Age 23:
From: [email protected]
Hey, bud. I need you to sit down for this news, my friend.
Are you sitting? Do you have a grip on reality? Is there a pillow nearby to catch your fall?
Ready?
You. Are. In. Love.
Sorry to be the one to break it to you. In your own special little Shiny way, you have completely fallen for this girl. Now, what does this mean?
You have three options:
- Tell her now.
- Keep it to yourself forever.
- Wait a while and scope out the situation.
Personally, I would choose lucky number 3. You haven’t known this girl for long, right? Why not see how things go? You don’t want to scare her off by telling her how you feel too soon. So maybe wait for the perfect opportunity to arise. Then again, you could just kiss her. Except some girls don’t like when a guy is super up-front like that. Judging by what you’ve told me, I like this girl already. I hope she knows how incredible you are and also wants to burn you. Please keep me updated.
Much love,
Lily
***
As teenagers, girls assume life as an adult is glamorous. Like the days of a twentysomething are filled with nothing but fun parties, cute boys, fancy shoes.
Never once did I picture myself sitting on the floor of a kitchen with a bowl of sugary cereal and a laptop with job availability sites pulled up on close to a dozen tabs.
I spent the morning applying for every position I could find. My résumé was still pathetic, to say the least, but it was worth a shot. I was most excited about the opening for a social media coordinator for the Pittsburgh Pirates. They weren’t my favorite team, of course, but it would be an absolute pleasure to take pictures of Tucupita Marcano’s backside and use #raiseit as the caption.
Plus, I’d get to see all the behind-the-scenes action and meet the players.
At this point, I would settle for a simple marketing job in a boring office, but it was fun to dream.
Working with Luke had been more fun than I expected. So far, he hadn’t driven me crazy like when we were kids, and I’d gotten to see Layla almost every day. Plus the work—making graphics, applying presets and adjustments to my photography, coming up with fun captions for his social media—didn’t actually feel like work. The job felt more like a hobby. Something to keep my hands and mind busy while I also tapped into that creative space in my brain. Like writing was for Layla. Or like running for some disturbed people out there. Or like music for Nathan.
Nathan.
I glanced over at the couch where, unless I’d been drunk on buttered popcorn last night, Nathan had definitely almost kissed me. People don’t simply tuck strands of hair behind their roommate’s ears, look passionately into their eyes and then down to their lips without kissing them.
My phone buzzed on the laminate floor beside my coffee mug.
Nathan: Hey, are we good?
So he was thinking about it too. There was no way to deny the chemistry between us. Because, naturally, there would be chemistry. Forced proximity was a classic trope in many of my favorite romance novels.
Just like when a guy my age is on the elevator alone with me. Every time, this weird sexual tension builds in the air. He doesn’t even have to be super cute. Same with any guy my age I notice at the airport. Those circumstances alone make him an automatic ten.
Being shoved into an apartment with Nathan was bound to cause at least a few sparks to fly. The important thing to remember was that being an adult, as I was these days, meant handling scenarios like this with grace.
I shoveled a spoonful of Lucky Charms into my gullet and sent my reply.
Me: We’re all good. Who wouldn’t want to kiss me?
I attached a picture of me shoveling another bite of cereal into my mouth, no makeup on and my hair in a rat’s nest. That should curb any sexy thoughts he might be having about me.
Nathan: Good, I’m glad. I was kind of worried.
Nathan: Because I like being friends with you.
I smiled. See? There we go. All is well.
Me: I like being friends with you too, million-dollar band.
Nathan: Mmm, don’t love that.
Me: Little twanger?
Me: Get it? Like the sound the guitar makes?
Nathan: Please never say that again.
Me: Would big twanger make you feel better?
Nathan: I’m going to be pissed if you eat all my cereal.
Me: Whatever you say, slowhand.
Luke planned to spend the day restocking shelves, so I hadn’t planned to go into work. But truth be told, I really wanted to. I’d already applied for every job that was even remotely relevant to my skill set, and I’d texted a dozen or so GIFs of dancing goats to my family group chat, and it wasn’t even noon. What was a girl to do with an entire free day? Definitely not work out. But I was ready to get out of the house. And considering I didn’t exactly have “fun money,” work was the next best place to go.
When I got to Romfuzzled, Layla was lounging in an egg-shaped chair near the back, homed in on her laptop. Her tongue was poking out of the corner of her mouth and her brows were lowered in concentration as her fingers flew across the keys effortlessly.
I hated to interrupt her, but I couldn’t resist sneaking over and waiting to see how long it would take her to notice me. Silently, I slipped into the chair across from her. My clothes brushed against the fabric more loudly than I’d expected, and yet she didn’t even lift an eye.
For seven minutes, I waited. I even sent her a text to see if she’d hear her phone buzz. But nope. Layla was entirely engrossed in her writing. She eventually sighed, shutting her laptop, and stretched her hands out. When she finally noticed me perched across from her, she jumped in her seat and let out a squeak.
Hand over her heart and chest heaving, she rasped, “Calla, you cannot scare me like that.”
I shrugged. “Been here for a while, babe. You were really in the zone, huh?”
She reached for the half-full water bottle on the table in front of her and nodded so violently I worried she’d do permanent damage to her spine. “I got to a scene where the killer left a note for the detective inside her home. It got my blood pumping.”
Layla’s last book was so good I read it in one sitting. I even cried at the ending. She had this way of pulling her readers in so they felt like they were living inside the pages. And even though I’m not exactly a thriller girl, the romantic secondary plot between the detectives—enemies to lovers, naturally—was so detailed it could have been its own story.
I clapped and scooted to the edge of my seat. “Ooh, tell me more. Who is the love interest? Please tell me the detective falls in love with the killer. I’m feeling some stalker vibes in there.”
She snorted. “Not much romance in this one. It focuses mostly on the female main character.”
I rolled my eyes. “Lay.” I dragged her name out. “Add just a teeny bit of romance in there for me, please?”
Twenty minutes of consistent, and probably very annoying, begging later, I got her to agree to spice the romance up a bit.
Just as I was gathering myself to finally get to work, the front door opened, and Layla waved. I turned to see my favorite, albeit only roommate making his way over to us.
