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My smile is so big, I feel it all the way at the corners of my eyes.
Me: Here and at the ready, my distressed friend. Lay it on me.
Maybe: Okay, so, I *think* I made a good impression with Cassandra. I mean, she didn’t kick me out in the first five minutes, and I didn’t make ANY references to My Little Pony. She even happened to know some of my work from the Stanford Gazette.
I shake my head as I type out a reply, wondering how one human being can amuse me so much.
Me: Was referencing My Little Pony an actual possibility?
Maybe: I don’t put anything past myself when I’m nervous.
Me: Well, you can relax now. It sounds like she loved you.
Maybe: Let’s not get too ahead of ourselves here, buddy.
Me: Tell me this—did she tell you when she’d call you?
Maybe: She said I’d hear from her in the next day or so.
Me: She loved you.
Maybe: How in the hell do you know that? You weren’t even there! Can Billionaireman see through walls now?
I picture her getting all amped up, and it makes me laugh into the silence of my apartment. It comes out sounding a little evil, but there’s no one here to hear it, so I don’t waste time focusing on it.
Instead, I type out another message and hit send.
Me: I’ve known Cassandra for a long time, and she isn’t one to say something she doesn’t mean. She’s a straight shooter. Like the John Wayne of publishing.
Maybe: Hmm… exactly how well do you know her? Like, are you guys friends, or are you guys “friendly”?
My eyebrows draw together.
Me: Is there a difference?
Maybe: Yes. Friends is friends. But friendly? That could mean all sorts of things. Like when Jimmy Thompson’s mom was “friendly” with the mailman when I was in second grade, and he ended up with a dog-phobic half-brother.
I laugh.
Me: You’re making that up.
Maybe: Maybe I am, maybe I’m not. The story doesn’t matter, Milo. What matters is that “friendly” means something different than friends.
I shake my head and type out a response. I glance over at my food. It’s got to be cold by now, but that’s what microwaves are for.
Me: We are just FRIENDS, kid. She went to Yale with me and Ev.
Maybe: Ah, okay. Not that it matters or anything. You’re free to be friendly with whomever you want. And she’s a pretty lady, so being friendly with her probably wouldn’t be bad.
Me: Maybe.
Maybe: Wait…are you saying my name or saying maybe it wouldn’t be bad being friendly with her?
Me: MABEL WILLIS, I have no intention of being friendly with Cassandra Cale now or ever.
Maybe: Oh. Well, all right. None of my business.
I shake my head and laugh out loud. I can’t help it. She’s a lunatic.
A fucking adorable lunatic, but a lunatic nonetheless.
Maybe: Well, I just want to say again, thank you for getting me that interview and helping me with this. I am forever grateful.
Me: No thanks needed. I’m glad to help.
Five minutes pass by without her saying anything else, so I dish out my food onto a plate and put it into the microwave. Just as the microwave announces it’s done, my phone buzzes again. I leave the food and pick up my phone again.
Maybe: Can I ask you something?
With the way this evening’s conversation has gone, there’s absolutely no telling what’s on her mind. And honestly, that’s kind of the fun part.
Me: Shoot.
I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and take a swig while the bubbles of her message that indicate she’s typing whirl.
Maybe: How often do you sext? A rough calculation is fine. Round up, round down, that sort of thing.
I spew water all over myself and the counter, and then quickly wipe it away from my face with the sleeve of my T-shirt.
She’s asking me about sexting? Where in the hell did this come from? Was it a typo?
Me: I’m sorry…did you say sext? As in text messaging about sex?
Maybe: Yes.
Part of me is thrilled about the prospect of talking about sex with this gorgeous woman. It’s so thrilled, it’s giving the idea a big ole standing ovation.
I groan and adjust my pants before rubbing at my eyes to try to make myself think with other, more rational parts of my body.
Maybe Willis is Evan’s little sister. I should not engage in talk about sexting with her.
Me: I don’t know if I’m really comfortable talking about this, kid. Sexting can get…intense.
Maybe: So, you have done it. You do it.
I groan and type out what I think is a fairly innocuous message. If she’s not going to drop it, I’ll just have to keep things in check.
Me: I mean, it’s not on my appointment calendar, but it’s happened before.
Maybe: What do you say when you sext?
Fucking hell. I bite my lip as my mind automatically plays through a list of things I want to say to her.
