Total pages in book: 130
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126425 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 632(@200wpm)___ 506(@250wpm)___ 421(@300wpm)
What. Is. Going. On?
The whole thing plays out like an insta-romance scene from a light comedy. Which I’m also—again unlike me—not judging. It feels awesome. If this is what insta-whatever is, I’m not mad at it. I’m just… So far this whole convention has been very unexpected. Which… blah, blah, blah, if you expected it, it wouldn’t be yadda, yadda, I know. But for real. This is not the kind of thing that happens to me. Except it is, apparently.
I toss the duvet and sheets off to see that I’m still naked. I never sleep naked. But, it seems, I did a lot of things last night I never do.
I never hook up with guys I just met simply because they’re really handsome and smell good and look great in a suit.
I never go with them to their suite at the Aria when all I really wanted was some itch cream.
I never get into empty bathtubs filled with rose petals.
And I never, ever, ever get all overtaken by lust and pull a guy’s shirt off and start fucking him to the point where I demand that he choke me harder.
My flapper dress is on the floor. I pick it up, slip it on over my head, and wander into the living room to see what the spread is all about. Passing by a mirror, I notice that my hair looks something like what would happen if Medusa and a bird’s nest got smashed together. But Steve didn’t seem to mind, so…
Steve didn’t seem to mind? What? Who cares? Why do I care what Steve…? Know what? Doesn’t matter. Time for Cynthia Lear to just eat something, drink a little coffee to get her head right, and then head down to her first book signing. Hell yeah.
He did order literally everything on the room service menu, as far as I can tell. Flapjacks, bacon, eggs (three different ways: scrambled, poached, and over easy), four different juices (carrot juice is an underappreciated fluid if you ask me), five kinds of cereal (in the little mini baby boxes), and on and on and on. It’s… insane? Sweet? Sweet and insane?
Just… thoughtful?
It might be possible that it’s just thoughtful.
Like, this Steve may, in fact, just be a nice guy. That’s it. Not more complicated than that. He may just be a nice guy who does nice things and is nice and smells good and has a great jawline and is really good at choking people and pulling their hair. Simple as that!
I butter an English muffin, making sure to get the butter evenly distributed into all the little pockets and cracks so that there aren’t any clumpy lumps of undispersed yellow anywhere, and start to take a bite when I hear a buzzing sound. My phone.
I don’t know if other people have this, but I feel like I always know when my phone is vibrating urgently versus when it’s just vibrating casually. Maybe I can’t, but it feels like I can. Regardless, right now, it feels like it’s buzzing urgently.
I scamper into the bedroom area and see for the first time the residue of last night’s frivolity. Which I realize sounds gross. What I mean is I see the sheets and discarded clothes and the general detritus of our… lovemaking.
Is that what it was? Did we make love? Is that too romantic? Did we maybe just get a little drunk, a little giddy, and (in my case) a little flattered and just get it on?
Whatever we did, I can see that we did it. That’s all. And that’s a good thing because the whole thing feels like kind of a dream. Or at least dream-y. And it’s nice to realize it really happened. That I met a nice, cute guy, who seems to really like me, and—
Oh, it’s Britney buzzing. I just miss picking it up before the buzzing stops and that’s when I discover I was right about the urgency thing. It looks like I have forty missed calls and about two dozen missed texts starting at around three a.m. All of which display an increasing freneticism.
The texts start with, “OMG,” migrate to, “SteveSS,” then turn into something like, “bitchwhereare?” and finally graduate to, “IM AT YR DOOR POUNDING WHEREU?”
I tab on her last missed call notification to ring her back and she picks up immediately.
“Where the hell are you? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I say, taking another bite of English muffin and feeling unusually peaceful.
“I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for, like, three hours.”
“I know. I just saw. My phone was on ‘do not disturb.’ What’s wrong? You okay?”
“Where. Are. You?”
I hesitate to answer because… I don’t know why. I just do. I mean, I could probably figure it out if I did a moment or two of self-examination, but that feels like a whole big thing I don’t wanna get into with myself right now. “I’m in… Steve’s suite.”