could tell. And then, when I asked for a follow-up number, in case I had further questions, he asked for my number. (!!!!)
<> What? That happened yesterday? Why are you holding out on me? If cute, redheaded pharmacy students ever gave me the time of day, you’d be the first to know. Not like that would ever happen. Even construction workers don’t whistle at me.
<> That’s because you ooze preemptive leave-me-alone death rays. Besides, anyone who gets within 10 feet of you spots the giant rock on your finger.
<> And also, I’m dumpy. What did you tell the cute anti-parking guy?
<>
1. If you keep insisting that you’re dumpy, I’ll stop sharing my romantic misadventures with you. You’ll have to read about them in Penthouse Forum like everybody else.
2. I did something weird. I lied to him.
<> You didn’t tell him you had a boyfriend?
<> Nope. I told him I had a fiancé.
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t. I’m engaged.” And then he looked at my hand and blushed. (It was an adorable, redheaded blush.) And I was like, “I left it on the sink.”
I felt like you at the Baby Gap, buying munchkin overalls. Just making up my life. (Actually, it was more pathetic than that—because you don’t even want a baby. I want to be engaged. Somewhat desperately, let’s face it.)
Last night, when Chris came home and climbed into bed, I couldn’t look him in the eye.
One, because part of me really wanted to give that guy my number.
And two, because I’d lied.
<> Don’t overthink wanting to give out your number. You were flattered. Attracted. That’s natural. I know this from reading Glamour and watching The View , of course, not from personal experience.
Did Chris notice that you couldn’t face him?
<> No, there was no face time. He fell asleep before I could ask him how practice went. A long night grinding the ax takes it out of you.
<> Ew. Is that a euphemism for masturb@tion?
<> No. I think it’s @ euphemism for pl@ying the electric guit@r. Or @n idiom. I don’t know. Do you really think “masturbation” is one of Tron’s red-flag words?
<> Well, it doesn’t matter now. If we get fired because you insist on poking the dragon, you’re going to have to support me and my pricey Baby Gap habit.
<>
1. Poking the dragon. Is that another masturbation reference?
2. Baby Gap. Still?
<>
1. Ha.
2. Still. Last weekend, I scored a celery green snowsuit with matching mittens for $3.99!
<> Green is a smart choice—good for an imaginary girl or an imaginary boy. And the season isn’t at all relevant with imaginary children.
<> Exactly. I don’t even go to the adult Gap anymore. Once you’re an imaginary mother, it’s hard to take time for yourself.
<> I imagine.
<> So, what’s tomorrow’s Indian Hills story about?
<> There isn’t one.
<> There better be. You’re on the morning budget for 15 inches.
<> F
CHAPTER 24
SO, THIS WAS what Lincoln’s romantic life had come to. Reading what women wrote about other men, other attractive men. Guitar gods and action heroes and redheads.
That night, after he trashed Beth’s and Jennifer’s messages, after he’d left The Courier , Lincoln got onto the freeway. It was laid out in a rough square around the city. Once you were on the freeway, you could drive as long as you wanted to without getting off, without ever really going anywhere.
It’s what he and Sam used to do on nights when they didn’t feel like being around their parents or sitting in some diner. Lincoln would drive, and Sam would roll down her window and lean her head against the door, singing along with the radio.
She liked to
<
<
<
<
1. If you keep insisting that you’re dumpy, I’ll stop sharing my romantic misadventures with you. You’ll have to read about them in Penthouse Forum like everybody else.
2. I did something weird. I lied to him.
<
<
“Sorry,” I said. “I can’t. I’m engaged.” And then he looked at my hand and blushed. (It was an adorable, redheaded blush.) And I was like, “I left it on the sink.”
I felt like you at the Baby Gap, buying munchkin overalls. Just making up my life. (Actually, it was more pathetic than that—because you don’t even want a baby. I want to be engaged. Somewhat desperately, let’s face it.)
Last night, when Chris came home and climbed into bed, I couldn’t look him in the eye.
One, because part of me really wanted to give that guy my number.
And two, because I’d lied.
<
Did Chris notice that you couldn’t face him?
<
<
<
<
<
1. Poking the dragon. Is that another masturbation reference?
2. Baby Gap. Still?
<
1. Ha.
2. Still. Last weekend, I scored a celery green snowsuit with matching mittens for $3.99!
<
<
<
<
<
<
<
CHAPTER 24
SO, THIS WAS what Lincoln’s romantic life had come to. Reading what women wrote about other men, other attractive men. Guitar gods and action heroes and redheads.
That night, after he trashed Beth’s and Jennifer’s messages, after he’d left The Courier , Lincoln got onto the freeway. It was laid out in a rough square around the city. Once you were on the freeway, you could drive as long as you wanted to without getting off, without ever really going anywhere.
It’s what he and Sam used to do on nights when they didn’t feel like being around their parents or sitting in some diner. Lincoln would drive, and Sam would roll down her window and lean her head against the door, singing along with the radio.
She liked to
Similar Books
The Evil That Men Do: FBI Profiler Roy Hazelwood's Journey Into the Minds of Sexual Predators
Stephen G. Michaud, Roy Hazelwood
