Cubby
“Is this cute?”I ask Meg as I hold a fistful of loose fabric up to my head. “Like a wig, or…?”
Meg frowns. “Let’s not improvise today. You had a long night last night.”
I lay my hand on my cheek and bat my eyelashes. “I remember.”
“But do you remember your talking points?”
I clear my throat. “Today’s video is all about self-empowerment through basic sewing skills. The fashion industry is essentially evil in a million ways, one of them being that they make their clothes to fit imaginary people. I’m celebrating what it means to alter clothes so that they work for me instead of relying on the big corporations, and reveling in the fun of skipping fast fashion for more sustainable vintage.” I smile broadly at Meg, projecting my voice like we’re recording. “Because nothing feels quite as good as an outfit that flatters you the way you want it to.” I tilt my head to the side. “Is that all?”
“Outside of the fact that you still haven’t picked an outfit.”
Meg’s got a point. I am still in my underwear. My clothes are scattered around us in the bedroom, and the camera and lights are set up, pointing toward the old wooden wardrobe.
“Maybe I’ll wear the Carhartt jumpsuit I turned into a romper,” I say, tapping my lip. “And then I’ll talk about the booty shorts collection? I’m going to wear the romper for the wood-chopping footage too, so we could film that once we’re done. I’d just have to borrow the maul from Chase, of course.”
Meg clears her throat. “We brought the calendar upstairs today for a reason, Cubby.”
I glance at the massive whiteboard schedule. We’re coming up closer on releasing the first video, which means there’s a ridiculous amount that needs to be done, from contacting friends to post about the release to booking marketing, prepping social media, and actually finishing the damn videos.
“It does say that I get to text him, though,” I point out. “Right after the fashion video, but before I make you do yoga with me.”
“I still can’t believe you wrote a text message in the schedule.”
I cover my mouth with my hand. “Because I’m going to ask him out again,” I sing, and we both laugh.
Like every time I think about Chase, I get tingly all over. He’s just so fucking cute and nice and hot, I want to jump all over his body. It makes me lose my mind a little bit, actually, hence the reason I’m scheduling stuff like texting him.
“I’m a professional at balancing casual sexual relationships with my busy work schedule, thank you very much,” I tell Meg, mainly to remind myself. “And you know I’ll need a release when we’re working eighteen-hour days.” I grab the romper. “Should we get started?”
For the next few hours, I manage to concentrate on the vlog. I get in my zone, focused on the message I want to share—and not on the way it felt to rub my chest against Chase’s. I hit my marks and ride my flow, and I’m only distracted a couple of times by the memory of feeding s’mores to my hot new lumberjack hookup.
For the love of God, the man let me feed him gooey marshmallows. How could anyone not think about that at work the next day?
But I do stay in the zone. I’m going to find my own path in the world, and there’s no way in hell that Chase would really want to date a guy who talks about his butt on the internet. I’m independent, by necessity if not always by choice, and I know better than to let a hot man derail what I’ve been working for.
Still. The second everything is packed away and we call it a wrap, I naturally dive for my phone, eager to send the text I composed in my head that morning.
Hi, handsome! Hope you’re having a beautiful mountain afternoon. Want to hang out again this week? What’s your schedule like? Hugs and kisses, your cutie with a booty.
I stick my tongue out while I add a bunch of emojis, then hit Send. “Ta-da!”
“Now you have to wait in pain for him to text you back,” Meg deadpans.
“Why are you so sure he won’t text me right away?”
“Do you really think he looks at his phone as much as you do?”
I think about it for a second, then suck in a shocked breath. “Fuck. What if he makes me wait all day?”
Before Meg can answer, though, the phone rings. There’s one in the hallway, and she steps out to answer it, then immediately comes back into the room.
“It’s for you.”
I cover my face with my hands. “He dialed?” I ask in horror.
“Do you want me to tell him you’re in the bath? Or maybe at the proctolo—”
