“It’s like we share a brain sometimes,” I said. “I was going to suggest we ask your cousin.”
“Then I’ll just copy you on this note,” she said with a wink as she tapped out a quick email, then closed her out her browser. “Now tell me more about this kiss with the hot British guy.”
I was about to give her all the details, every single one, when my phone buzzed. I pulled it from my pocket and looked at the screen.
There was a text message from a number I didn’t recognize.
How do I move that maybe to a yes?
* * *
An hour later, I still hadn’t replied. Nor had I deleted his note. Which meant I was still squarely in the maybe camp, and definitely not in the no camp, but absolutely fighting off the yes camp.
Because on the one hand, there was that bill. That bill was my future. But on the other hand, here was my present. The tingles that raced down my spine every time I replayed that moment on the boardwalk reminded me of how much a good kiss could turn a day around.
On the third hand, I had been on a nice even keel with food and grades for a few years now. Perfect even. No slip-ups when it came to bulimia, and nothing less than a B when it came to grades. Maybe I was stronger. Maybe I knew how to handle change without spiraling. Perhaps I could manage a little flirtation from a distance.
After washing my face, brushing my teeth, and slipping into bed, I chose the third path. I clicked on his text, adding him to my contacts, and listing him as HBG for Hot British Guy. Keeping him nameless would help me keep him at the necessary distance, I reasoned.
I tapped out a reply.
Generally speaking, one relies on moving trucks for such tall tasks.
I hit send, then hit the pillow. Seconds later, the phone vibrated.
HBG: Funny thing. I have a truck. With a very large bed.
A grin tugged at my lips. Damn that William.
Nice try. But I saw your bike.
I switched off the lamp on my nightstand.
HBG: You were checking out my wheels?
He had me on that one.
Maybe I was. And I’m not sure that bike has enough room for a yes.
I held the phone tighter, eager for a reply.
HBG: But it definitely has enough room if you ever want to go for a ride with me.
My eyes floated shut as a spark rushed through my veins. How I would love to get on the back of his bike, wrap my arms around his waist, and hold on tight.
I thought you were asking me out for a pizza. Now you want a ride too? You are demanding.
I tossed the phone to the foot of my bed, as if that would stop me from wanting to hear back.
But in seconds, it lit up again again. And in seconds I swiveled around and clicked open the screen.
HBG: That’s only because you kissed me. Now I know what I’m missing if you say no. Don’t say no, Jess. I want to see you again, and I want to kiss you again.
William
I cracked open a beer, waiting for a reply. I tuned into a new Spotify station on my phone that Matthew had sent me–it was chock full of rising new bands he said I’d love. I leaned back against the counter, took a long pull, enjoying the fizz of the cold drink. I closed my eyes, listening to the music and hoping for a reply.
Everything I’d said to her was true.
After two songs, I checked my phone.
But she never wrote back that night.
TUESDAY
Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny
Chapter Seven
Jess
Habit is a hard thing to break, and I had no plans of stopping my check-my-phone-the-second-my-eyelids-flutter-open routine. Which meant I’d already protected myself from temptation. With last night’s unfinished–deliberately so–text exchange tucked safely into a folder on my mobile phone so I would never touch it again, William was washed clear from my brain.
Safe and sound from his far-too-alluring texts, I opened my email the next morning.
I was greeted by a photo of a trim and slender Nick Ballast, an actor on The Weekenders. The picture was courtesy of my father, who’d forwarded an email alert from the home page of The Strip before he’d left for work.
Look who’s being photographed with his personal trainer! xo Dad
In this photo, Nick was out for an early morning run on the trails with his personal trainer who he’d hired when he slimmed down after a stint at fat camp.
I zoomed in on the photo. Nick seemed to be looking straight ahead and appeared to be chatting with his goateed-companion, but as I studied Nick I could tell he was cheating a bit to the side. He must have know the photog had been there, had probably even tipped off the shooter. Ballast had wanted this shot in the magazines and online. He wanted the world to know he was in fantastic shape. I couldn’t fault him. I’d want the same thing too if I were him, and to be honest, I was glad for him.
Ballast was a former child star who’d played an adorable batboy more than a decade ago in a sports movie, but when he hit high school he turned into a chubby teenager who’d lost part after part due to his ever-expanding waistline by a mere age seventeen.
About a year ago, he’d been spotted eating a Twinkie and guzzling a Slurpie in Century City, a bit of flesh poking over his belt. The picture was dubbed Nick Balloons! and it made the cover of many tabloids. That wasn’t my shot. But I did score a scoop on what happened next. After that very public testament to his largesse, he started hiding his food. I’d gotten a tip that he was a notorious car eater, and I supposed I should have felt sympathy—or better yet, empathy—that he didn’t want to eat in public, but I also sniffed opportunity. Besides, someone was going to catch him on camera sooner or later—that’s an immutable law of Hollywood—and it might as well have been me.