“Want to come over for pizza?” I ask, then make a face at myself in the mirror. “I sound like a deranged chipmunk.”
Saylor all but cackles at me from her spot on the sofa. She’s flipping through an issue of People and every so often she’ll read about some celebrity doing something stupid. In a weak moment, I invited her over for dinner. Okay, so it wasn’t a weak moment but rather my attempt at an apology and to make a friend.
“You’re trying too hard. Be natural,” she advises.
I puff out my cheeks and make my voice unusually high. “This isn’t natural?”
“Only if you plan to date a guy who works in a helium balloon factory.” The serious look on her face gives me pause, but then I catch the twinkle in her eye. Saylor is very good at making people believe she’s batty.
“What about a guy in law enforcement?”
“Finally letting the inevitable happen, huh?” She sits up, placing the magazine beside her. “What changed your mind?”
Turning to face her, I start pulling at my knuckles. “Phone call from my ex sent me over the edge and Hunter helped me out.”
“Oh.” She pushes her glasses back in place. “Does your ex call you a lot?”
I shake my head and stop pulling at my knuckles. Crossing the room, I sit down next to her. “No, but when he does…it’s awful. He reminds me of our failed marriage, or rather how I made our marriage a failed one.”
“He sounds like a winner.” She grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know what you meant.” Leaning over, I snatch a fortune cookie off the table and break it open, eating the pieces as it crumbles around the paper in the center.
“Hunter is a catch, and I do mean it like that,” she admits. “If he were attracted to me and you didn’t want him, then I would totally win him over to my dark side.”
“You have a dark side?”
She tilts her head to one side. “I do have cookies.”
I can’t help but laugh. “That makes me want to come to the dark side.”
“My cookies aren’t for you,” she says with a grin and nudges me with her elbow. “Read your fortune, lady.”
THE FUTURE IS WHAT YOU MAKE OF IT. I toss the slip of paper on the table, watching as it floats slowly to land on a half-empty container of steamed rice.
“That’s not a fortune,” she points out.
I settle into the cushions, considering all the steps I’ve taken to change my future and not live in the past anymore. “But it is good advice.”
—
The next morning, I decide to text Hunter to ask him out. This approach has to be a million times better than my chipmunk impression. Plus, texting puts less pressure on the situation and it gives both of us the chance to save face. For all I know, when Hunter went out last night, he could have found a woman with a heck of a lot fewer problems.
Me: Up for pizza tonight at my place?
I place my phone on the counter and finish getting dressed for work. As I’m dabbing on some clear lip gloss, I hear my phone ding.
My heart almost stops.
He’s already replied to me! is my first thought. But it’s quickly followed by an it-could-be-a-reminder-to-pay-my-wireless-bill-on-the-tenth instead.
Either way, I find myself rushing from the bathroom to the kitchen, nearly breathless with anticipation.
Hunter: Working until 7 pm. Mind eating later than that?
Me: No. How about 7:30?
Hunter: See you then. I’ll bring beer as my contribution to dinner.
My heart flutters all the way to work. It didn’t even feel like I was driving, more like flying.
A goofy smile covers my face as I walk inside. Saylor takes one look at me and gives a surreptitious thumbs-up. Since she’s talking with clients, I can’t barge over there to tell her my news. But I want to. I’m practically giddy.
Over a date.
Half a decade has passed since I’ve been giddy over a date with a man. The feeling is oddly satisfying. Freeing, even.
As the morning passes, I struggle to stay focused on my tasks, but I don’t think the dogs mind. Well, the little dogs anyway. They got the big dogs’ portions and vice versa.
“Those red hearts getting to you?” Saylor asks, helping me switch out bowls.
“No, but if you have stars…watch out.”
She gives me an odd look. “Did you get some after I left?”
My mouth falls open and I sputter. “No, did you?”
A dark brow arches over her glasses. “A lady never tells.”
“Touché.”
“But I’m not a lady.”
“You really don’t have to tell me.”
She grins. “I didn’t get any, either.”
“Maybe bake different cookies next time?” I suggest.
Saylor arches a brow. “Or find a man who likes all my cookies.”
—