RE:Last night
Well…maybe he has a morning meeting.
(mic drop lol)
TO:Grace Landing ([email protected])
FROM:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
RE:Last night
Oh, snap! I might need to go to the hospital because thatwas a sick burn! (How do you like my dad humor? Not bad, eh?)
Okay, big talker. Change of plans. I’ll be at your house in an hour. Be ready.
TO:Colin Yarmouth ([email protected])
FROM:Grace Landing ([email protected])
RE:Last night
Anhour?? Are you kidding? And ready for what, exactly?
Ha! This is going to befun.She’s freaking out, and that certainly isn’t my intent, but after the day I’ve had, I deserve a little bit of fun. Plus, I have so much new stuff to tell her, and I’msureshe can work it in to the story.
Elle’s such a dick. I know it sounds like a terrible thing to say, but after the stunt she pulled today, I am just completelyoverit with that girl.
I get in the car and start driving. Something inside me stirs. I feel like a kid again before a big baseball game or something. It almost feels like butterflies. The promise of possibility.
I recognize it.Hope.
Man, it feels good.
The late-day sun beams through the front window of my car, warming my forearms as I drive.
I could chase this feeling to Brooklyn and back a hundred times.
I just hope Gracie feels it too.
Gracie
I refresh the email on my phone several times, but Colin doesn’twrite back. I wait a few minutes, casually cleaning up my dishes just in case he wasn’t kidding. Hemustbe kidding though, right? I mean, whodoesthat? Who shows up in the middle of a Friday afternoon for a date that’s supposed to be on Saturday night? And for what reason? Because I madeone joke?
I might throw up. I burp and can taste the leftover pelmeni, most notably the very particular flavor of dill and sour cream. Thank you, heartburn. A warm puff of air escapes my lips.Whew!That isnota fresh smell.
In fact, I realize as I move through the kitchen,I think this whole house smells like an Eastern European catering hall.
Oh my God. What if he comes here and I look like a drowned rat, with my wet hair dripping down my oversized T-shirt, leaving marks like leaky breasts on a sleep-deprived mother? And he takes one step into my apartment and is like, “No, thanks,” and ducks out immediately because the odor of mixed chopped meat and onions overpowers his nostrils? Why can’t I just be like one of those put-together girls who always smells like strawberries and french vanilla?
Breathe, Gracie. Don’t get your skivvies in a twist,I tell myself.Call his cell phone. See if he’s really coming here.
I inhale and count to ten in my head. Exhale. Dial. Wait.
He picks up, and I hear the Bluetooth kick in on his end of the line. “Hello?” he says amidst what sounds like windy background noise.
“Colin, it’s Grace.”
“I know, silly. What’s up?”
