I sent her the knife emoji. This is my life now. Event planners harassing me as I strip down in the back of an Uber. I was going to have waffles for dinner, my favorite, and I had a bottle of special maple syrup a client had given me as a thank-you. I had to get through this thing, and a relaxing night was ahead of me. My phone buzzed again from the seat as I brushed powder onto my cheeks and checked my edges in a compact.
Penny: But I love you.
RJ: I know.
RJ: You have the mic set up how I like?
Penny: Yes, but if you’re late, you’re getting a handheld with a tangled cord.
I pulled out the binder where I’d prepared my script. All the pages were in plastic covers, a copy of all pertinent information in the back folder and a Post-it note reminding me of everyone’s names tucked in the front. I climbed from the car and repeated the opening phrase to myself as I hurried toward the stairs of the venue. I spoke part of the line to myself. “. . . the promise of hope between two people who love each other sincerely, who—”
Without warning, I was hurtling toward the sidewalk, not sure whether I should try to save myself, my bag, or the notes. I clutched the binder to my chest as I hit the concrete, my leg scraping and my palm stinging with the impact. The clothes I’d hurriedly shoved in my bag after changing fluttered around me, and I took in the large form of the man who’d run into me.
In a movie, this would be a charming meet-cute. The tall guy, his features obscured by the sun at his back, would lean down and help me up. Our eyes would meet. He’d apologize, I’d take note of something like the depth of his voice or the tickle of the hair on his forearms, and we’d be off. That might have happened for other people, but I was not in the market for cute, and now I was about to arrive late and bruised to perform this couple’s wedding.