He’s in my corner.
It’s another feeling I haven’t had in a really, really long time.
His idea to make an outdoor porch and put an actual lemonade stand there so people could walk up and order right from the window was crazy good.
He even sent me information about obtaining permits and a business license and everything I could ever need to know about food sanitation.
He owns a building, so it’s apparent he’s gone through some of it already.
I don’t know if I can.
I don’t know if I have the money.
I don’t know if it will succeed.
I stop writing. I look at the last three sentences. I consider them for a beat, then make a couple of adjustments:
I don’t knowWHAT if I can?
I don’t knowWHAT if I have the money?
I don’t knowWHAT if it will succeed?
Maybe it’s delusion that spurs this change. Or Miles’s excitement rubbing off. He’s a good guy. A good friend. A really good guy friend.
A really good-looking good guy friend.
I scan down to the bottom of my list, and feeling like a teenage girl with a diary, I add one more thing... and then immediately cross it out because the second I reread it, a wave of fear washes over me.
I want to fall in love again.
Chapter 16
Saturday morning Google searches:
What do I wear to pickleball?
How likely am I to get injured playing pickleball?
What is a pickleball?
“Why do you look like that and I look like”—I give myself a once-over—“this?”
Miles frowns. “What are you talking about? You look great.”
I do not, in fact, look great. I look like a mom who’s cosplaying as an athlete.
Miles, on the other hand, looks like he’s just been featured in a Gap activewear ad. I’m starting to think this guy couldn’t look bad if he tried.
Even when he’s disheveled, he still looks sexy. The worst part? He doesn’t even have to try.
“I don’t really want to go,” I say, lamenting my yes. “I’m not good at sports.” Also, I’ve been actively avoiding situations where I might make a public spectacle of myself. Twice is plenty. And if anyone is going to go viral getting smacked in the face by a pickleball ball, it’s me.
“Come on, it’ll be fun,” Miles says. “Make a list, you’ll be fine.”
I shoot him a look.
“You already made a list, didn’t you?”
