Page 24 of The Opposite of Romance
“Of course he does. He’s Leo fucking Sterling. What are you doing?”
“I was trying to write…”
“Scratch that! I’m coming over. We need to plan this.”
A click signals the call is over. I save my manuscript, deciding I wouldn’t be productive today, anyway.
“I’m here, I’m here!” Sandy bursts into my house fifteen minutes later. Stella is strapped to her chest, peacefully sleeping.
“Coffee?” I offer.
“Sure.” She waves me off. “Let me see the text. What did you respond?”
I hand her my phone. “Nothing?”
“What?!”
“I figured we can think of something together.” I shrug, handing her a cup.
“Fine, ok. We’ll handle this. Let me think on it.”
We walk into the living room and get settled on the couch. I caress Stella carefully, not to wake her up while Sandy stares at my phone.
Knowing Sandy’s on the case makes everything better. She’s all drama, but she gets shit done.
“Ok. Here’s what I’m thinking,” she says after a few pensive minutes. “You need to look cool.”
A laugh bubbles out of me. “That much I figured.”
“So, we need a casual reply. Something that says you’re interested, but nottoointerested, you know?”
“I agree.” I take a sip of my coffee, considering if I should have any more.
“Well?” She looks at me expectantly. “You’re the writer.”
“Erm, yeah.” I am the writer. But nothing I wrote ever had anything to do with real life. Maybe it’s time to change that.
I take my phone back, trying to light up my creative spark. My lips turn up, typing the only thing that comes to mind, and hitting send before I can convince myself otherwise.
Me
Looking forward to it.
Sandy grabs the phone from me, her eyes flying over the screen.
“I like it. Simple, elegant.” She beams at me. “Now we have to figure out what are you going to wear. We also need to get you a mani-pedi and waxing appointments. When did you do your hair last?”
Aaaaand she’s in PA mode. A few taps later, I have a mani-pedi and a Brazilian wax scheduled for tomorrow.
“I went last week.” I’ve been getting grays since I was in my late twenties, so my monthly hair appointment isn’t something I skip. “Do I have to get a Brazilian? I hate it.”
“You don’t, but it’s what men prefer.” She shrugs.
Those men are creeps, goes through my head, but I don’t share it aloud. Truth be told, I’m excited.
“You think he’ll get to see it?” I ask.
“Do you want him to?”
