Read Online Are You Going to Kiss Me Now? by Sloane Tanen - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sloane Tanen
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for Milan, who was now three hours late.
J:
The flight attendant keeps walking up and down the aisle making fish eyes at Cisco and asking us if we want champagne. Chaz is on his third glass. I’m drinking water by the gallon, hoping I don’t break out before we get to Africa. I’ve already peed three times since we boarded, which makes me happy that my seat is in back and I don’t have to advertise my incontinence problems to Cisco Parker.
F.
I hit send and went back to the bathroom. My Droid vibrated almost immediately.
F:
Do you think I care about your acne prevention techniques or your bathroom breaks? Jesus Francesca. That’s the best you can do? C’mon.
J.
I was suspending myself above the toilet, busily admiring my thighs, again, when I heard Joe come out of the cockpit and announce that Milan had finally arrived and that we’d be leaving in ten minutes.
A moment later I heard a loud crash. As I opened the lavatory door, in the aisle, sprawled out on the floor in front of me, was what I assumed was Milan Amberson. She was facedown, encircled by long, fried platinum hair. From where I was standing, I could see a good two inches of dark brown roots. She was wearing leggings, a fur vest, and three-inch heels, one of which was broken off and in her left hand. The contents of her bag were splayed all over the place: pills, gum, little bottles of vodka, tampons, an iPod, a latex glove, Purell, two half-empty water bottles, condoms, three tabloids (two of which she was on the cover), a few loose cigarettes, a lunch cup of tapioca pudding, cereal, mascara, an umbrella, a few stray credit cards, receipts, super glue, and about fifteen dollars in loose change.
“Stupid, stupid, shtupid shoe!” she slurred as she attempted to lift her head and gather her belongings. I couldn’t believe it was really her. She looked like a joke. Black eye makeup running down her face, blotchy residual spray tan, and what looked like an attempt to apply lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek. But she was pretty gorgeous anyway, with her olive complexion and sprinkling of good freckles across her upturned nose. These were the kind of freckles guys thought were cute. Not the kind that, like mine, looked like beef Bolognese exploded in the microwave. And you could seriously cut ice-cream cake with her cheekbones. Her lips were like Angelina Jolie’s baby sisters. Chaz had snapped to attention and was attempting to help her off the floor. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do. Eve was clutching the phone to her ear and had a look of absolute horror on her face.
“Oh my God,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone. “Amy Winehouse is here.”
“You OK?” Cisco asked Milan, glancing at the floor but not moving.
“I’m great, Cisco Barker…I mean Parker,” Milan slurred as she pushed Chaz away and motioned for me to help her instead. I did. She stood up, barely, and fingered her vest.
“Fake fur, Cisco!” she announced, proud and loud.
“Good man,” he said without even looking at her. He was totally not into her. I loved that! She snorted.
I was busy shoveling her crap back into her purple snakeskin Balenciaga bag as she watched me with detached interest. Then she spotted Eve.
“Hi!” she said excitedly, hanging on to the back of Eve’s seat for balance. She extended an unsteady hand. “I am such a huge fan.”
“Nobody appreciates waiting three hours for you,” Eve frowned, recoiling, as she looked Milan up and down. Milan withdrew her hand.
“I am soooooo sorry. Really. So sorry, Ms. Larkin. I was working late last night and…” Apparently her train of thought, or her excuse, abandoned her. I doubt Eve appreciated the “Ms.” She was only a year older than Milan. Anyway, Eve had turned away from her and was whisper-yelling at Yvette again and rapping off a list of demands: no photographs with Milan, chilled Pom juice in the hotel room, no talking with the locals unless there was a camera crew,
J:
The flight attendant keeps walking up and down the aisle making fish eyes at Cisco and asking us if we want champagne. Chaz is on his third glass. I’m drinking water by the gallon, hoping I don’t break out before we get to Africa. I’ve already peed three times since we boarded, which makes me happy that my seat is in back and I don’t have to advertise my incontinence problems to Cisco Parker.
F.
I hit send and went back to the bathroom. My Droid vibrated almost immediately.
F:
Do you think I care about your acne prevention techniques or your bathroom breaks? Jesus Francesca. That’s the best you can do? C’mon.
J.
I was suspending myself above the toilet, busily admiring my thighs, again, when I heard Joe come out of the cockpit and announce that Milan had finally arrived and that we’d be leaving in ten minutes.
A moment later I heard a loud crash. As I opened the lavatory door, in the aisle, sprawled out on the floor in front of me, was what I assumed was Milan Amberson. She was facedown, encircled by long, fried platinum hair. From where I was standing, I could see a good two inches of dark brown roots. She was wearing leggings, a fur vest, and three-inch heels, one of which was broken off and in her left hand. The contents of her bag were splayed all over the place: pills, gum, little bottles of vodka, tampons, an iPod, a latex glove, Purell, two half-empty water bottles, condoms, three tabloids (two of which she was on the cover), a few loose cigarettes, a lunch cup of tapioca pudding, cereal, mascara, an umbrella, a few stray credit cards, receipts, super glue, and about fifteen dollars in loose change.
“Stupid, stupid, shtupid shoe!” she slurred as she attempted to lift her head and gather her belongings. I couldn’t believe it was really her. She looked like a joke. Black eye makeup running down her face, blotchy residual spray tan, and what looked like an attempt to apply lipstick smeared halfway across her cheek. But she was pretty gorgeous anyway, with her olive complexion and sprinkling of good freckles across her upturned nose. These were the kind of freckles guys thought were cute. Not the kind that, like mine, looked like beef Bolognese exploded in the microwave. And you could seriously cut ice-cream cake with her cheekbones. Her lips were like Angelina Jolie’s baby sisters. Chaz had snapped to attention and was attempting to help her off the floor. I stood there awkwardly, wondering what to do. Eve was clutching the phone to her ear and had a look of absolute horror on her face.
“Oh my God,” I heard Eve whisper into the phone. “Amy Winehouse is here.”
“You OK?” Cisco asked Milan, glancing at the floor but not moving.
“I’m great, Cisco Barker…I mean Parker,” Milan slurred as she pushed Chaz away and motioned for me to help her instead. I did. She stood up, barely, and fingered her vest.
“Fake fur, Cisco!” she announced, proud and loud.
“Good man,” he said without even looking at her. He was totally not into her. I loved that! She snorted.
I was busy shoveling her crap back into her purple snakeskin Balenciaga bag as she watched me with detached interest. Then she spotted Eve.
“Hi!” she said excitedly, hanging on to the back of Eve’s seat for balance. She extended an unsteady hand. “I am such a huge fan.”
“Nobody appreciates waiting three hours for you,” Eve frowned, recoiling, as she looked Milan up and down. Milan withdrew her hand.
“I am soooooo sorry. Really. So sorry, Ms. Larkin. I was working late last night and…” Apparently her train of thought, or her excuse, abandoned her. I doubt Eve appreciated the “Ms.” She was only a year older than Milan. Anyway, Eve had turned away from her and was whisper-yelling at Yvette again and rapping off a list of demands: no photographs with Milan, chilled Pom juice in the hotel room, no talking with the locals unless there was a camera crew,
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