Nope, I tell myself adamantly. Nope, nope, not that.
Never that.
“Well?” Ana prods.
“Tom Hiddleston,” I tell her. “He’s my type.”
“Who? Is he your classmate?”
I laugh. “I wish. He’s a British actor. Loki, from Thor and The Avengers.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Oh, Amanda, you really are a nerd.” She pronounces the word like she’s proud to know what it means.
I shrug, learning long ago not to let that label bother me and making a mental note to never let her read my Harry Potter fanfic, nor my Benedict Cumberbatch erotica (in which, naturally, all the stories star me). “Then I’m a nerd who will know what she likes, wants, needs when she sees it. The moment I find someone like Tom Hiddleston, I’ll let you know.”
“And if you don’t?”
“Then I give you permission to hook me up to one of your dating sites.”
At that she starts tapping her fingers together at a rapid rate, her smile stretching across her face, making her cheekbones pop out and her eyes nearly disappear. “Oooooh, I can’t wait!”
Yikes. Is it too early to add whisky to my coffee?
***
I don’t hear from Blake that day, which is what we agreed upon. We’d both work on our first chapters by ourselves and then make plans to read them over and discuss. But when the rest of the day turns into the next day and the next and then suddenly it’s Sunday and I still haven’t heard from him, I’m getting worried.
I hate to pester him. No, I hate to even talk to him, but I don’t think I have a choice. Our class is tomorrow and the last thing I want is to go in there unprepared. Besides, I’ve written – and rewritten – my first chapter (which is technically chapter two, since his POV starts it off) a hundred times already and am itching for some feedback of any sort, even if it’s from him.
So, while Ana sets out her makeup on the kitchen table and is about to attack my face with some new techniques she’s learned, I send Blake an email (obviously we’re not at the texting stage yet).
Hey Blake,
I have my chapter done and wondering when you want to get together to discuss. If it’s easier, I’ve attached it here. Just wanted to touch base on the project and see where it’s all fitting together, before class.
Amanda.
There. Short but not curt. Just enough for him to get the message.
Ana has just finished sponging on primer that feels like wet cement to my face when my phone rings. We both jump and stare at it while an unknown number with our area code flashes across the screen. I glance at her, brows raised. That couldn’t be Blake, could it?
I turn away from her to answer. “Hello?” I ask gingerly, prepared to hang up if it’s a telemarketer.
“Hello peach,” Blake’s British accent comes storming through. “Catch you at a bad time?”
Ana is already smiling like an idiot. I bet she can hear him through the speaker.
“Um, not really,” I tell him, “though I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me peach.”
“You don’t think it’s fitting? I can always go back to Big Red.”
“I think Amanda is fitting,” I say crisply. “Why are you calling?”
“You mean why aren’t I emailing you back or texting like a normal person?”
“Stop answering questions with questions.”
He chuckles warmly, although I can hear his insincerity coming through. “Why email and text when I can call you direct and make a plan? Sorry…didn’t mean to make that a question too.”
Well I can’t exactly argue with that. Must be his British genes coming through, doing things the proper way, even though Blake is anything but.
I turn away from Ana even more. “Did you read what I sent you?” I ask, trying to sound as blasé as possible over his potential opinion.
“No. Not yet. Wanted to wait. What are you doing right now?”
“She’s getting a makeover!” Ana yells over my shoulder.
I push her away, trying to shush her while Blake asks, “Who on earth is that?”
“My roommate,” I tell him. “And she’s about to put a shit ton of makeup on me for beauty school practice.”
“Is that a metric shit ton?”
Lord help me, I’m almost smiling. “Yes, a metric shit ton.”
“And when do you think this will all be over?”
“An hour,” Ana shouts before she goes back to rifling through her stuff. She holds up a brush like a serial killer wields a knife, and just as manic.
“Make that an hour and a half,” I say to him. “It’s going to take at least a half an hour to scrub it all off.”
“All right, well give me your address and I’ll come pick you up.”
“And go where? The library is closed.”
“But my apartment isn’t.”
I’m not sure how I feel about that. “How about a café?”
“How about a bar?”
“Caffeine is better than alcohol.”
“That’s not what Hemmingway said.”
“Hemmingway shot his own head off,” I remind him. “And I believe his quote was write drunk, edit sober. We’re plotting and reading, practically editing.”
“You’re no fun, anyone ever tell you that?”
Ouch. That stings more than it should. In fact, I’m more pissed off by the fact that it hurt than the fact that he said it.