don’t need a relationship . Like, give me all the sex, okay? I would take two of those fuckings a day, four times on Sunday.”
“But, okay, just—tell me more about him!” Jane nudges me with her shoe and passes some lip gloss. Guess that’s her not-so-subtle way of getting me to stop eating donuts. “If he’s so wonderful, but not wonderful enough to get his freaking last name, what was so special about him? You never struck me as the one-night stand type.”
I’m really not. They usually terrify me, and I spend the whole evening so freaked out, the opportunity dies before I have a chance. It seems so effortless for some women, but I get entirely too hung up in my head. I’m a writer! I live in my head, with imaginary people and situations sprinting across my eyes like gazelles on an open field. Branching out of my comfort zone is rare.
Hell, the only reason why I’m friends with Jane is because she accidentally rear-ended me in front of our subdivision turn-in, and she showed up on my doorstep later that evening with apology wine. And rearranged my living room. She’s my kind of people, that Jane.
“I’m usually not into one-night stands,” I finally answer. “It’s just—I really wanted him.”
“So what made him special?” Jane asks again.
“The wine and shots may have had something to do with it.”
This makes her laugh. “I should have known! Put hard liquor in your system and you go crazy!”
“I wasn’t dancing on tables or anything!” I protest. To be fair, Jane has actually witnessed me dance on tables after one too many vodka stingers. Most memorably, my own table, in this kitchen. The good news is when you fall off a table in front of an ER nurse, she can totally stitch you up, no problem.
“Sheesh. I was just…a little looser than normal. We had so much fun.” I collapse back in the chair and stare dreamily at the ceiling, remembering it all over again. “We laughed and we told jokes and we made fun of the weird agent with the puppet.”
“Someone brought a puppet?”
“Not just anyone. A literary agent. Brought a puppet. To a conference.”
“You guys are weird.”
“I didn’t bring the puppet.” I shrug and eat another donut. “Joe was just so gorgeous. The way he looked at me was…incredible. I felt special. I felt like he really found me special, instead of just some random bar hookup. And we were inseparable all night, Jane. Constantly touching and brushing against each other. It was all very heaving bosoms and totally cliché, but it was perfect. I felt like the only girl in the room with him.”
“You sure you want nothing to do with him again?”
“Like I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. Do him at lunch. But if he made you feel so special, you don’t want to hang on to that? How can you not?”
“Because.” My turn to stare at her like she’s dumb. “My career is on the precipice of something incredible. I can feel it! I’m not going to be stuck in this stupid midlist hell forever, and this is my year to do it. My books are selling well enough on my own, and there are a bunch of agents who are looking for books just like mine. This could be my year to walk away from the conference with a real literary agent, who can submit me to a real publishing house and give me a real marketing budget. No more splicing it together like I’ve been doing. No more begging and pleading with book bloggers so they’ll review me. I’m so close, Jane. Why would I fuck that up?”
“Miranda.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and leans in close. “You can have both.”
“No, you really can’t. Being an author is not like being a nurse. I don’t go to work and then come home and keep them separate. Writing is my entire life. I’m constantly working and editing and brewing up new story ideas. I’m making contacts and writing letters to fans and tweeting about contests. I’m running a small business that takes up my entire day. If I go for a walk and end up
“But, okay, just—tell me more about him!” Jane nudges me with her shoe and passes some lip gloss. Guess that’s her not-so-subtle way of getting me to stop eating donuts. “If he’s so wonderful, but not wonderful enough to get his freaking last name, what was so special about him? You never struck me as the one-night stand type.”
I’m really not. They usually terrify me, and I spend the whole evening so freaked out, the opportunity dies before I have a chance. It seems so effortless for some women, but I get entirely too hung up in my head. I’m a writer! I live in my head, with imaginary people and situations sprinting across my eyes like gazelles on an open field. Branching out of my comfort zone is rare.
Hell, the only reason why I’m friends with Jane is because she accidentally rear-ended me in front of our subdivision turn-in, and she showed up on my doorstep later that evening with apology wine. And rearranged my living room. She’s my kind of people, that Jane.
“I’m usually not into one-night stands,” I finally answer. “It’s just—I really wanted him.”
“So what made him special?” Jane asks again.
“The wine and shots may have had something to do with it.”
This makes her laugh. “I should have known! Put hard liquor in your system and you go crazy!”
“I wasn’t dancing on tables or anything!” I protest. To be fair, Jane has actually witnessed me dance on tables after one too many vodka stingers. Most memorably, my own table, in this kitchen. The good news is when you fall off a table in front of an ER nurse, she can totally stitch you up, no problem.
“Sheesh. I was just…a little looser than normal. We had so much fun.” I collapse back in the chair and stare dreamily at the ceiling, remembering it all over again. “We laughed and we told jokes and we made fun of the weird agent with the puppet.”
“Someone brought a puppet?”
“Not just anyone. A literary agent. Brought a puppet. To a conference.”
“You guys are weird.”
“I didn’t bring the puppet.” I shrug and eat another donut. “Joe was just so gorgeous. The way he looked at me was…incredible. I felt special. I felt like he really found me special, instead of just some random bar hookup. And we were inseparable all night, Jane. Constantly touching and brushing against each other. It was all very heaving bosoms and totally cliché, but it was perfect. I felt like the only girl in the room with him.”
“You sure you want nothing to do with him again?”
“Like I said—”
“Yeah, yeah. Do him at lunch. But if he made you feel so special, you don’t want to hang on to that? How can you not?”
“Because.” My turn to stare at her like she’s dumb. “My career is on the precipice of something incredible. I can feel it! I’m not going to be stuck in this stupid midlist hell forever, and this is my year to do it. My books are selling well enough on my own, and there are a bunch of agents who are looking for books just like mine. This could be my year to walk away from the conference with a real literary agent, who can submit me to a real publishing house and give me a real marketing budget. No more splicing it together like I’ve been doing. No more begging and pleading with book bloggers so they’ll review me. I’m so close, Jane. Why would I fuck that up?”
“Miranda.” She puts her hands on my shoulders and leans in close. “You can have both.”
“No, you really can’t. Being an author is not like being a nurse. I don’t go to work and then come home and keep them separate. Writing is my entire life. I’m constantly working and editing and brewing up new story ideas. I’m making contacts and writing letters to fans and tweeting about contests. I’m running a small business that takes up my entire day. If I go for a walk and end up
Similar Books
