Crappy Valentine’s Day (sample)
Valentine’s Day was a Sunday that year and Becca couldn’t wait to spend the whole day with her cat. Her cat, whose name was Boots, was an asshole, but she’d encountered worse in her decade of regrettable dates. Becca’d been out with a boy on three separate Valentine’s Days: once in college (Harry Perkenwald, hopeless), once in high school (Corbin Graham from the soccer team, floundering hands and failed conversations) and once in what passed for her adult life, one of those went-to-law-school, not-a-lawyer guys who seem stable ‘cause they own a decent bed. This year she was single. This year was just fine. At midnight, her phone made merry twinkles to celebrate the holiday’s commencement in e-mail ad form. There were special one-day-only sales on lingerie and fonts. (Different companies.) Becca deleted both the ads, turned on some reruns and dug around the back of the fridge for cheap cheese. Twelve minutes later Boots threw up on her rug. “Happy mid-February,” his adoring expression seemed to say.
The snow started just before dawn, and by nine it had blanketed Brooklyn in its pure, pristine whisper. The world had frosted over, and the city had become an enchanted winter wonderland that took the breath away. Becca saw it at eleven when she finally woke up. It was still snowing out, but the streets had turned to slush. “Good day to stay indoors, kitty,” she whispered to Boots, who didn’t care. (Boots was probably the hateful cat he was because he didn’t even have the kinds of paws that looked like boots, Becca’d just liked the name.) After showering and half-assing brushing her teeth, she threw on the topmost piece of clothing from each relevant drawer plus the same jeans she’d worn all month and caught up on some tabs she’d left open, breaking fast with a Pop-Tart. Midway through her second worthless clickbait on the idiotic topic of planning great dates in New York, her phone rang. It was her boss. Well, not really her boss. Wyatt Pierce represented the voice of the boss without wielding any actual power. “Hiiii, Wyatt.” “Beccaaaaaaa. Sorry to bother you on a Sunday.” A sigh. “And Valentine’s Day.” A deeper sigh. “And everything.” “Not a prob,” she admitted. “What’s up?” “Can you truck out to the office and run a group at three today?” he asked. She could tell through the airwaves that he hated it. “I know this is tacky. Albert’s sick.” Beat. “Albert was supposed to be running—” “I get the picture. Can I say something here?” “Mm?” “What kind of sad sacks sign up to do a focus group on Valentine’s Day? Is this really the demographic the client wants to hear from?” “Well, the product’s a dating service.” “Shrewd.” A stray clump of roof snow tumbled past her dirty window.
This concludes the free sample, but you can buy the full story at this link! . . . |