Total pages in book: 83
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 78662 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 393(@200wpm)___ 315(@250wpm)___ 262(@300wpm)
She grins, obviously hoping to bring the topic back to Marcus, but I’m too upset to smile back. The worst part of Kendall’s unflattering assessment of me is that she’s right about one thing: the career I planned for might never come to pass, yet I haven’t changed course to adjust for that, choosing to hide my head in the sand instead. When I started working at Smithson Books, I was a junior in college, and I regarded the job as a temporary part-time opportunity, a way to make a little money while being loosely connected to the industry I wanted to be in. But when I couldn’t find a job with a major publishing company upon graduation because all of them were shrinking and restructuring, I stayed at the bookstore, all the while telling myself that I was just biding time until my real career began.
Weeks turned into months, then into years, and here I am, still biding time.
Self-disgust is a thick knot in my throat as I confront another unpleasant fact: Kendall is right about my freelance editing too. I have been half-assing it, treating it more like a hobby than a business. I haven’t even built a website, though I know the importance of that in a largely online book community.
No wonder I’m drowning in student loans and stressing over every meal out: I’m living in one of the most expensive cities in the world on a cashier’s salary—all so I can cling to the idea of a career that I know no longer makes sense.
“Why didn’t you say something earlier?” I try—and fail—not to sound bitter. Being forced to face reality is a bitch. “If you saw that I was being an idiot, why didn’t you say something before this?”
Kendall’s expression turns somber. “Because I didn’t think you were ready to hear it—and because I didn’t want you to react the way you’re reacting now. I know you have reasons for wanting the comfort of the familiar, and it’s not like you were doing anything dangerous or self-destructive. You just let yourself get into a rut, which is something I know you can fix if you set your mind to it. Besides, I selfishly want you here, not in Florida or wherever you might move to if you had a full-time editing business that you could do from anywhere.”
“Kendall…” I don’t know if I want to smack her or hug her, so I settle for doing neither. Instead, I pick up my cup of coffee and try to manage my spinning thoughts as I gulp down the hot liquid. Latching on to the one inconsistency in her spiel, I ask, “If you feel this way, why are you trying to warn me away from Marcus? Isn’t he a step in the right direction? Something different… something risky?”
“Yes, of course he is, and that’s why I’m so proud of you.” Kendall’s tense expression eases as a playful grin tugs at the corners of her lips. “You’re venturing out of your comfort zone, and I couldn’t be happier about that. I just don’t want you to rush into anything blindly and get hurt as you take your first baby steps. Not all guys are as harmless as your pet geeks, you know.”
I put down my cup. “Of course. I know that.” Harmless is definitely not how I’d describe Marcus. Forcing a smile to my lips, I say, “I’ll be careful, I promise. I’ll question him about everything and make sure there’s no wife lurking in the bushes. In fact, I’ll drill him so good he won’t know what hit him.”
Kendall looks at me, owl-eyed, and I look back at her. In the next instant, we’re both laughing uncontrollably, and the tension between us dissolves without a trace.
* * *
After I return home, I shower, shave my legs, and let my hair air dry to ensure that the curls don’t turn too frizzy. Afterward, I spend a solid hour trying on and discarding various outfits. I finally settle on a pair of jeans, my newish pair of high-heeled boots (only a couple of seasons old and still mostly in fashion), and my dressiest blouse with a sweater wrap over it. I even add a little jewelry and a full layer of makeup, including foundation—which I promptly wash off because it makes me look like a clown. I end up with a little mascara to darken my auburn lashes, a light dusting of powder to make my freckles less visible, and a simple application of lip gloss—my usual first-date look.
In fact, everything about the way I look tonight is my usual, though I’ve spent double the amount of time it took me to prepare for the date with Mark. I don’t know what I was hoping to achieve with all my primping, but after I’m done, I look the way I always do, just maybe a shade more polished. I’m not one of those girls who has the skills to transform herself with a few strokes of a makeup brush; whenever I try, I end up with a clown look, like I did earlier. Normally, it doesn’t bother me, but tonight, I wish I knew how to shade and contour, how to make my eyes look huge and my cheekbones more prominent.