Two hours later, as I was getting ready for bed, my phone pinged with a text.
GW: What’s worse than raining cats and dogs?
GW: Hailing taxis
GW: That joke, courtesy of your niece.
I laughed.
ME: Sounds like Mimi saved the best one for you tonight.
GW: Timing is everything. Speaking of timing . . . for me, it’s easier to say this over text.
I tried not to panic.
ME: Say what over text?
GW: When my crush on you started.
ME: When?
GW: After you apologized for the not-my-type thing. I realized I’d been wrong about you. But you’d been wrong about me too. So I took a chance and let my guard down. I can’t honestly remember the last time I wanted a man to see the real me. It scared me to think you liked what you saw. But it hasn’t scared me enough to put that guard back up.
ME: I’m so glad to hear that. But I need to ask . . . am I just your rebound guy?
The . . . started and stopped three times before I got a response.
GW: No. This feels . . . different. I’ve decided to shitcan my fears and go all in to see where this takes us.
ME: Then we ARE on the same page. Just wanted to double-check.
GW:
ME: I’ll look forward to talking to you tomorrow.
Eighteen
GABI
I woke up feeling like I’d been beat to shit the night before.
Oh right. I had.
Groaning, I forced myself out of bed to start coffee and pop some Aleve.
I shuffled into the bathroom and avoided looking at myself in the mirror. Once the heat from the shower warmed up my muscles, I performed a few slow stretches. That loosened me up enough to get my hair washed and conditioned, my body parts shaved.
Needing that blessed hit of caffeine so bad, I didn’t bother putting any clothes on; I just wrapped my hair in a towel and ventured into the kitchen naked.
Mug in hand, I checked my phone for messages.
None.
I didn’t have time to dwell on my disappointment I hadn’t heard from Nolan because, looking at the time, I realized my interview started in two hours.
The steam had cleared out of the bathroom, leaving the mirror fog-free. When I got the first glimpse of my face, I stared at my reflection with utter dismay.
My bottom lip stuck out so far that I appeared to have a permanent pout. The gash probably should’ve had stitches. I had a bruise on the edge of my jawline. And on my forehead. And on my cheek. Oh, and a great big black eye. I couldn’t even muster up an “it could’ve been worse” scenario by telling myself at least Asswipf hadn’t broken my nose.
Christ. I wasn’t sure I even owned enough foundation for a job of this magnitude. Besides, if I couldn’t figure out how to mask regular dark circles under my eyes on a daily basis, how was I supposed to know how to contour and blend to hide bruising?
You can’t.
Fuck.
Now I wanted to cry. But then my eyes would be red, my face would be blotchy and bruised and wouldn’t that just add a lovely touch.
I fussed with my hair while options to fix this crisis came and went.
Ultimately, I realized if I couldn’t hide it, I might as well flaunt it.
I dressed in the olive jumpsuit, adding jewelry, the leather jacket, the matching purse, marking off each item on the “dress for success” checklist Q had given me. I shoved my phone in my pocket, my feet into the fringed booties and hit the highway.
I believed I had a handle on my nerves . . . until I pulled into the Wolf Sports North complex. Would this be the first of many times I parked in this lot? Or the first and last time all rolled into one?
You’ve got this, Gabi. Go in there and show them why you’re the best person for the job.
I strode into the reception area. All very sleek, chrome and glass, a retro ’80s “mod look” design magazine. At the desk, I said, “Hi. I’m Gabi Welk. I have an appointment with Dahlia Switch.”
“One moment please.” Clickety clack as she typed. Without looking up at me, she said, “I’ve let Dahlia know you’re here. There’s a coatrack to your left if you need one.”
Well, okay then. Not exactly personable. But still I said, “Thank you.”
After I hung up my coat, I had too much nervous energy to sit, so I wandered around, stopping