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I have exactly one close friend, and I spend my days hanging out with her or watching Eloise.
My life is certifiably plain and very–adult.
Maybe Griffin was right about the job. His comments poked at this weirdthinginside of me. Nobody’s ever drawn it into question before–not really.
Being with him feels the same way it feels when I work on my sketches–like losing myself in something, and not worrying what other people will think about it.
I tried on a salami suit, for crying out loud, and I barely even knew the guy!
I don’t think I’ve worn anything that bright in–
Ever?
I decided the vibes were right, and when he didn’t make a pass at me in the dressing room, I mentally agreed to let him drive me to the wedding venue.
On the ride there, we talked more about our jobs and close friends. I avoided family, for now. I didn’t want to spring a sob story onto him.
I also learned that Griffin has a cat named Simon, that he really meant it when he said nobody called him Finn, but he’s okay if I do. And I learned his job is incredibly techy–thoughI kind of got that impression at the coffee shop when he listed equipment I’ve never heard of.
For all I know, the guy was speaking Latin.
And unfortunately, I took French in high school.
When he parks the car at The Overlook, nerves spark through my body–sending little electric bolts of energy to all my limbs. My legs won’t stop shaking, and my entire body feels like a bomb about to explode.
Somehow, I can’t keep the smile off my face.
“Ready?” he asks, his deep voice drawing me out of my thoughts. I look over at him in his suit, looking like he belongs with all the guests walking toward the large brick building–painted white with ivy crawling up the sides. Everything is carefully manicured and seated on top of a large hill.
The Overlookis right.
The place is fancy, and I look down at the black dress I’m wearing, hoping we won’t get caught doing this, and hoping that I look half as decent as the stranger sitting next to me.
The whole thing feels like waiting in line for a rollercoaster, and after an hour of standing, you’re finally seeing the line move, and realizing that you could die–youmightdie. It’s actually more likely that you would die, but you can’t get the thrill out of your blood.
“How are we going to do this?” I ask, and I’m sure he can sense the nerves in my voice–a little breathless, to be honest.
I try to discreetly adjust the top of my dress, the sweetheart neckline and off-the-shoulder sleeves complimenting my figure far better than the orange jumpsuit. Despite our time crunch, I’d say Griffin did an outstanding job picking something out from the thrift store. He even paid for it.
All seven dollars.
I’m certain he’s rich.
Or he’s just using the two-hundred bucks he got when he accepted the job I posted, but I don’t linger on that thought long.
I look across the center console again. Hedefinitelylooks like he could fit in with this black-tie event.
We stopped at a gas station for him to change, and I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man come out of a gas station bathroom looking better. Usually, they just look uncomfortable and like they’re trying to fight off the burning in their butthole from intense road trip diarrhea.
If Griffin had that issue, I wouldn’t know.
“Don’t worry,” he says, opening his door with a wide smile splitting his face. “I have a plan.”
He rushes around to my side of his car and opens my door for me to carefully step out as I run my hands along the skirt of my gown. The fabric hugs my legs–my butt–and somewhere deep inside, the feral woman at my core decides she would like someone to take notice.
Did he notice in the dressing room?
Obviously not because I smelled like a deli counter.
