Total pages in book: 67
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67046 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 335(@200wpm)___ 268(@250wpm)___ 223(@300wpm)
Jesus, an audience. Just what I need.
“Harding, bro.”
I turn to face Espinoza, who is indeed full of wisdom, young as he is.
“Eh?”
“Go do the deed yourself, man. It’s like ripping off a Band-Aid.”
Thing is, more often than not, ripping off a Band-Aid hurts like hell.
* * *
Miranda: So, I’ve been doing some thinking about that card. I hate to say this, but I’m ready to sell another one.
Me: Not the whole shebang?
Miranda: No, not yet—sorry. Every time we bump into each other, it’s a shitshow.
Me: I’ll take what I can get. Beggars can’t be choosers.
Me: So which card?
Miranda: Does Leroy Jenkins work for you?
Me: NICE!!!! I want it. How much?
Miranda: Five less.
Me: 20 large? Done. Same time, same place?
Miranda: No, I have to be downtown. I’m meeting the property manager of this office I want to rent. I was hoping you and I could meet first, so I could run to the bank, deposit your cash, and then cut him a check for the security deposit.
Me: That’s really fucking exciting, owning your own business.
Miranda: Scary too! I want to pee my pants.
Me: Better than shitting them.
Miranda: Well what a pair we make.
Me: Are you flirting with me?
Miranda: GOD NO!!!! **gags**
Me: Tell me how you really feel…
Miranda: I will. And I’ll tell you TO YOUR FACE.
Me: Dang, you’re in a mood today, eh?
Miranda: I guess so. I’m just so nervous. I’ve never done this before, CLEARLY. Someone should talk me out of it.
Me: No one should talk you out of it, and if they do, they’re a terrible friend.
Miranda: Aww, aren’t you sweet.
Me: I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true.
Miranda: So. Um…
Me: ?
Miranda: Not to be weird, but how is your friend? Is he feeling better?
Me: My friend from the other night? The one you were hugging?
Miranda: The one who ran away?
Me: Did he though?
Miranda: Yes and I’m so embarrassed. I feel like such an idiot for making him uncomfortable.
Me: That’s… He’s dealing with a lot. It was nothing you did.
Miranda: That’s kind of you to say.
Me: I’m not a kind person.
Miranda: Yeah, that seems like it’s probably true. You do seem like a giant asshole.
Me: WTF!
Miranda: Okay, I have to go. Wednesday at 2?
Me: That’s a bit early for me because I have to work, but I’ll make it happen. Where at?
Miranda: Coffee shop on Dysart and Lisbon?
Me: Blended Buds?
Miranda: LOL
Me: What’s so funny?
Miranda: You saying Blended Buds. It sounds so cheesy now.
Me: Yeah, well…it is LOL.
Miranda: See you Wednesday Noah.
Me: See you Wednesday.
8
Miranda
Noah is late.
I wonder if he drinks coffee as I stand in line, tapping the toe of my heeled pump. I check my phone again for the time and sigh, grateful there are at least three customers in front of me.
I’m smartly dressed for my first business meeting since incorporating. The black pressed pants are a sophisticated contrast to the jeans I wore to the club and my hot pink blazer announces my love of bold colors. Gold hoops, hair down, hot pink lips.
I’m pursing those lips with displeasure with every second that passes, anxiety chipping away at the confidence I felt striding through the door of the coffee shop—only to find Noah isn’t here.
My finger rubs along my top row of teeth, paranoia that there’s something smeared there making me fidgety; I’m more nervous about this exchange than I am about my meeting at three.
Except. Noah isn’t here.
Two more people in front of me.
One.
The door opens, wind whistling, just like in the freaking movies, a familiar silhouette standing there, gaze roaming the shop behind a pair of dark sunglasses. Backward baseball hat. Torn t-shirt, black mesh track pants, black sneakers.
I would recognize him anywhere. It’s not Noah, it’s…
That guy.
The one who bolted when I touched him.
I don’t understand what he’s doing here.
The girl ahead of me orders, and I avert my eyes, focusing on the back of her head. She has a cowlick and not a cute one. More like bedhead, and oh my god, I am so nervous.
I reach the counter, stumbling on my words, his gaze staring holes into my profile. I know it as well as I know what day I was born on. He. Is. Staring.
“I’ll have a, um… Um. Sorry.” I giggle. Shit. “A medium—no, a small.” Get it together, Miranda. “Plain. No, not plain.” I fiddle with the app on my phone, inhaling a deep, cleansing breath. Start over. “I would love a small, no foam, skinny latte with soy. Please.”
There.
Phew!
I step back a foot and bump into a solid form. There wasn’t anyone behind me when I got in line earlier and now warm heat spreads across my back. The hair at the base of my neck stands on end, a bit static.
The girl behind the counter zaps my app with her scanner and I tuck my cell in my purse. Trying to muster the courage that will allow me to turn around, to face what I know is standing there.