The What If Guy - Lauren Blakely Page 0,52

we reach the Lucky Spot, we stow our gear in the back room—perks of knowing the owner—then head to the bar and grab some drinks as the band sets up.

Fitz catches the eye of someone he knows, and tells me he’ll be right back. As I drink my beer, I take out my phone, scrolling through the last set of messages from Bryn.

I shouldn’t text her. I need to give her time and space. But when the bar owner announces the name of the opening act for the band, I have no choice.

22

Bryn

There are two kinds of people in the world. Those who like baths, and those who recoil at the very idea of soaking in a tub. Truly, there is no in-between.

About a year ago, we surveyed readers on the topic. Some considered baths akin to “sitting in a bucket of my own lukewarm stink,” while others said, “Bring on the bath bombs, wine, and soft mood music, and I’ll see you tomorrow.”

As the owner of a white claw-foot tub and the disciple of a whole lot of treat yourself sayings, I’m firmly in the soak and see you tomorrow camp. Tonight, my hair is piled high in a messy bun, my neck is resting against a glittery bathtub pillow—a gift from Teagan, who also prays at the altar of self-care—and my purple-polished toes are wiggling above the papaya-scented bubbles, beating out a rhythm to the Jonas Brothers.

Also, there is wine.

Because . . . wine.

This is the perfect thinking zone. If I can’t spend Friday night on all fours, getting pounded by a man who makes my toes curl and my heart melt, then dammit, I’m going to indulge in a long, hot bath while I contemplate what it would take to be with a man who makes me feel all over, in every part of my body.

I sing along to my boy bands from the water, luxuriating in my bathroom, taking sips of my pinot grigio from a mug.

Like I bothered with a wineglass. Mugs were made for baths. This is my second glass, so I should get a safety merit badge too, for practicing safe tub drinking.

As the music shifts to the Heartbreakers, I pop up, unable to control my excitement as I shimmy my boobs above the water. “I love this band,” I shout to the empty walls, then sing along to the trio of brothers who recently got back together.

My striped roommate saunters in, pops up on his hind legs, and sets his paws on the edge of the bath.

“Hey, handsome,” I say to Bruce.

He dips his paw lower, trying to swat a bubble.

I rein in a giggle, because he is transforming into an adorable creature.

Carefully, because one must try not to disturb an internet cat moment, I set down the mug, then I reach for the towel I left on the toilet seat, dry my hands, and grab my phone from the seat. Quietly, I click to the camera, adjusting myself without making a sound. I focus on the curious feline checking out my toes, then snap the money shot.

The cat sinks back to all fours and swishes out of the bathroom, indignant, as a new text lands on my screen.

A text that makes me grin.

It’s big and huge, and I can feel the smile taking over my whole face. The text reminds me exactly why Logan makes my heart do a little shimmy too—because he gets me. He gets what makes me laugh.

And in this case, it’s a photo of a band at a club and a sign.

Two Allusions with Illusions, Too

Laughing, I settle back into the tub and reply, since I don’t want to do anything but talk to him right now.

Bryn: And they have the audacity to insert a comma too. Who likes having to use punctuation in band names?

Logan: The answer is no one. Why don’t they just name themselves Two Homophones? That would be a good band name.

Bryn: You just started a new career path. Naming bands. Wait. Naming bands better. It’s like that old ad: “We don’t make cars; we make them better.”

Logan: It’s always good to keep your career options open. Band name consultant, here I come.

Bryn: But how is their music?

Logan: Begrudgingly good. Annoyingly so.

Bryn: Because you want them to suck as much as their pretentious name.

Logan: Of course. Don’t you?

Bryn: I’m a pacifist, Logan. I wish suffering on no one.

Logan: I suppose you’re a better human than I am. But is being bad at making