I shake my head.
“You ever heard of Waxed? The new underground strip club?”
I laugh. “Dude, are we gonna hit some balls or what?”
“Oh, you’d get your balls takencareof at Waxed, that’s for sure.”
I unzip my gear bag and grab my glove. “You’re a real class act, you know that?”
“Fuck yeah, I am.” He winks.
I hate to think it, butthisis the kind of guy who deserves scathing, drunk emails. Not me. I stretch out my arms and breathe in the crisp smell of morning dew, refusing to let Grace Landing take up any more of my head space today.
Gracie
The worst thing about being an author is the self-discipline itrequires. Well, that and the fact the money’s not so great. You get that MFA and think, “This is it! I’m gonna be a superstar!” and take a knee while throwing your hands up in the air like that old Mary Catherine Gallagher bit on SNL, but in real life you’re lucky if you get a five-figure advance and make it onto a few key Amazon book lists. You have to be, like,sogood at managing your personal finances because if not, you’ll end up broke as hell, working a day job at Starbucks because they offer health insurance.
Which is what I’m thinking about on Monday when Ishouldbe working on my new novel, due to Lindsay Ellerton, my agent, in exactly two months.
Procrastinating is one of my best attributes. No joke. When I die, that’s gonna be in my eulogy. “Gracie Landing was a beautiful soul. Her ability to procrastinate set the bar for all of us.” I have three favorite ways to procrastinate: 1) watch music videos and pretend that the ingenue/lead singer/booty girl is me, 2) compulsively check my email, and 3) go to the bathroom. Today, it’s number two that gets me in trouble. No! Not number two, like on the toilet. Number two on thelist! (Gross!)
I’m checking email, and of course, my daily Starbucks Rewardsmessage gets me thinking about the solid benefits package I could be having (not to mention all the discounted beverages). When I come back to my senses, I see that I have a new message from Colin Yarmouth.
Colin Yarmouth? As in, the hottest guy on the boys’ varsity baseball team in high school? The kid who issued me my not-so-clever nickname, “Elvis,” because my name reminded him of Graceland? The boy I used to think about when I was making out with myactualhigh school boyfriend, Ronald, whose cystic acne was surpassed only by his gigantic schnoz?
Why is Colin Yarmouth emailing me?
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:yearbook
Dear Grace,
I am in receipt of your email from this weekend. I read it several times and can only wonder if perhaps you were inebriated when you wrote it. In any event, I apologize for any undue stress your nickname caused you, both in high school and now, all these years later. I certainly never meant to offend you, just as I’m sure that you didn’t mean to wish obesity and hair loss on me in your message.
Best,
Colin
Oh,no.
It’s coming back to me now. I vaguely recall how Saturday night ended. We were at the House of Yes in Bushwick, and after trying my hand at the aerial hoop (which did not end well), my girls, Tori, Melly,and Alisha sent me home in an Uber. These are myrealfriends too. Like, since rooming together back at Boston College.
I fell down—that’s what happened. No. Wait. I slipped on my own vomit, andthenfell down.Yes, that’s what it was. Okay. I would’ve sent me home in an Uber too.
But it wasn’tallmy fault! It was Scott! Why couldn’t he just remove me from following him on Instagram like anormalex-fiancé would? I couldn’t unfollowhim—that would make me look like such a loser! Like I care about his stupid baby pictures or his bimbo trophy wife!
So, yeah. There was extreme drinking. And when I got home, I cut all my thongs in half because those were the panties I bought specifically because Scott was a self-proclaimed “ass man.” Assholeis more like it. Whatever—my granny panties are a hell of a lot more comfortable anyway. And then. Andthen. I played the yearbook game. That’s right. The one where you flip through your high school yearbook and send a drunk text to whoever comes up on the page you land on. Only I was playing by myself, and I didn’t have Colin Yarmouth’s number. Okay, okay. Busted. If we’re being completely honest, the page flip might not have beenentirelyaccidental. I’d been using my yearbook to come up with ideas for characters for my new manuscript, and it’spossiblethat I might have been studying his picture on the varsity soccer page a few days ago. You know, for research.
Oh,God.
I reread the email. Is that from hisworkaccount? What have Idone?
Well, this is just great. Now I’llneverget any writing done today.
Except, of course, for a response to this email. But first, let me check out his website. Oh.Damn. Yeah, he’s still hot. Way hotter than his partner, Gordon Aycock. I can only imagine the nicknames he tosses around that office.
