Thunk!
My forehead falls forward onto the paper I’ve been doodling. I stay there long after the old gentleman leaves and Sarah goes back to sorting shelves, pretending she’s not looking at me like she’s watching a crazy person.
This sucks.
With a bad book, you can just close it.
With life, it’s never that easy.
I have a samplerof my favorite books piled up beside me, starting with my pretty, leather-bound copy ofPride and Prejudice.
Then a massive Edgar Allan Poe collection, poems by brilliant new poet Dakota Burns and my old fave W.S. Merwin, several Harry Potters, half the books ever written by Kristin Hannah, and even a few fun reads by Lauren Landish and Brittney Sahin.
But nothing’s working today.
That’s how you know it’s bad.
The rainbow portal to happy reading world just won’t open.
Ethan, soul-sucking lizardman from the heartless deep, has stolen my ability to enjoy books.
I hate him.
“Is nothing sacred?” I whine out loud, looking around my apartment like I’m expecting the tall stack of thrillers on my coffee table to answer me.
Nope.
I contemplate pouring myself a drink.
I’m not a big solo drinker, but I think Margot might’ve left some vodka and Bailey’s here from the last time we had a girls’ night.
Right now, the idea of sitting and drinking alone has a Bridget Jones kinda feel.
If I dramatize my life, it doesn’t have to feel soreal.
But then that searing hot poker jabs me in the chest again.
I briefly forget how to breathe, function, or generally survive, but a girl can’t have everything.
For now, I’ll settle for a little peace and quiet.
Then the buzzer sounds, gratingly loud from the intercom on the wall.
Ugh.
Pretty sure my heart leaves my body, cartwheeling through a whole panicked gymnastics routine.
Ethan.
That’s my first thought.
It’s not even asensibleone.
Mr. McHeartstabby wouldn’t just drop in uninvited without so much as messaging me. There’s no scenario where I open the door and find him standing behind it, ready to apologize and eat his last cruel words.
Still, my mind goes wild with possibilities.
I walk to the door and he’s standing there, handsomely disheveled and slightly wet even though it’s not raining.
