Page 8 of Deception & Daylight
Mags
? Sign of the Times - Harry Styles
“Are you sure about speed dating?” Paige asks, her apprehensive voice echoing through the cavernous bathroom as I apply a thin coat of gloss over my favorite dusty pink lipstick, rubbing my lips together with a pop. “Why not try the app? It worked out great for me.”
I arch a brow at my bestie through the propped up phone screen as I give myself one last perusal in the mirror. I look damn good in a black floral midi skirt and a vintage Fleetwood Mac tee knotted near my hip. “Your experience isn’t exactly the blueprint, babe. What’s the worst that could happen?”
“Murder, Mags. The answer is murder.”
“You’re so dramatic. I promise I’ll check in every thirty minutes. Does that help?”
“Fine.” I catch the tail end of her dramatic eye roll as she bounces Sofia on her lap. “But you’re paying for my therapy bill if this shit backfires.”
“If what backfires?” My heart stutters in my chest at the sound of a voice I recognize all too well.
“None of your business, asshole.”
I flick my gaze to the phone as I secure the tail of my braid with a clear band before pinning it to the back of my head, repeating the process on the other side. His stupid face creeps into frame, and I’m disappointed to see he’s still just as gorgeous as ever. His tousled blonde hair is brushed back off his forehead, and his piercing blue eyes stare back at me with reminders of empty words and broken promises. It’s unfortunate the gods wasted that face on such an irredeemable dipshit.
“Language, Mags. There’s a child in the room.”
“Miles is used to my colorful language,” I retort.
Ever the drama king, Miles frowns into the phone. “That hurts, Wildcat.”
“If the shoe fits, lace that bitch up,” I quip, slipping my feet into my chunky platform sandals near the front door. “Paige, I gotta go. I don’t wanna miss the subway. I’ll text you when I get there.”
“Be safe. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
As I’m about to hang up, a third voice chimes in with a condescending “love you the most” and I toss up one last middle finger before tapping to end the call, praying to whatever gods exist that they’ll send me someone to end my dick drought and get Miles fucking Barlow out of my head for good.
I stare across the two-seater table at the dark-haired man with the ill-fitting polo shirt and slacks as he drones on and on about stocks and bonds, my foot tapping out a steady rhythm as I force a smile. Discreetly, so as not to draw his attention away from his one-sided conversation, I flip my phone in my lap, checking the time to see how much longer this speed dating event is supposed to last.
Not one of your finest ideas, Mags.
I’ve been through a string of finance bros, a guy with an obvious Oedipus complex, and a gym rat who took one look at my tits, or lack thereof, and immediately recoiled. It can’t possibly get worse, right? There has to be at least one decent man in the bunch. Or maybethat’sthe problem: men.
The bell chimes signaling the end of another round, and finance bro swaps with a handsome blonde whose startling blue eyes hold a hint of depravity. Before he can even utter a word, I’m out of my seat and darting towards the exit, away from the man who reminds me so much of the man I’m trying to forget.
The warm spring air envelopes me as I step out onto Queen Street, the bright city lights guiding my way towards the beach. I’ve always felt drawn to the lake — maybe that’s why I convinced dad to buy a house in this neighborhood. The vastness of it called to me, whispering promises of freedom and endless possibility.
Toeing off my shoes, I hook them on my fingers and sink my toes into the sand along the edge of the water. The sun is dipping below the horizon, casting a soft pink glow over the surface as I meander down the shore, lost in thoughts of another lake 800 miles away where my best friend is likely sipping tea on her back deck with an adorable eight-month-old baby in her lap.
After graduation, I briefly considered following Paige to Oak Ridge, but that would’ve placed me solidly inhisorbit, and I’d rather shit in my hands and clap. Once upon a time, I thought Miles Barlow was someone I could give myself to, wholeheartedly and without pretense. Boy, was I wrong on every planet and in every language. As though I summoned her with my thoughts, my phone chimes with a text message.
Paige: Still alive?
Fuck — I missed the last check-in. I laugh, recalling our earlier conversation. I hold up my phone and snap a photo, then send it off to our text thread.
Mags: Selfie for proof of life.
Paige: Thank fuck. I was hoping I wouldn’t have to fly to Toronto and go all Sherlock Holmes.
Mags: Watson is still alive, I fear.
Paige: How did it go?
