Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 105311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 527(@200wpm)___ 421(@250wpm)___ 351(@300wpm)
But then three little dots roll across the screen, giving me hope I didn’t blow it. And disappear.
Reappear as if to wave hello and boom—a message appears: Nothing.
Narrowing my eyes, I reread the message again. That can’t be all there is. That took a long damn time to type one word. Call me pushy, but I reply: Literally nothing or just nothing worth mentioning?
Juni: If you must know, I have an apricot mask on my face, and I’m in a hot bubble bath. Didn’t think you wanted those kinds of details since you’re my boss, so I deleted it, but now I’ve put it out there, so do what you may with the information.
Despite pointing out that I’m her boss, she teases me with no fear of repercussion. Sitting by myself at eleven-oh-six on a Monday night, I’m here smiling like an idiot.
She does that to me, evoking other reactions as well. More specifically, by wearing that skirt, the shoes, the curve of her legs, and the sweet smile I catch playing on her lips right before she blushes. Juni is sexy without knowing it, and that makes her even more attractive by default. I feel more alive when I’m in her presence. I feel confused too, but that doesn’t need to be worked out tonight.
Getting up, I pace around the couch, staring at my phone like it might catch fire. With her, it’s all fun and games, but it makes me wonder if I’m crossing a line. I know the answer. The only debate is whether I do it anyway.
Another message shows up on the screen: Was it the apricot mask? You’re more of a matcha green tea kind of guy, right?
The winky face she punctuated the text with doesn’t do much to assuage my guilt, but no one has to know. I’m typing before I can change my mind: I don’t like tea.
What the hell am I writing? Nonsense, that’s what.
Juni: What do you like, Andrew?
Me: I like . . .
I was so sure an answer would come easily, but as my fingers hover over the screen, I realize I don’t have a response. I don’t know what I like anymore because everything is different here. In LA, I had systems in place. Work, meetings, drumming up business, working out, meeting up with Dalen. Yet the only thing that’s changed about my routine is Dalen.
I should miss her, shouldn’t I?
We’ve known each other for years, but there was no . . . no heart involved. No plans set in concrete.
No commitment.
No feelings.
I should feel something from her absence—a hole or longing to see her—but I don’t.
She isn’t my person.
I stole that last line from my mom, but I know she won’t mind.
I answer honestly: I don’t know anymore.
There’s no response and no dots to comfort me. I’ve never felt more alone than I do now. Not because of abandonment issues from my childhood because I don’t have those. I can’t blame Juni either for not rushing to reply with some filler to make me feel better.
My job placates instead of excites, and I don’t feel like myself anymore.
I used to know who I was, and as much as I claim to have been steered into this career, I made the final decision to pursue it. I take responsibility for the decisions that got me here. It wouldn’t be fair to take credit but leave out the disappointments. But this is different.
New York is becoming another Seattle—just another stop while keeping my real in California.
How is that a way to live? It’s not. It’s survival, something I’m really fucking good at.
The phone rings in my hand, and I stare at her name on the screen. Do I answer it? Texting was one thing. Sexting quite another. But is it crossing a line if we’re just friends? “Hello?”
“You can’t leave me hanging like that.” It’s good to hear her voice, calm washing through me from the frequency. She gets a little pitchy sometimes, but I like it.
I like her company, even if it’s just listening to her. I grin, perching on the windowsill and looking out into the night. Wondering how far the distance between us extends, I ask, “Where do you live?”
“Oh no, you don’t, Mr. Christiansen,” she replies, a lightness caught in her tone as if she’s dragged yesterday’s sunshine into our night. The sound of water sloshing as if she’s getting out of the tub is heard. “No changing the subject.”
“And the subject was?”
“Is. The subject is that you don’t know what you like. You can’t name one thing?”
“I’m not trying to make you feel sorry for me. I just don’t have time to worry about such things.”
There’s a pause, but undeterred, she asks, “What about ice cream?”
“What about it?”
“Do you like it?”
I move to the couch to settle in for a bit. “Who doesn’t like ice cream?”