MEG
Meg: I’m drowning here.
Can’t wait to see your face.
Must.Have. Coffee.
Even after going to bed at three am on Saturday night, my body thought it’d be a great idea to wake up at seven on Sunday. After spending all day walking around like a zombie, could I sleep last night? Nope.
Now I feel like roadkill.
Thankfully, Meg met me the moment I stepped into the break room with a big, fat lemon poppyseed muffin. Rebecca swept in a moment later, looking like a total girl boss in a black pantsuit paired with one of those silky tops that ties in a bow at the neck.
I’ve always wanted one like that.
Someday.
“You look fabulous,” I say around a bite of muffin, since I’m apparently a monster who never learned to swallow before starting a conversation.
Rebecca fluffs the end of the ribbon, her cherry-red lips lifted in a friendly smile. “Oh, thanks. I picked it up last week.”
What must it be like to see something you like and justbuyit?
I can hardly remember.
She leans a hip against the counter. “How was your New Year, ladies?”
Like the responsible adult I want to be, I swallow my bite before responding. “Great. I came into the city to see the fireworks with some friends.” And I’m still paying the price. Late nights have become my enemy.
“Ugh. I should’ve just stayed here,” Meg mutters, adding another creamer to her cup.
“Why?” Rebecca and I ask at the same time.
“Just some crap with my ex I’d rather not rehash.”
Sounds like fodder for bowling on Wednesday night.
I blow on my coffee so that I don’t burn my tongue. Again. “How about you, Rebecca?”
She pours herself a mug from the pot next to the microwave, her whole face lighting up. “So amazing. My boyfriend and I took a trip out to see my parents in Carlsbad, then we went to the ballet in LA. It was magical.”
New Year’s at the ballet doesn’t sound very magical to me. But if that’s her thing, good for her.
“Oh!” She smacks my arm with an excited squeal. “You’ll never guess who we met at dinner! Branson Mills.”
I have no idea who that is.
“No way!” Meg seems impressed, so now I feel really left out.
I’ll have to Google the guy when I get back to my desk.
“Yes! Look.” Rebecca hands me her phone and starts talking about how this Mills guy bought them a ridiculously expensive bottle of champagne and all these words keep coming out of her mouth, but I can’t stop staring at this picture.
Not at Branson Mills—I’ve seen the guy on some TV show or whatever, but that’s not what steals all my focus.
That goes to the guy with his arm around Rebecca.
Not only do I know his face. I also know he snores when he sleeps and hates when people eat in his car.
