Page 55 of Burn the Script

“My legs are too long for most stationary bikes.”

I quirk an eyebrow. “How tall are you?”

“Six foot six.”

“Damn. I bet you’re good at hanging pictures,” I say, reshaping the napkin.

“Uh, sure. As for books, I’m not much of a…” He trails off.

When I look up from my project, Preston’s cheeks are an alarming shade of scarlet. A server carrying a foamy pint of beer appears at our table. He’s a short, edgy looking fellow with winged eyeliner, tight leather pants, and a gold mesh top that pops against his tan skin. White-blond hair drapes down one side of his face, reaching his chin. The shaved side of his head features a lotus flower tattoo that starts behind an ear with many piercings and spreads across his scalp.

He slides the beer in front of Preston and speaks in a surprisingly soft, high voice. “Your usual.”

“Thanks, Zephyr.” Preston keeps his gaze trained on the table while conducting a taste test.

“What are you having?” Zephyr’s question is directed at me, but he’s ogling my flustered friend like he wants to lick the foam off his upper lip.

“I’m all good, thanks.” My answer drifts into the void.

The two of them are playing ping-pong with stolen glances, oblivious to what’s happening. Do I smell an opportunity? Yes, I do. The air reeks of hormonal harmony. And as Zephyr returns to the bar, I plan for another pit stop before leaving the pub. I’ve never played Cupid, but this pairing seems like a marriage in the making.

“Zephyr seems interesting. Very pretty and petite, like your friend from speed dating.” Preston’s ears turn red, and I give him an incredulous look. “You clearly have a type, so why on earth did you go on a date with me?”

He wipes his mouth with a sleeve and sets the glass on the table. “My therapist thought I should broaden my horizons. We’re working on my fear of rejection, and he thought using an app would level the playing field. If a date never showed, at least my humiliation was private. And if the guys weren’t my type, I had nothing to lose anyway.”

I sit taller, intrigued. If kindred spirits exist, I may have found mine because Preston speaks my mental language. “Has therapy fixed you?”

“It doesn’t work that way. The point of therapy is to give you the tools to fix yourself.”

There’s that guilt again. This nice man has been working on his self-esteem, and he had to contend with my dismissive, snarky attitude. Of anyone, I should be more empathetic to insecure people.

Offering Preston my handmade gift, I say, “I’m sorry for rejecting you.”

“That was kind of the point of the exercise.” He holds the folded napkin in the air between us and squints at it. “It’s a triangle.”

My jaw gapes in disbelief. “Sir. That is an isosceles triangle.”

Preston lets out a full belly laugh. I don’t even care that he tosses my hard work aside. He’s happier, and the mood shift is palpable.

“I could’ve been nicer about rejecting you, especially when I know how scary it is to put yourself out there.” The triangle ends up in my hands again, and I tear the edges. “May I ask what happens in your therapy sessions?”

“Talking, mostly. The work you put in between appointments makes the biggest difference.”

“A big enough difference to withstand public scrutiny on a global scale?”

He perks up, eyebrows raised. “Your profile mentioned instructional sewing videos. Did one of them go viral?”

I really should’ve taken a closer look at the details Carmen put in my dating profile. My videos aren’t instructional. They’re inspirational, and she has no appreciation for the difference in meaning.

“Not yet, but it’s bound to happen one day,” I say. Ditching the frayed napkin, I tuck my hands between my knees and try not to rock from side to side. “Can your therapist prescribe a magic pill to eliminate my anxiety about going viral?”

Preston glances at the bar before answering, his deep voice dropping to an even deeper hush. “No, but my psychiatrist can.”

A therapist and a psychiatrist? The thought of opening up to strangers, even licensed professionals whose job it is to listen without judgment, sounds terrifying. But there’s no harm in doing some research.

While Preston tracks his future husband’s movements, I dig my phone out of my pocket and say, “We should exchange numbers.”

His gaze slides to me and narrows. “Why now?” Either he’s not as clueless as I thought or my attempt at using a friendlier tone has failed.