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I’m not sure what happened, but somewhere along the line, our wires must have gotten crossed. The BA Reveal Party was scheduled for next Friday, August 28th, not the following Friday, September 4th, like you originally requested.I’m sorry…what? I blink seven hundred times, but when I reread it again, it still says the same thing.
How in the hell did they get the date wrong?
I keep reading in hopes that Phyllis has decided to become the next Ashton Kutcher and punk my ass. But, deep down, I know better. My fifty-year-old co-worker is too straitlaced to dabble in pranks, and she doesn’t have the bone structure to pull off Ashton’s haircut.I am so sorry, Holley.
I wish I had better news, but the venue, the caterers, the photographer, they refuse to change the date and have made it clear our deposits are nonrefundable.
I tried to talk Gloria into letting us take a loss on this one and just reschedule, but she was adamant that you’d be able to make Friday, August 28th work for the BA Reveal Party, your article schedule, and the rest of the Bachelor’s dates.
Which is also why, at Gloria’s insistence, the invites have been sent out and the guest list is nearly set.
Again, I wish I had better news.
Please let me know if I can do anything to help you.Sincerely,
Phyllis Carmichael
Event Coordinator, SoCal TribuneLet her know if she can help me?
Uh…how about you buy a fucking time machine and go back to the day you screwed up the date and fix it, Phyllis!
Gah. This is a serious snag in my timeline. My article deadlines. Jake’s dates.
It takes everything inside me not to toss my phone out into the middle of the skating rink so someone can roll the hell over it and crush it to smithereens. Clearly, this wouldn’t be helpful in any way, but damn, the instant gratification of releasing my pent-up anger and frustration would almost be worth it.
On a sigh, I look up from what must be Satan’s personal inbox that’s somehow found its way on to my phone and catch sight of Jake and Lydia again.
Suddenly, my brain feels like it might explode. Phyllis’s major fuckup momentarily forgotten, I get lost in watching the two of them glide around the shiny roller rink floor.
Lydia smiles like the sun as she skates beside him. She reaches out her stupid flirtatious hand and touches him on the arm, and then the shoulder, and then wraps an arm around his hips.
Goodness, does the woman have some sort of tactile disorder? How much does she need to touch him?
I turn my back briefly and bend down to fix my shoe—a shoe that doesn’t need fixing. It’s a Vans slide-on, and I’m wearing no-slip socks.
My brain, though—it needs a reality check. High crime isn’t an option, and more than that, it shouldn’t even be a notion.
I mean, what am I expecting here? The man is on dates with these women. In fact, physical contact is kind of the point. It should excite me because it means I actually have something to say in my articles. I have words to fill my word count.
So why in the world am I feeling so dang grouchy about it?
Am I just jealous of people who actually have prospects? Has my mind somehow latched on to the first decent man I’ve come into contact with since Raleigh and I split up? I mean, it’s not like I’ve known this guy for longer than a hot minute. My hormones need to calm down and get it together. There are lots of fish in the sea, and I just need to get out and swim with some of them.
I flinch. The idea of getting out and trying to meet men to date makes me want to cry so hard I’d fall face first into a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s.
My God, I’m going to be alone forever.
While Jake skates around with the bubbly cheerleader, I make a mental note to research how much responsibility it requires to own a cat. All in the name of my future spinsterdom, of course.JakeLydia’s overt clinginess nearly forgotten—thank God—I grab Holley’s hand and drag her out of the front seat of her Infiniti with impatience. The sooner I get her out of the car and down on the beach, the sooner we can get the stupid debriefing out of the way and get on with the fun stuff. Although, I have to admit, with the way Holley is trying not to smile right now, I might just have to pepper in some fun right in the beginning.
She eyes me with an amused mix of contempt and playfulness, and I waggle my eyebrows.
“Get a move on, slow poke.”
Her eyelids flutter as she snorts, but she doesn’t let go of my hand when I shut her door behind her either. I take that as a sign of tacit compliance, so I don’t waste any time pulling her away from the car.
