I take a bite of my cookie and give it some thought. “Do you think I’m wasting my life away?”
Without skipping a beat, Dad nods. “Yes.”
I lie across my sofa, telling myself to relax.
Everything is going to be okay.
Hell, I went through an intense session today with my therapist, who I’ve been seeing for about a year now. We spoke about the conversation I had with my dad while stargazing and how his advice was solid. I need to take it. I also need to stop worrying about what others might think and take charge of my life.
Step up and make things happen.
If I fail, then keep moving forward; don’t let it be a roadblock.
That’s why I find myself taking a deep breath and staring down at a text. I spent a good half hour typing it out in my notes before I even considered copying and pasting it over to my text messages.
It’s never easy hearing your dad tell you he thinks you’re wasting your life, but maybe it was the kick in the ass I needed. My therapist certainly thought so.
Ever since my divorce, I’ve felt like I’ve been in a constant standstill. My job, which I actually hate, is stagnant. My love life is nonexistent. And my relationship with my siblings . . . treading a thin line of disastrous. But I’ve done nothing to improve my life.
Well, that’s not entirely true. A few months ago, I attempted to do something about my job. I mustered up the courage to present an idea to my brother, but Ford shot that down right away, killing the little bit of confidence I’d gathered to ask.
But Dad is right: maybe taking baby steps toward things I want is exactly what I need. If someone asked me if I’m happy, right here, right now, the answer would be an easy no. So, it’s time to make things happen. It’s time to take that step forward and put myself out there.
I stare down at the text one more time, and without looking back, I send it.
And then it hits me.
Like a tidal wave, regret washes over me as soon as it’s delivered.
“Jesus Christ,” I say, frantically clicking on the text, praying that Apple came up with some sort of “take back” or erase button that will help their consumers retract idiotic text messages that should never be seen or read.
But in the midst of pounding on my phone, wishing for an erase button, I accidentally “heart” my own text.
“Goddamn it,” I say while heat prickles at the back of my neck. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
I liked my own goddamn text.
Not just liked it, hearted it.
I don’t even know how I did that, but it happened. Why is that a thing? Why can you heart your own texts? And who in their right mind hearts their own texts?
I drag my hand over my mouth, wondering what to do now. Do I text her and tell her I didn’t mean to heart my own text? Or do I just ignore the blatant heart emoji over my blue box?
Bringing attention to it seems like a bad idea.
But ignoring it also makes me feel like an even bigger idiot than I am.
Is the text even heart worthy?
I read over the text again.
Cooper: Hey, Nora. It’s Cooper Chance. Not sure if you kept my number. Thought I would say hi . . . so, hi.
“Oh, fucking hell,” I mutter, leaning back on my couch and tossing my phone to my side.
That’s what I came up with? After half an hour?
Why did I even think that was good to send?
Dude, where is your game?
Nonexistent.
I pick up my phone and read it again.
Slowly nodding, acknowledging that this is pretty much the worst text a man could send a woman he’s interested in, I also come to terms with the fact that no, that text is not heart worthy. Not even close.
Beer. I need more beer.
I’m about to stand from my couch when my phone dings with an incoming text, sending my nerves into a tailspin.
She texted back.
Oh hell . . . she texted back.
Jesus, do I even look?
Or do I go crawl in a hole, never to be seen again?
I need to look at the text, if anything, to at least make sure she didn’t cut me off as a client. If I need to order a new cake, I need to get on it sooner rather than later.
Wincing, I pick up my phone and open up the screen to her text.
Nora: Why did you heart your text?
“Christ,” I mutter. Of course she would point it out. That’s the kind of person she is. That’s why I find myself gravitating toward her—because she’s bold, she doesn’t care what other people think, and she says what’s on her mind.
There’s no use backing out now. I sent her the text—I hearted the text—and now I need to reply.
Cooper: I really thought it was a great opening statement. Deserved some love.
Making lemonade out of lemons. That’s the only thing I can do at this point. Luckily, she texts back right away, not making me sweat out a response.
Nora: How long did it take you to write said opening statement?
Cooper: Cool guy answer—off the top of my head. Real answer—half an hour.
Nora: LOL that took you half an hour? Was hearting it part of the plan?
Cooper: The hearting it was a mistake. I was hoping there was a delete option but instead I hearted it.
Nora: So, you spent half an hour working on a text message and then sent it, realized it wasn’t great, then tried to delete it—even though that’s not a thing—and hearted it instead.
Cooper: That would be the gist of this loathsome and shameful interaction.
Nora: Loathsome and shameful . . . labeling it already?
Cooper: How would you label it?
Nora: Intriguing.
The tension and nerves that have built in my chest ease as the smallest of smirks tugs at my lips. Maybe this isn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Sure, she’s busting my balls, but I wouldn’t expect anything less.
Cooper: Intrigued, huh? Was it the hearting my own text?
Nora: It was, makes me think that even though you look like the modern-day man, you have the tendencies of an old curmudgeon which, oddly, fascinates me.
Cooper: Or a divorcé who is extremely nervous.
Nora: Oooh, interesting take. But I think I’m going to stick with the curmudgeon.
I laugh, immediately grateful for how easygoing Nora is. Not sure this would have gone as well with someone else.
Cooper: I think you just like saying that word in your head.
Nora: I’ve actually been saying it out loud and it feels nice coming off my tongue. Very pleasing to say. Try it.
“Curmudgeon,” I say, just for the hell of it.
Cooper: Hmm, it is pleasing to say out loud, but it isn’t as aesthetically pleasing as some other words I’ve come across.
Nora: Oooh, educate me, please, Mr. Editor. Dazzle me with your words.
That’s me—Mr. Editor. Not even sure how I got into the job, to be honest. I always enjoyed reading fiction, and when my plans for traveling around the world with Dealia didn’t pan out right away, I started freelance editing, something I’d done on and off in college for extra cash. Before I knew it, a nonfiction publisher picked me up, and I’ve been stuck ever since.
I only wish the material was more interesting.
But, on the positive side, I do know a lot of words.
Cooper: Splendiferous.
Nora: Sounds made up. Like someone doesn’t quite know if they’re trying to say an adverb, verb, or adjective and kind of threw them all together. Next.