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One person comes to mind at these lyrics.
The same woman who’s been running through my thoughts all day, messing with me so that I’ve started tolikethe chaos.
For crying out loud, I sent her a spontaneous text. I never do stuff like that. But when it comes to Annie, it’s like I don’t have as much control.
I’m not sure what I’m doing right now… but I actually feel lighter. Freer.
I crank up the volume and start belting out the words.
The lady in the car next to me—who, to be fair, looks like she’s been sucking on sour lemons all day—shoots me a strange look.
Is that howIusually look?
I don’t know. But I do know that, sitting here, basking in the evening sunlight and singing at the top of my lungs, my world’s suddenly brighter.
18
ANNIE
I’m hot.
I’m hot, and I’m tired, and I’m sweating profusely while cursing my adorable linen overalls and high-neck ribbed shirt. Both of which are sticking to every inch of my person in a decidedly unflattering manner.
I’m standing at the bus stop, laden with paper grocery bags and wishing I wasn’t wearing another one of my stupid TikTok bras that I have to keep yanking down. After a ten-hour day in the office followed by a veritable mad-house at Trader Joe’s, I just want to eat my pint of non-dairy dessert in my pajamas while wishing it was real ice cream. At this point, I’ll be having it as soup.
This not-having-a-car business is a royal pain in my behind.
But I can’t complain. I mean, it’s snowing in Boston. Prisha sent me photo evidence in the form of Raj shoveling the driveway in his penguin pajama pants.
Which, of course, I will be posting on Instagram later.
Is this bus ever coming?
I stick my neck out like a gawker, and peer down the street in that awkward way people do. Like looking harder for something will magically summon it.
As expected, I do not spot a bus.
What Idospot is a black SUV pulling up to the lights with the windows down and One Direction’s “You Don’t Know You’re Beautiful” blasting so loud, I can hear every word.
I smile, instantly cheered. Love me a bit of old-school 1D.
I’d be doing the same. Yanno, if I had a car.
Because I’m bored, curious, and evidently, a gawker, I squint a little to see the person in the driver’s seat. My eyebrows raise to see that it isn’t a teenage girl and her gaggle of friends. It’s not even a late-twenty-something lady rocking out (guilty).
It’s a man. A very broad, very hot man… who is also very shirtless.
His skin is inked with a collage of beautiful tattoos—intricate, artful drawings that I’m sure have an amazing story. He’s got his head back and is singing horrendously off-key. I’ve never considered that a muscular, tattooed man rocking out to a boy band anthem could be so unbelievably sexy.
I grin as I watch him, entranced.
Then, for some reason, the man glances my way.
And I’m staring into coal dark eyes I’d recognize anywhere.
My jaw hits the ground. I have to squeeze my eyes shut a couple times. Am I dreaming?
But it’s him. Undeniably him.
