Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Did she say that, Josie?”
“No,” I grumble, but I don’t look away from him. It’s October in San Francisco so it’s strangely warm out—but that’s typical for this month, I’ve learned. And I don’t mind the weather because Wesley’s in a trim burgundy T-shirt that stretches across his pecs, and shows off those steel arms and the ink that climbs down his fair skin. I catch snippets of his sunburst, all of his music notes, and a view of the line drawing of the dog. The notes make sense—he loves music. I want to know about the sunburst and the dog. Briefly, I picture the bruise under his shirt too. The one I was so tempted to touch the other night in the dark of the kitchen.
But that night feels like it was years ago, especially since I may never escape this moment.
Greta was not wrong when she said overcome a fear.
“I bet there’s a way around it.” Then, it hits me like a baby grand piano crash-landing on a cartoon character. “How did I miss this? My specialty is digital literacy and information, so I should have thought of this sooner. We’ll do an online class. Asynchronous learning. It’ll be perfect. Has there ever been a better solution in the history of the world?”
He sighs, adding an eye roll, too, as he advances toward me. “Just know this—I have no choice now.”
Before I realize what he’s doing, Wesley hoists me up and tosses me over his shoulder. In the middle of the sidewalk. As evening crowds stream by. “Wesley!”
He doesn’t let go, even as I pound my fists against his back while he carries me fireman-style to the little theater.
“If I die of embarrassment you’d better say nice things about me at my funeral,” I grumble.
“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” he says, too amused.
“It’s official. I’m dead. I am dead from improv and you,” I say, and he carries me into the theater, finally putting me down at the back row. I turn around and take it in.
It’s a packed class.
Kill. Me. Now.
“Welcome to improv for adults.”
The teacher strides across the front of the small theater as a welcoming smile spreads across her plum-colored lips. If I walked into her cottage, I’m sure she’d offer me tea, complete with a honey stirrer, then listen to all my heartache in front of her warm, crackling fireplace.
And still, I am annoyingly terrified. My chest is tight as I settle into the hard metal chairs placed in a circle around the room. My skin is clammy. My heart beats in my ears.
I wish I weren’t afraid.
I wish I were fearless.
I wish I were bold.
“You might be here because someone told you you’re funny,” she says, and a couple of the guys in class chuckle. Dude-bros. There are dude-bros here. I want to find a tunnel to another universe.
“Or maybe you’re here because you need to give presentations at work and your boss sent you to class to prep.”
A few men and women in business-y attire nod.
She stops, then looks our way. “Or possibly because you’re on a date with someone, and this is a fun new activity.”
Who would do this on a date? I’m literally sweating. I only want to sweat if I’m in bed and Wesley’s fucking me so hard he’s grunting and I’m begging.
And that is not a helpful thought. Nope. Not helpful at all.
As she talks more about what to expect, I sit up straighter, smooth a hand over my jeans, draw a quiet breath.
Wesley shifts closer, his shoulder brushing mine. His touch is reassuring and tingly all at once. He leans in more, moving toward my ear, his scruffy jaw touching my cheek as he whispers, “We can go.”
It’s said so thoughtfully, with so much tenderness. “Yeah?” I whisper back, a knot of relief untying in my chest.
“It’s okay to say no, even if it’s on the list,” he says, and I sit with that permission for several seconds—seconds that soothe some of my nerves. That settle my worries.
This is a make-believe class for adults. The worst that’ll happen is I’ll be bad at it, and we’ll laugh. I lean into him, my head brushing his now, my hair touching his. “I’m staying.”
Wesley sets a big hand on my thigh, and squeezes.
It’s distracting, and maybe that’s what I need as the teacher paces across the room, saying, “Some of you might be scared. You might feel uncomfortable, you might hate this, but try to remember this is just for fun. And it’s okay to be silly. In fact, I guarantee it’ll feel silly.” She stops, surveys the class in the theater. “And this is not a try-out for the next Taylor Tomlinson comedy troupe,” she says, and I love her for citing a female comic. “You don’t need to be Iliza or Ali.”