It’s not a lie. He does look dreamy.
“Wish me luck,” Emma says as she bounces off my desk, shimmying her dress back into place. She gives me a wink and then adds, “Instead of writing about Barrett, you should go find one for yourself.”
I laugh at this because I’m confident that writing about Barrett is much easier than finding one. “Barrett is a sure thing. We don’t want any more taco disasters.”
Emma grins at my comment, knowing exactly what I’m referring to. “It’s been four years since you’ve been out for a Taco Tuesday. Don’t you think you can get over it?”
I shake my head. “Chili powder is banned from mine and Mal’s apartment.”
Emma giggles. “Well, have fun with Barrett tonight, then.”
Emma walks away with a little pep to her step, and I truly hope Taylor, the musician, sees how wonderful she really is. She’s always been one to put her heart out there, no matter how many times it’s been broken. She’s an expert in duct-taping heartache.
***
On the subway ride home, my mind jostles along with the stops and starts. Rent is due this week, and while I have enough to pay my half, there simply isn’t much left for all the other necessities. My bank account isn’t as dry as the Sahara Desert, but it’s definitely going through a drought.
The walk from the subway to home is dark and depressing, the perfect kind of weather to inspire the mood to write about Barrett and the secrets he gives and steals in the night. When I open the door to the apartment, I’m instantly greeted by the aroma of oregano and basil, and I smile. I love it when Mal cooks. It is much better than fake food that would most likely end with me chewing on ten antacids before I went to bed.
“Hey, Mal!” I say as I peel my pink coat off and hang it on a hook along with my messenger bag falling apart at the seams before kicking off my shoes and stretching out my toes.
“Hey, Rach! I’m just throwing together a quick pasta dish.” She peeks her head around the corner from the small kitchen, her waterfall of jet-black hair streaming down past her hips. “How was work?”
“It was work,” I say with a sigh.
Mal huffs a sarcastic laugh. “You need to find a new job.”
Mal often goes on rants about me finding a new job. It’s not that she’s wrong; it’s just that she’s wrong. I don’t want to get a new job. While I don’t love my job, making a change is scary to consider. I’m thirty. Thirty as inshould bethirty, flirty, and thriving. Not thirty, wordy, and surviving.
Any job I’d apply for would be a compromise to what I consider thriving. I’d just be quitting one version of surviving for another one. If I’m going to quit my job, it’s going to be for my dream.
“Maybe that new job will find me,” I say optimistically, tossing my keys into the small bowl on a shelf we hung in the tiny space that is meant to be a foyer, even though really, it’s just an extensionof the living space made up of thrifted furniture we’d somehow squeezed through the narrow front door.
Our apartment isn’t spacious or luxurious in any sense of the word, but it’s cozy.
I pull my phone out of my coat pocket. Over six hundred notifications. (I forgot to turn it off silent after Mr. Williams had glared at me this afternoon.) I scroll through them. Mostly comments and likes, but there are a few messages.
I open my inbox, bracing myself for what I’ll find.
I’ve received hate mail, marriage proposals—even though they have no idea if I’m a woman or a man—inappropriate pictures, and everything in between. People are strange.
But my eyes practically pop out of my sockets when I see a particular message.
EvanTHEAuthor messaged me.
It must be spam. Surely. There’s no way Evan Michaels actually messaged me.
I tentatively click on the message that is titled,A Proposal You are Free to Turn Down.
A proposal?
Of all the marriage proposals in my inbox, if there was one from Evan Michaels, it would be one I’d pause to consider.
Dear BarrettBeyondTheBadge,
It’s Evan Michaels.
My publicist would like to have a conversation with you about an opportunity. You’d be required to reveal your identity and I’m positive that’s something you would prefer to keep anonymous. I would if I were you. Being a writer that steals from another writer won’t exactly create a positive connotation with your identity.
