imagination grow along with you.”
“I bet this is from … his dad,” I guess.
“Dad?” The man in front of me frowns.
“There’s no signature after the writing.” I show him. “My guess is the dad wrote it and forgot to sign it. He gave it to his son when he turned seven or eight. His mom just gave it away because dear Trey went to college—or he just got married. Maybe they’re downsizing the family home.”
“You got all that from just the scribbles?”
“There’s an entire history behind everything,” I say, reading the first pages, remembering the first time I read this book.
“Emily,” Kara calls me. “I’m back.”
The guy with dark complexion, gorgeous eyes, and square jaw frowns at me. As if he’s slightly bummed that I wasn’t somebody else. You’re not the only one who’d want me to be different, buddy. Get in line, my parents would be thrilled to give you the spark notes.
“Emily,” he repeats, studying me.
The air thickens with tension. He stares at me with intense curiosity.
Any other woman might be fascinated by the attention he’s giving me, but to me, it’s unnerving. I’m not used to having someone looking at me so closely, let alone such a handsome man. This time the sweep seems a little seductive, not just concerned. He gives me a crooked smile.
“You don’t look like an Emily.”
“It’s actually Emmeline,” I correct him. “She called me Emily for an entire conversation, and I didn’t have the heart to correct her. I answer to several names. One more doesn’t affect me.”
“What other names do you use?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I ask using a flirty tone I don’t recognize.
Maybe Later Page 6
