Page 7 of Yanked (Frenched 1.50)
“Hey, I’m sending over the contract to Karen White right now. Why don’t you take the lead on this one? I’m here to help, but you could see how you do on your own.”
She nodded, her smile happy if not entirely confident. “Sounds good to me.”
As soon as she was gone, I emailed the contract, texted Erin, and hopped on kayak.com to check flights to New York.
Fuck.
Flying short notice was not cheap, and flying at all for me was akin to mild torture. Should I do it? I chewed on my bottom lip as I considered the possible outcomes.
Shit That Could Happen in
New York This Weekend
1) He says no emphatically. Breaks up with me. I drink wine.
2) He says maybe someday. Wants more time to think. I drink wine.
3) He says yes whole-heartedly. We apartment hunt the next day. I drink wine.
4) He says no. I blow him in spectacular fashion. He changes his mind. I drink wine.
5) He says oh my God yes, I was just about to propose, however did you know, you sexy, brilliant, hilarious goddess of a woman, please be mine forever and wear this flawless Tiffany diamond ring as but a small token of my undying l
ove and commitment, let’s elope tomorrow! We have wild monkey sex. I drink wine.
See? There’s wine no matter what. But my stomach would not settle down. The cursor hovered temptingly near the purchase button. I felt like I used to as a kid, standing on the high dive, looking at the pool below and daring myself to jump. It took me three summers of climbing up there, hemming and hawing, and descending the ladder in shame before I worked up enough courage to jump. And once I did it, it was so thrilling I was angry I’d waited so long.
OK. On three.
One. Two.
Deep breath.
Three.
I jumped. I had a nonstop flight from Detroit Metro into LaGuardia departing in just over twenty-four hours, and even though the grin briefly morphed to grimace when I saw the total charged to my credit card, I brushed aside any doubts.
This is the right thing. I feel it.
My phone buzzed with a text from Erin.
IDK about drinks tonight. I’m getting dick.
I burst out laughing, screenshot it, and sent it to Coco. Erin’s typos and auto-correct fails were a running joke with us. I texted her back.
Glad to hear it. It’s been a while.
OMG! I hate this stupid new phone!
I had to laugh at that. Erin was forever blaming her “new” phone, but she’d had it for months.
Sorry to hear you’re sick. How about just a glass of wine for medicinal purposes?
I guess I could. Or a cocktail.
Great. Let’s meet at Sugar House. 6:00?
OK. You twerked me into it.
